#misxre

     Montparnasse would never be able to understand it; the way that she looked at him, the way that she spoke of him, when she thought that no one was around to see or hear it. He would never comprehend how someone so devastating could be so pitifully sad – how someone so knowing could be so stupid. She wanted prince charming? Fuck that, fuck prince charming; Marius Pontmercy was nothing more than another guilty, rich boy and if there was one thing that could make the career criminal see red it was guilty rich boys. Montparnasse had built himself out of nothing at all, with broken parts and an expired warrantee, and surely that meant he was better than that oblivious, lovesick, puppy dog.

        There is no pattern to his sojourns and he stalks the streets as stealthy as a wild cat, anonymous; yet it is well known to everyone who needs to know. This white-haired gentleman, venerable grandfather, presumed to be some retired military officer, is always generous with the contents of his pockets.

        The plea is expected and, once his gaze reaches her, unnecessary. Still the word ‘mercy’ attracts him, tugging at something that has little to do with earthly currency. Removing a coin from one of his coat’s many pockets, he presses it into her palm with a kind but distant smile. It is a napoleon — defunct but not quite outlived its usefulness.

ϡ : mental state headcanon

grantaire’s mental state, while certainly unstable, gives off a very believable impression of stability a lot of the time.  it’s sort of permanently set in ‘kind of sad’, but it takes quite a substantial push to make him actually display a dramatic drop in mood.

misxre

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