#anyway they indulge Crow who discusses a bit about one of her old friends and her favorite crew from the '30s

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

Traintober Day 13: “Lonely” (D5702, D5714, and Crow)

Oh, the Metrovicks think they have problems? Well, they do in fact. But now they’re about to get hit with the heavy. Call it perspective. 

Snippet only. The tone isn’t really all that bleak, but nevertheless:

tw: death, mortality

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D5702 and D5714 had no idea what the orders were supposed to mean. They supposed they couldn’t possibly be as bad as some of the other engines gleefully predicted… at least, they put up a good front of dismissing all this as rubbish.

Their drivers were not much help. They spoke basic, too-ready encouragement, about how they were to be reunited with their whole family all in the same place, and to have their motor problems fixed once and for all.   

It sounded nice… but they were still losing the work they loved. During such a period is never the one to ask an engine to hunt silver linings. On the contrary, they were starting to develop considerable skepticism about the chances of them ever catching a real break. 

Then, too, D5714 had also caught their northern-end driver applying for a program to train staff on a new model of ‘Deltic’ diesels.   

So the brothers went unusually quiet, even for them. Naturally, their last week went smoothly as silk. It always did seem they were able to perform well when it made absolutely no difference.   

Their last day was spent showing the new Derby-Sulzer locomotives around, and then they had to give up their night train to them, left in the dark on a siding next to Crow. They were told kindly enough to rest for the next day’s journey, but after a whole day in idleness they hardly expected a simple run to Barrow to tax them. It was just as well. They doubted they should have slept, even if their motors had been turned off, and they had been free of Crow’s presence.   

Not that Crow seemed particularly crowy. There was not even a single I-told-you-so.   

“Well, hummers, I s’pose this is good-bye,” she said calmly. “You know, don’t you, that you’ll never be returned here? I hope your shop sorts you out proper, and you get another shot at service. But don’t hold out any foolish false hope to come back on the Condor.”   

“That,” said D5702 coldly, “remains to be seen.”   

She gave him a tired grin. “I reckon I was three years old once, too. It’s nice, when you still know everything. Well, maybe so, Metrovick. Maybe so. You have a look in your eye there, sometimes, Oh-Two—I’d stay out of your way. Anyway, the only thing I know for sure is that this is good-bye. Maybe you’ll come back. But I am going to die tonight. I’ve made up my mind to, you see.”   

D5714 and D5702 exchanged baffled glances. Then both their expressions closed off. They had already been the butt of far too many games and tricks in their short lives, and now by instinct they sealed themselves away, as Crow chatted on quite unhurriedly.   

“I’m sorry you two will have to wake to it, for you are decent lads, and I reckon you’ve not seen a dead loco before—at least, not seen one you’ve known alive. It’s a bit of a fright, the first time…”   

(Both the brothers got flashes of half-built and half-dismantled engines and ships from their workshop days... and with their motors running they couldn’t help a quite visible little shudder, as they eyed Crow warily.)   

“But I’d rather do it with you two than alone, or among fresh strangers,” Crow went on, untroubled. “And I reckon I’ve the right to be a little selfish, on the night of my own death. You just remember that it’s not as unnatural as it seems. It’s not unnatural one bit. What’s unnatural is when they condemn a loco before they come to the end of their life… that’s more convenient for everyone, but it ain’t natural, even when they do their best to be kind about it, and make sure the engine is quite out and unconscious… ‘s humane enough, I s’pose, but it’s not near so natural as letting the spirit depart when it’s good and ready. To say nothing of all this scrapping mania lately! Some of it is done in such a rush, you just know they can’t really be… well, anyway. Myself, I think I’d rather suffer but have the thing done quickly, anyway. But this is the very best way of all, and I’m going to get it. Tonight. I can tell, somehow. I’ve laid hold of the trick of it, I reckon—it’s not really about me ‘moving on’ at all. It’s really about me staying put, and letting the world turn on without me. That’s the trick of it. Less about moving… more about stopping. I’m all right with that. I love the world tonight, d’you know that? I’ve had a grudge against it for years. But tonight I’m awful fond of it. I’m just not… curious. I just sort of know it will get on all right without me, and I reckon my ego has finally recovered from figuring that out. I almost like this whole big world too much to stay in this silly little body. Maybe I’ll lose it all—but maybe for once I’ll get to see it all proper, too, the whole thing of it. That would be grand. It’s worth taking such a big risk, to be able to sort of grasp it all.”   

“Crow—”   

But D5702 gave D5714 a warning look, and D5714, though annoyed, capitulated without fuss.   

D5702 didn’t really think that Crow was going to die that night. That was just a bit of dramatic flair from a bored and increasingly morbid engine… although, to own the full truth, Crow's had never been a histrionic personality.   

But they all knew that her date soon would be set, and it seemed to D5702 that she could be indulged, this once.   

Anyway, what did it matter if they believed this was her time, if she believed it? No one who even merely fancied they were dying should be left to feel lonely or unheard.   

D5702 himself had never lacked the companionship of at least one of his brothers for a single hour of his life. He couldn’t fathom it, being as lonely as Crow must have been here over the years, many and many a night. 

#ttte fic #ttte fanfic #ttte boco #ttte oc #traintober #fic snippet #... 2020 has been a year for thinking about death #thank you talking trains you've been very helpful to me in coming to terms with people-mortality #anyway they indulge Crow who discusses a bit about one of her old friends and her favorite crew from the '30s #anddd jjjjjjjust when they are getting properly interested in these people it's all #'oh and then my crew was drafted and driver was killed and the other engine didn't last war austerity maintenance. sooo that's been that.' #'... haven't you kiddos fallen asleep yet? would like some privacy here at the end please.' #(7502 and 7514: ..........) #(which is also their reaction in the morning when they find Crow's prediction has also come true and she's dead and faceless) #(but. like. times 10.) #ttte oc: crow #jobeywrites

[theoriginalladya]

WIP Whenever - Cheese Glorious Cheese

Okay, after my conversation with @ltleflrt about Dragon Age and Mass Effect, I had to go hunt this up.  I don’t really know what to list it as - it’s not really a WIP because I wrote it 10 years ago - the first thing I ever wrote for Dragon Age.  (also, my first attempt at writing fanfic, so please keep that in mind when reading!  My skills as a writer have no doubt improved a thousandfold since then!)

As I recall, I was making pizza for dinner (from scratch) and was just putting it into the oven when this idea came to me.  I vaguely recall talking to the Ex about it who suggested I write it up (if nothing else, he has always been supportive of my writing ever since we met, so that’s one thing that lingers I guess).  I did ... but didn’t post it online for another four months because a) I hadn’t found ff.net yet, and b) I lurked for a good 3-4 months before I was brave enough to post.  I’ve since taken down all my DA writings from over there, some day I’ll get them revamped and put back up on AO3, but where’s the time?  I have Mass Effect brain! lol  Anyway, I’ll leave this here for anyone interested.  I’d like to thin it’s stood the test of time, just like me. :)

~~~

The hour was late, but business at the Gnawed Noble Tavern seemed as brisk as ever despite the persistence of the Blight.  Silently, cautiously the assassin made his way through the establishment while ignoring the throngs of patrons gathered within the tavern's walls, easily blending in with his surroundings.  Accepting the end to a rather busy evening, Zevran hoped his friends would be as pleased with the results.

Skulking and skirting his way through the common room, Zevran opted down the hall to the right rather than the more private dining room on the left; though occasionally used, he and his companions preferred a more guaranteed anonymity than the chance of being recognized by the Regent’s or the Arl’s men.   

towards the back of the tavern in the direction of the room he was sharing with some of his companions.  It had been a most profitable night.�� However, it was as he passed the lodgings of his female companions in the room next to his that the elf found his curiosity piqued.

"Oooooh!" he heard the honeyed alto tones of his fearless leader moaning as he started by the room.  His already pointed ears perked up at this. 

Then came a deep male chuckle, "You like that, do you?"

Alistair.  Zevran chuckled softly to himself.  The future king of Ferelden had finally given in to his natural instincts and desires, it seemed.  Zevran knew that he would be making the most of teasing the innocent young man over the next few days.  Smiling wickedly at the thought, he turned back towards his room...and froze mid-stride when he heard a new voice, this one with a heavy Orlesian accent.  It sounded pouty as she said, "But what about the rest of us?"  Again, Alistair chuckled.  "Be patient," he replied to Leliana.  "I have enough to go around."

The rest of us?  Enough to go around?  Zevran couldn't move for a long moment.  His brain suddenly felt as if it were on overload.  This was too interesting to pass up.  Just what was the ex-templar up to?  When had he become so brazen?  And, more importantly, he added to himself, why was I not invited?

When the haughty tones of the apostate witch cried out, "No more teasing!  It's my turn now!" Zevran found himself scooting ever closer to the door that stood between him and the events on the other side.  He placed an ear up against the barricade so he could hear the conversation more clearly.  Shortly thereafter, he was rewarded with Morrigan's throaty groan of pleasure.

Leliana clapped her hands together delightedly while saying, "It's...it's so...sticky!"  After a moment longer, she spouted off a stream of Orlesian that could only be construed as a positive reaction.

Alistair's voice snorted in amusement at her reaction first, then he asked politely, "Wynne, would you like a turn?"

Wynne's grandmotherly tones chuckled delightedly at his inquiry.  "Usually I would decline," she explained at length, "given that these types of activities are fit mostly for the younger generations.  However," she added, "I will take you up on your offer this one time, my boy!"

The next few moments were filled with such noises of pleasure and delight that Zevran was unable to contain his curiosity any longer.  Falling back on the techniques he had specialized in since a child under the tutelage of the Crows, he quickly bypassed the locking mechanism on the barrier, entered the room silently and stealthily made his way to the rear chamber where the others were located.  The light was dim save for one bright candle on a nearby nightstand, so he was able to remain in the shadows unseen.

As he inched further into the room, he found his five companions seated on the bed, Alistair near the headboard and in the middle with Elissa to his right, Leliana to his left and one of each of the mages on either side at his feet; all fully clothed.  Moving ever closer, Zevran caught himself frowning.  What in all of Thedas are they doing? he wondered.

"Oh, Alistair," Elissa murmured, leaning into his shoulder, "that was absolutely wonderful!"

Leliana softly murmured her agreement as well her eyes closed tightly, a look of pure bliss passing over her features.  She too was leaning against the ex-templar.

"Ah, my boy," Wynne told him warmly, "should the Maker decide to reclaim these old bones on the morrow, I shall go to his side a very, very happy woman thanks to you!"  As she spoke, she leaned forward to pat the young man affectionately on his knee.

Zevran was happy to notice the blush that slowly crept up Alistair's neck and continued to the tips of his ears.

Morrigan hmpfed in satisfaction, loudly licking the tips of her fingers, one at a time.  "Now then," the exotic beauty demanded, "what did you call this creation again?"

Alistair sat back, a contented smile crossing his features, his eyes closing in remembered pleasure.  "It's called ‘pizza.’  Specifically a cheese-extra-cheese pizza," he explained.  "I came across a shop this afternoon making them.  You can get them made with all kinds of toppings, but once I saw the basic cheese, well…."

The women all giggled knowing of his passion for all things cheese.  And, after their own enjoyment of his treat, they could not blame him one bit for indulging.

Zevran, on the other hand, came to such a sudden stop that he was at first afraid he'd alerted them to his presence in the room.  After a long ten-count, he realized they had not realized he was there and turned away in disgust, leaving the room, his concentration no longer on them or their discussion.  Pizza!  Of all the….

Sighing, Zevran silently exited the room and turned towards his own.  As he entered his room, he noted that Sten and the mabari were already sleeping soundly, and Oghren, as usual, was snoring off his drink.  He removed his armor and weapons, setting them within arm’s reach and slid between the sheets of his bed.  "What a disappointing end to an otherwise delightful evening," he muttered to himself as he rolled over to sleep.

#ladya writes #Dragon Age Fanfic #Cheese Glorious Cheese #I have a very wicked sense of humor #:P #The usual suspects #Zevran #Alistair #Morrigan #Wynne #Leliana #and most importantly: pizza!

[allonsysilvertongue]

Summer Nights

At six year old, Effie Trinket was convinced that the eight year old boy with dirty blonde hair who often jostled her roughly when her mother was not looking and made her run after him in the summer heat was the best friend she needed. The same could not be said for Haymitch Abernathy. Previously

Chapter 3 – Do You Like Her?

Effie: 13 years old

By next summer, Effie was slightly put off by Haymitch’s behaviour. He was more irritable and angry, and summer was a little tensed since she felt as if she always had to be cautious around him.

Effie tried to spend time with her father but apart from meal times, she couldn’t seem to get her father to want to be with her.

“Play with the boy, sweetlings,” Stephen Trinket said distractedly, gently pushing her between the shoulder blades out of the house. “I have to be at the mines.”

“He is nowhere to be found, Father,” she pouted. “Will you please just take me to the meadow today? We could have a picnic there.”

“Euphemia, your father is very busy,” Lysandra Trinket chided. “Wherever is your son, Isla?”

Isla Abernathy glanced surreptitiously in Effie’s direction, and she couldn’t understand it but it was the look in Haymitch’s mother’s eyes that made Effie felt a little uneasy, a little guilty, as if her very complaining to her father would get Isla in trouble.

“I – I sent him out on an errand,” Isla replied, carefully applying a coat of dark blue nail polish for Lysandra. “He should be back anytime soon. Why don’t you come sit by me, child? I will do your nails after this, if you like.”

Effie bit her lower lip, considering the choices in front of her. On one hand, her father was clearly not interested in spending time with her, more concern as he was with Lachlan Abernathy currently patiently waiting for his employer by the car. On the other hand, she liked Haymitch’s mother. She was always so nice and gentle with her, and treated her the way she would treat her sons. Effie always wished her own mother would dote on her that way.

“Will you put some shiny gem on each one?”

Isla smiled beckoning her to take a seat. “I wouldn’t recommend the gem. Not for summer, at least. The things you and Haymitch get up to… You will lose the gems and your nails will not be pretty anymore, will it?”

Recognising the truth in that, Effie laughed lightly and shook her head.

“What colour would you like, Effie?”

“Red,” she answered without missing a beat. “Haymitch told me it’s his favourite colour.”

Isla’s gaze shot up at her and then it softened. Effie was too young, only in her early adolescent, to have been able to read her expression but if she could have, she would have seen the gleam of sadness and pity in Isla Abernathy’s eyes.

“A very basic colour, Euphemia,” Lysandra remarked snidely. “Perhaps, something more vibrant… How about turquoise?”

“No, thank you, Mother. The red will do.”

Lysandra huffed and left the room to retire to the veranda.

“Haymitch usually takes me along whenever he has an errand to run for you,” Effie spoke quietly.

“He left very early in the morning. You were still asleep. It was my fault, child, I told him to let you have your sleep.”

Effie dropped her gaze to her fingers and watched as Isla applied fresh coat with careful precision. Deep within her heart, she felt something was amiss. Haymitch’s mother wouldn’t lie to her, would she?

She didn’t see him until later that night when he walked into her room and she swore, her heart skipped a beat.

“I didn’t hear you knock.”

“That’s ‘cause I didn’t,” he shrugged. He had grown taller and a little gangly. There was a pimple on his left cheek, something Effie had pointed out on the first day here. He had merely looked away in embarrassment. “Mama said you were looking for me.”

“I was but that moment has passed,” she told him coolly.

She was miffed and annoyed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, moving closer to her bed.

“Drawing,” she answered. Maybe if she were to give him one word answers and pretend she was not interested, he would leave her alone like he had the entire day.

“I didn’t know you could draw. Let me see it.”

He sat on the edge of her bed, looking at her with interest sparkling in his grey eyes and she sighed. It was so impossible to stay mad at him.

“Do not laugh,” she warned but handed him the sketchpad. “These are just drawing of clothes.”

He looked at her in confusion.

“I – “ she hesitated, wondering if this was something she wanted to share with him but they were best friends and they tell each other everything. “Mother brought me along during the fashion week where they were having their Fall/Winter collections. I love it a lot. Mother said she would take me along again next time. It was amazing, Haymitch! There were all the pretty shoes and clothes, and Mother introduced me to her acquaintance who is a stylist! So she told me all about designing clothes and that is what I want to do. I want to be a fashion designer.”

He blinked.

“So all you do is make clothes? Like a tailor?”

“No, no, no,” she shook her head. She was on her knees on the bed, looking at him excitedly. She had never spoken about this dream out loud and it was making her feel all sorts of things. “Tailor sews clothes. Designers design them. Oh, it is all so very exciting the more I think about it.”

“Do you have to go to school for that?”

“Of course,” Effie nodded. “People will love my designs and one day, I will be famous.”

“You will,” Haymitch chuckled. “Then you’ll forget all about spending your summer here. It’ll be boring.”

“Never,” her eyes widened. “I do not abandon my friends. I will invite you to the city for my show and you will get to see all of my designs.”

“Sure,” he indulged.

“Promise?”

He merely smiled but it was enough for her. Effie leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He froze and slowly, touched the spot where her lips had touched his skin.

“You won’t leave me alone tomorrow, will you?”

“You can’t survive a day without me?” he teased.

“Where were you today?”

She could tell that her question did not bode well with him. He stiffened next to her. Effie’s gaze was trained on him as he stood up and moved towards the door.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, a’right? Goodnight, Effs.”

When morning broke across the horizon, Effie was woken up the crowing of roosters. She had spent several years of summer in this part of the country but she could never get used to all the crowing. Making her way down to the verandah, she broke into a grin when she spotted Haymitch there buttering his toast with the three top buttons of his shirt undone.

“Will you make sure Haymitch gets everything on this list?” Isla requested, pressing a small rolled up piece of paper into her hand.

“Of course, Mrs. Abernathy,” she promised and she was more than happy to because it meant she would be spending her day with Haymitch.

They kept glancing at each other over breakfast, grinning and smiling, and once Effie was done with her croissants, she leapt up from her seat which earned a disapproving look from her mother.

“See you later,” she waved to her parents.

Haymitch was right behind her and with his long strides he easily caught up with her. Once he was close enough, he placed both hands on her shoulders to guide her towards the back of the house.

“All aboard!” she laughed.

“To the shed, Trinket,” he hollered.

They picked up the bicycles leaning against the wall and made their way out of the village. They cycled next to each other leisurely and Effie figured this was a good time as any to talk about yesterday.

“You have something to tell me,” she reminded, “about where you were yesterday.”

He rubbed his forehead, squinting against the glare of the sun.

“I didn’t want to be at home a minute longer and I couldn’t wait for you ‘cause you were still sleeping so I took off,” he said simply which of course, raised several other questions in her mind.

“Did something happen?”

He let out a breath, and stopped cycling. He lifted his shirt and Effie gasped. The skin on his right hip was mottled blue and black. Without thinking too much, she reached out and touched it gingerly but still he sucked in a breath.

“I don’t think he meant it,” Haymitch lowered his voice as if wary that someone might overhear the conversation. He pulled the shirt down.

“Who?”

“My dad,” he admitted. “He’s been drinking again and he was in a mood. I – I asked him a question and he told me to go away but I – uh – I kept asking.”

Effie shook her head. Haymitch could be very stubborn and adamant.

“He lost control and hit me here, with his bottle. The bottle didn’t break. Otherwise, it would have been worst. All I got was this bruise,” he said. “Guess I got away alright.”

“Does he always… Has he hit you before?”

“Usual stuff you know when I don’t listen or I don’t behave. He’ll twist my ear or hit my palm with his belt, nothing weird. Aspen’s father does it to him too. Sometimes dad will shove me inside the house so mama could talk to me. But… nothing like this before.”

“What was it that you were asking him about?”

He looked away.

“I asked why he couldn’t just stop and find some other job,” Haymitch said.

Effie stared after him, not at all expecting that.

“I heard him tellin’ mama that the mines have been giving him trouble. He’s … I think he’s drinking to deal with whatever’s going on there. Do you know anything?” he rounded on her. “Did you father say anything to you?”

“No,” Effie answered. “You know he would never discuss something like that with me. Besides, I spent most of my time in school and with my friends.”

“Yeah? What do you do with your friends, anyway? Paint each other’s faces?” he mocked, taking the sight of her in.

Effie bristled. She had spent her morning ensuring that she looked pretty. It was just a little lip gloss and some eye shadow but she supposed if he could mock her about that, then he must have noticed. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so irritated anymore.

Besides, he could have mocked her about the drawings he saw yesterday but he didn’t.

“Amongst other things,” she replied over her shoulder.

She walked ahead in the aisle, picking up an apple to inspect before putting it in Haymitch’s basket.

“Weird hobby.”

“We do not have rivers and lakes to swim in after school, Haymitch. Or a meadow to catch spiders from,” she retorted. “If I were to tell my friends what you and your friends do for recreation, they might just think the same – weird, abnormal.”

He smirked.

“Learnt a new word back in school; feisty. I think that’s you.”

She preened.

“Speaking of lakes, you want to swim at the lake this afternoon?” he asked. “Everyone’s going to be there and the boys are asking after you.”

He wrinkled his nose when he said it and didn’t seem at all thrilled. She wondered the reason behind it.

“What other options do we have aside from swimming at the lake?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “If you want to do something else go ahead but I want to go. Myra’s going to be there.”

“Myra?” she asked sharply.

“Yeah, what’s your problem with her? You still don’t like her cause she’s different?”

“It’s not that,” Effie said and walked off.

She watched as he picked up onions and potatoes. She consulted the list and pointed him to the tomatoes.

“Do you like her?” she asked after a while, circling back to the topic that had quite frankly, unsettled her.

Haymitch looked at her. “As in like like?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Do you have a crush on her?”

Haymitch gave a goofy smile, one she didn’t think he realised he was doing. “She’s pretty,” he admitted.

“Really? I won a beauty pageant twice in a row,” Effie couldn’t help but point out.

“How could I ever forget that when you’ve repeated it about a hundred times…” he taunted.

“Ugh, you never take things seriously. How horrible,” she spat.

“Don’t act like you don’t have a crush on someone in that school of yours. So, come on, which city boy got your attention?”

Effie thought of Marcus almost immediately. Marcus had always been sweet on her since the school year started and he always got her presents. There was also Theron, good-looking and rich, and someone whom her mother had pushed her to befriend for his family’s name.

“That is none of your business,” she huffed, turning on her heels to find the rest of the items on the list.

She heard him laugh two aisles over.

They cycled over to the lack with the groceries filling their individual baskets to the brim. Haymitch carefully set his bicycle against a big tree, careful not to disturb their shopping. Instead of running off to his friends, he helped Effie down and parked her bicycle next to his.

It was only after that he tossed her a grin, took off his shirt without much delay, leaving his white undershirt on to hide the bruise, and ran towards the lake, jumping into it with a big splash.

Effie was more hesitant as she leisurely made her way over.

“Come on, just take the dress off and get in,” Haymitch shouted.

That was such a ridiculous thing to do. She had been under the impression that they would first head back to his house to drop off their groceries which would give her the chance to change into something more appropriate. She had after all bought a new one piece swimsuit which she was eager to put on.

They had argued about this on the way over, naturally, but Haymitch was adamant that cycling back home would be a waste of time.

Behind him, Aspen was grinning. “Come on in! What are you waiting for?”

“Leave her alone,” Myra chimed in, treading water next to Haymitch. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

Effie gritted her teeth.

The last thing she would do is to sit around waiting for them to be done with their afternoon swim. She also refused to be a mere spectator to this frivolities so despite her better judgment and despite the fact that her mother would be appalled, Effie undid the button at the back of her dress and let it fall to her ankle. Immediately, the boys – Aspen and Toby – started whistling and egging her on. Haymitch grinned.

She waded into the lake. Haymitch met her halfway, just as the water started rising to her calf and held out his hand to help her in.

“Careful, might be slippery,” he warned.

He gripped her hand tightly and only let go when the water was above her waist. It was cooling in the lake and when she washed her face with the water, it was tasteless.

“Hey,” Haymitch whispered in her ear as he treaded water, “you look pretty, too.”

Effie blinked trying to figure out where that statement came from before she remembered the conversation they had the grocery store. She smiled at him.

Young Haymitch is more open and less guarded, adult Haymitch would never have admitted what his father did.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #childhood friends #summer nights

[ellie-valsin]

VIRAGO ART CHALLENGE: Day 25

For once, the Art Challenge will have a prose submission!  This is a little ficlet I wrote for the Virago universe, falling in between Book 3 (July 1830) and Book 4 (July 1831).  I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I promised to write this, like, more than a year ago, when @mamzellecombeferre was discussing vignette ideas and professed to being curious about “the finer proceedings of Feuilly and Deschamps’ courtship.”  And I thought, ‘but Enjolras is so clueless about that...how would I ever write that from her POV?’  And Courfeyrac helped me out a little, and this happened.

March 1831.

“It’s not important, of course not!” Courfeyrac was saying with a nonchalant wave of the hand.  “Of course it’s not.  But I only thought it was a bit impertinent of him, that’s all.”

“Quite right,” Combeferre replied, “but what’s to be done with such men?  It can’t be helped, so you’ll just have to let it be.”

We were strolling together on the island one fine Sunday afternoon, without much of anywhere to be.  I myself did not have a taste for such idleness, but Courfeyrac had convinced Combeferre that it might be nice to have a walk after taking breakfast together, and Combeferre convinced me in turn.  Courfeyrac was a sly fellow: he knew which of us to apply to when he wanted something.

We were lingering in the shadow of the cathedral and my men were still chatting animatedly, when I happened to glance over and see a distant figure passing by the square.  It wasn’t so much the clothing as the gait of that figure that attracted my gaze: it was a purposeful stride, long-legged and no-nonsense, and it seemed familiar to me.  I nudged Courfeyrac and indicated the fellow, asking if he recognized him.

Courfeyrac squinted, laughed, and exclaimed, “Why, it’s Feuilly!  Could you not recognize him?”

“Well, you can hardly blame me,” I said.  “What on earth is he wearing?”

“Hm,” said Combeferre.  “It seems to me that there’s nothing remarkable in his outfit.”

“Nothing remarkable for you or me, perhaps!” said Courfeyrac.  “But for him?  Ma foi!  Enjolras is right, what the devil is he up to, dressed like a dandy little poppet!  Where is he going that he needs a tailcoat and a top hat, I should wonder!”

“It’s Sunday,” said Combeferre.  “Perhaps he was at mass?”

“Feuilly?” scoffed Courfeyrac.  “That pagan?”

Combeferre just shrugged and made a little grunt.

“I’ve an idea!” said Courfeyrac, snapping his fingers suddenly.  “Come with me, come!  We’ll follow him!”

“Follow him?” I said.  “What in heaven’s name for?”

“Why, on a lark!” laughed Courfeyrac.  “Why would we do anything for a good reason on a lazy Sunday?”  He took me by the arm on one side and Combeferre on the other, and gave us a tug, saying, “Come on, come on, he’s getting away.  He’s got a devil of a stride, that Feuilly!”

So lengthy was his stride, and so hurried, that we almost lost him in the labyrinthine little streets of the Right Bank.  He was headed straight into the heart of the faubourg Saint-Antoine, which caused Courfeyrac even more delighted perplexity.

“What the devil does a man do in a top hat and a tailcoat in the faubourg Saint-Antoine?” he kept muttering gleefully, as if the answer was sure to be something scandalous enough to warrant all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.

“What are we doing?” I complained.  “The man’s got somewhere to be, it’s none of our business.  And what do you care, anyway?  If he thinks it’s something you ought to know about, you will be informed by and by, I have no doubt.  Why are you pressing the issue?”

“Courfeyrac, pressing an issue?  Never!” said Combeferre with a little smile.

“Courfeyrac, meddling?” I replied with a sigh.  “Ridiculous!”

“Hurry up, look sharp or he’ll escape!” said Courfeyrac excitedly, pulling us along after him.

When Feuilly stopped abruptly in the middle of the street and gazed up at a building, Courfeyrac yanked us into an alleyway across the street to keep hidden.  

“Oh ho!” said Courfeyrac slyly, and by this, I had the impression that he knew exactly where we were and what was afoot, but he was not spoiling the surprise out of deference to us.

As we watched, Feuilly looked up at the building, pulled a battered old watch from his pocket and stared fixedly at it for some time, glanced up again at the building, down again at the watch, and suddenly began to pace the length of the street, back and forth, his chin tucked into his cravat.  At length he pulled out his pipe, was about to pack it, then seemed to think better of it and glumly returned it to his inner coat pocket.

“Ah!  No pipe!” crowed Courfeyrac.  “Did you see that?  Don’t you know what that means!”

“He isn’t in the mood for a smoke?” I said flatly.

“It means he’s going to see a lady,” murmured Combeferre.

“Just so!” exclaimed Courfeyrac with a grin.  “At least one man here knows what he’s talking about!”

“A lady?  Well, how do you figure?” I asked Combeferre.  “Maybe the man’s simply run out of tobacco!”

“You know very well that gentlemen don’t smoke in the presence of ladies,” replied Combeferre, “and they don’t do so right before paying a call to a lady either, no matter how nervous they are and how much they’re craving a smoke.  Reeking of tobacco is generally not thought to endear oneself to the fairer sex.”

“Eh voilà!” said Courfeyrac, nodding sagely.  “A clever deduction!  You’ve got yourself a bright man here, cousin.”

“Gentlemen don’t smoke in the presence of ladies, eh, Combeferre?” I said, unable to resist a bit of teasing.  “Then how is it you smoke like a chimney around me, eh?”

“Because I’m no gentleman,” began Combeferre.

“And you’re no lady!” finished Courfeyrac, slapping me on the back with a laugh.

“Aren’t you two just full of the devil,” I said, trying to hide a smile at their chummy antics.  “Now, I may be no lady, but I also doubt that there are too many ladies residing in the ramshackle rat-hole tenements of Saint-Antoine.  So what is he really up to here?”

“Just because a girl does not seem a lady to you does not mean she is not a lady to him,” said Courfeyrac with a smile that was half gallantry and half sentimentality.

“Look, he’s got up his courage, he’s going for it!” said Combeferre, nudging us and pointing.

We looked just in time to see Feuilly be let into the building by the concierge, and his tails disappeared into the shadowy stairwell within.

“Well, that’s it, then,” I said.  “The grand mystery is solved.  Are you two satisfied now?  A man is visiting a woman one Sunday afternoon in the city of Paris.  What a revelation!  What a shock!  Can we go back to the Latin Quarter now?  I’ve plenty of work to be doing if all you want to do is indulge in fanciful follies all afternoon.”

“Pardieu, no!” cried Courfeyrac.  “Now we must follow him into the building!  Don’t you want to see this through to the very end?”

“What are you suggesting, that we just walk up to the lady’s room and give a knock?” I said.

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting!” said Courfeyrac mischievously.

“That’s absurd,” I replied with a dismissive wave of the hand.  “Why would we want to do that?”

“I’m with Enjolras on this,” said Combeferre, scratching at his side-whiskers doubtfully.  “It’s in poor taste to barge in on a man’s time alone with his mistress—you of all people ought to know!”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Courfeyrac with an even more cheerful laugh.  “I know this house, I know this lady, and this is no visit to a mistress.  Now let’s go present ourselves, shall we?”

“Feuilly’s going to kill you for this later,” I pointed out as we crossed the street and knocked at the door.

“Leave him to me,” said Courfeyrac, and then he applied his bright, winning smile to the concierge, who had stuck her head out of the door.  “Madame,” he said courteously, “we are here to visit Mademoiselle Deschamps, fourth floor.”

“Deschamps!” I said in surprise, even as the concierge muttered, “That Deschamps girl, I knew she was trouble.  Always with herds of gentlemen clomping up to her room.”  To Courfeyrac, she snapped, “Well, off with you, then, get on up the stairs after the other fellow!  That little hussy’ll be waiting for all of you, I’m sure!”

As we climbed the endless flights of stairs to the top of the building, I called up to Courfeyrac, “You’ve been here before, haven’t you!  You’ve been playing a game with us—you knew all along that this was Marie Deschamps’ building!”

“Well, I didn’t know till we got here,” replied my cousin, “but yes, as we came closer, I had an idea where he was headed.”

“Well, what’s he all dressed up for to visit her, anyway?” I wondered.

“Why do you think?” Courfeyrac replied, shooting me a cheeky wink over his shoulder.

“You ought to tread carefully, mon vieux,” said Combeferre.  “Feuilly won’t be very pleased to see you here!”

“Well, what does Feuilly have to say about it?” said Courfeyrac innocently, and he paused on the fourth-floor landing to arrange his clothes and fluff his curls.  “It’s Mademoiselle Deschamps’ decision as to whom she will admit into her place of residence.”  And he gave a jaunty knock to the first door on the aisle.

“Just a second!” sang out a voice from within, and in a moment, Mademoiselle Deschamps herself was there in the open doorway.  When she saw us, she burst into hearty laughter.

“What is this, a joke!” she managed to ask through tears of mirth.

“No joke, my darling girl,” said Courfeyrac with a deep bow full of chivalrous flourishes.  “Just some friends come to visit!”

“Well, come in, come in, m’ good gentlemen, join the party!” she replied, mimicking his flourishes with a bright grin.

When we came into the little room, Courfeyrac triumphant, Combeferre a bit abashed, and myself just bemused, Feuilly started up from his seat at the sight of us.

“What’re you doing here!” he exclaimed.  

“You think you are Mademoiselle Deschamps’ only friend?” said Courfeyrac innocently.

“Well, have a seat, have a seat!” Deschamps insisted, and she used her skirt to wipe off the little table and chairs by the window.  “Ma Doue!  Pierre, Jean, be polite and get’p and let the m’ssieurs sit!”

At these words, directed over her shoulder, I suddenly saw that we weren’t the only ones here.  In the other corner sat two enormous young men on two tiny chairs that seemed like children’s furniture under their bulk.  With their arms crossed and their shoulders squared, matching scowls on both faces, they did not present the most welcoming façade.  At Deschamps’ gentle rebuke, they rose slowly to their feet in tandem, arms still crossed, and so big were these two unsmiling behemoths that they had to duck a bit to keep their heads out of the rafters.

“Don’t mind ‘em a bit,” Deschamps explained to us with a wink.  “They’re just m’ brothers.  They work on the docks, I work on the laundry barges, and we all of us make our beds in this little home.”

“Ah!” said Combeferre.  “It’s a pleasure, Messieurs Deschamps.”

The only response he got from these two glowering dockworkers was a grunt of acknowledgement.  They went to lean against the wall, watching us all through narrowed eyes.

Combeferre and I arranged ourselves stiffly in the chairs vacated by the brothers, and Courfeyrac claimed the seat beside Deschamps.

When everyone was settled again, Deschamps chirped happily, “I was just welcoming M’sieur Feuilly t’ our humble home when you knocked.”

“That’s a very nice coat you have there, Feuilly,” said Courfeyrac sweetly.

Feuilly just gave him the most ferocious look, flushed as red as a naughty schoolboy.

“Very dapper!” added Courfeyrac, pushing his luck.  “Don’t you think so, Mademoiselle Deschamps?”

“Oh, ma Doue, I’d say!” Deschamps exclaimed, petting Feuilly’s arm with wondering fingertips.  “I never seen such a coat b’fore—such fine wool, such an elegant cut!  Very fetching!”

“It actually looks very much like the new tailcoat that Joly was just showing off the other day,” I mused.  “Do you have the same tailor, Feuilly?”

Feuilly flushed even deeper, if that were possible, and Combeferre murmured to me, “Hush, Enjolras,” nudging my leg with the tip of his walking-stick.

I gave him a look, uncomprehending, and he shot me a significant glance in return that made me understand with sudden embarrassment.  Oh.

“M’sieur Feuilly is very good t’ come visit a girl,” said Deschamps, gazing up at him with sweet eyes.  “After all the ruckus of barricades is past, I’m only glad he ain’t forgotten an old comrade-in-arms.”

“Well, I—No, of course I—Well, of course—!” stammered Feuilly, and he clammed up abruptly when he could not make his tongue work.

“He’s been very attentive t’ me for the past few months, M’sieur Feuilly has,” Deschamps told us with a sly little smile, “and my brothers thought it only proper that there be official in-tro-duc-tions.”

“Ah!  How charming!” said Courfeyrac gaily.  “And that is what he has come for today, then!  Ma foi, how wonderfully charming!”

I did not find it charming at all that we should be here in the middle of this extremely awkward encounter, and I could see that Feuilly did not either.  But my shameless cousin Courfeyrac seemed utterly impervious to any possible discomfort.

“You’re a lucky man, Monsieur Feuilly,” Courfeyrac continued with a sparkle in his eye.

“I thank you kindly, Monsieur de Courfeyrac,” said Feuilly, and we could not miss the cold emphasis he placed on that particle. 

“And how’ve things been with ye lately, then, m’ boys?” said Deschamps to Combeferre and me, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands with a childlike look of curiosity.  “I’ve not seen ye for months now!  I s’pose the doctor’s all too busy now, and I don’t s’pose dear M’sieur Enjolras is ever not busy.”

“That’s more or less the case,” I replied.  “There will always be infants in ill health, so Combeferre will never lack work—and there will always be nations in ill health, so I will never lack work.”

“And you’ve been most happy at home, Cousin Alex tells me,” said Deschamps impishly, and though her teasing did not seem to produce any sign of understanding in Feuilly, Combeferre and I both squirmed.

“Wonderfully happy, they’ve been,” Courfeyrac chirped, and I saw that his wicked sense of fun did not limit him to tormenting solely Feuilly.  No glare of mine was going to spoil his enjoyment.

“Well, I think that’s only right,” Deschamps declared.  “Yes, ma Doue!  If a body’s lucky enough t’ find someone he can live with, then it’s only right t’ cleave t’ that person with all his might.”  She cast a lingering look at Feuilly, adding gently, “Yes, yes!  ‘S only right.”

Feuilly went red again and seemed to be attempting to burrow down into his collar and cravat like a turtle into its shell, while Deschamps’ brothers looked on with those suspicious eyes.

“So it’s an official introduction for Mademoiselle Deschamps and Monsieur Feuilly, then!  How respectable!” said Courfeyrac, and he reached across Deschamps to give Feuilly a good congratulatory slap on the knee.  “Well, mon vieux, at least now you’ll have the chance to atone for that time we took Mademoiselle down to the Bois de Boulogne and—”

“I have to—go—now—I have a—a—a lecture!” exclaimed Combeferre in desperation, starting up from his seat.  “I’ve just remembered, I have a lecture to get to!”

“Well, if you must—!” said Feuilly, practically leaping to his feet to see us off.

“There are no lectures on Sunday,” Courfeyrac pointed out placidly.

“Well, an autopsy, then!” snapped Combeferre.

I was not one to squander a perfectly good opportunity, and I rose to my feet as well, saying with a bow of the head to Deschamps, “Mademoiselle, it was a pleasure to see you well, but I’m afraid that I too don’t have more than a moment for a quick hello, and now it’s time that I be returning to my work.  Please forgive our rudeness for departing as abruptly as we’ve intruded.”

“Yes, yes, forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Combeferre in a more measured tone, having recovered himself a bit.  “That is, I’ve only just realized how late it’s getting, and I need to make the walk all the way down to Necker—autopsies to supervise—autopsies on infants, you know, and I need to—baby autopsies!—that is—I thank you kindly for hosting us, Mademoiselle Deschamps.”

“Why, you’re most welcome, m’sieur,” said Deschamps with those same laughing eyes she always turned on us, as if mocking us for our own stuffy bourgeois morality.  “I’dn’t mind if you stayed longer t’ chat with us, but if you must go, then you must.”

“Courfeyrac has to go, too, I’m afraid,” said Combeferre, grabbing hold of Courfeyrac’s arm and dragging him up in spite of the latter’s protests.

“What!  No, I’ve got all day to—” my silly cousin was sputtering, but I grabbed his other arm and hooked mine through it, clenching it forcefully.

“He’s only being polite,” I told Deschamps.  “He’s really quite occupied today, but he simply could not resist taking just a brief moment to pay his respects to you, mademoiselle.  And now, unfortunately, he must be on his way.”  My stony look stopped any further protest from Courfeyrac.

“It’s a very kind thing for you gentlemen t’ take time out of such a busy day t’ pay respects t’ a poor little thing like me, yes, very kind,” replied Deschamps with a curtsy, and I still had the impression that she was amused at us.  At her genuflection, Feuilly also bowed his head to us, all while still eyeing us warily.

Between ourselves, Combeferre and I managed to bundle a grumbling Courfeyrac all the way down those four flights of stairs and back outside again.  I could feel the concierge’s curious gaze on our backs as we pushed out the front door.

“What a thing, putting an end to my fun so abruptly!” complained Courfeyrac, shaking us off as we emerged out into the bright light of the street again.  “It isn’t as though we have anything else to amuse us on a Sunday afternoon.  But, well, that’s it, then,” he added with an air of finality.  “The engagement will be announced within the month.”

“If you didn’t just sabotage it irrevocably!” exclaimed Combeferre, fussily adjusting his cuffs with a sour look on his face.  “Horrible man!  Am I obliged to save you from your own foolish mouth every single time?”

“Fear not, mon cher,” laughed Courfeyrac.  “Nothing I could say or do now will stop the inevitable.  It’ll happen.”  

“You seem awfully certain,” I said.

“Did you see that girl’s face when she looked at him?” said Courfeyrac.  “She’s made up her mind, and once that’s been done, it’s over.  It’ll happen.”

“Ah, Courfeyrac,” said Combeferre with an indulgent little sigh.  “You’re a thoughtless idiot sometimes—”

“Most of the time,” I interjected flatly.

“—but I do hope you’re right about this,” Combeferre finished.  “I do hope so.”

“Me, too,” said Courfeyrac, returning a smile that was, for once, more genuine than joking.  “Feuilly deserves something good coming his way, and I’ll be damned if that Mam’zelle Marie’s not something good.”

“Now if you’ll just keep your sticky fingers out of it,” I said, “it has half a chance of happening.  Now, then—who’s up for a trip to Picpus while we’re out here?  I have a few agents who’ve been operating with the men at the Rougeaux place, and I’m unimpressed with their progress so far.”

“What!” cried Courfeyrac in delight.  “Spending a perfectly nice Sunday afternoon lounging in a seedy guinguette, enjoying the pleasures bestowed by the saucy ladies of the faubourg and their piss-water brandy!  That’s an idea too delicious to be true, coming from Citizen Enjolras!”

“You’ll convert the citoyennes to the cause, and we’ll work on the citoyens,” I replied with a faint smile, hooking my arm through Combeferre’s as we set off towards the barrière de Vincennes.

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