#omnivitia

Montparnasse was fully aware that he had very little chance of getting out of this. While, as far as he knew, the proof was weak at best, his alibi was still weaker and people like Javert did not take well to those kins of stories, it seemed whether they were true or not. He shoved himself back as far as the handcuffs would let him with a huff.

His only way out was to implicate himself in another crime and hope that that one would be believed instead. He groaned, his knee bouncing in agitation. “Remind me what I’m even being accused of taking? Memory’s not so great when you’ve slept none hours in four days.”

Oh, so it was to be a contest. Javert wasn’t impressed by the opposition, even if that opponent had the appearance of a strong argument. It felt too much like inviting pity if it were successful, and if not it would be pointless.

“What makes you think I’m not relaxed?” He asked in a hushed voice, despite that it was obvious he was anything but relaxed. He was a bundle of nerves, actually, breathing a little too fast, glancing around too often, and if his knee stopped bouncing like a jackhammer his fingertips rapped on the table just as badly.

Everything about this situation felt awkward–he certainly had no idea what he was doing, and his confidence that Claquesous did not either was rapidly growing. Regardless, the contact felt good, almost painful in an echo of the way the first gasps of air after being waterboarded felt. A faint echo, but similar enough he thought of it when his throat tightened. Instinct screamed to pull away, to struggle, but simultaneously he ached to melt into it.

Just a pup struck down a few times too many, and getting old enough the eagerness to try again was nearly gone. Nearly. After a bare few seconds utterly frozen, his eyes closed and he leaned into the contact.

“It’s just hard,” he whispered. “I’ve always been running. Run away from one foster home and get put in a worse one, run away again. Finally got so bad I just ran without planning anything–I just wanted out–to get away from him–and I didn’t care if I died running because I just knew if they ever put me back in his house he was gonna kill me. I didn’t wanna be some sick fuck’s pet.”

Claquesous’ grip on Montparnasse tightened and his gaze grew distant as he imagined what he might do to them if they were here now. These vermin who would touch a child and force themselves into his memory. To Claquesous, there was no greater sin than intrusion. And wasn’t this the ultimate intrusion? Years later, those parasites were still inside his head.

He cocked his head, the pain and anger in his voice still choking him even as his speech dropped to a whisper. “And what exactly would you do? What could you do?”

Not that what was tearing him up inside was as horrifyingly traumatizing as some of things he had witnessed, but the intense loneliness he felt was still not something he felt that could not be solved by just some soft-hearted do-gooder. Hanging his head, he wasn’t sure what to do, whether to argue or walk away or shove him or drop himself on the floor and sit there like a child. Probably not the last one. If he did that he would probably cry and crying in front of people was one of the things he hated doing most.

“I don’t know what I’d do, but...that doesn’t mean I’m just going to leave you alone, either.” He replied with a little shake of his head, knowing that he could never leave someone alone when they so obviously didn’t want to be, no matter what they tried to argue to the contrary, it wasn’t in his nature. 

                    “I don’t think that hot pockets’re gonna help yer stomach somehow.” Pierre was a garbage disposal when it came to food – between years of his own inedible cooking and his girlfriend’s somehow worse skills, it was stunning he’d never put himself in the hospital with food poisoning. But hot pockets did not for a happy hangover make.

               He passed the man to open the fridge and returned with two ginger ales. They were Beatrice’s and he’d probably catch hell for it in the morning, but damned if he cared at three in the morning. He twisted one open and threw the other vaguely in ‘Nasse’s direction with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be caught.

“Just browsing or are you being serious?” Montparnasse asked, cautiously glancing around before pulling out a painstakingly assembled catalog-style notebook as well as several knives he had on his person.

He laid out the notebook to one side, the knives on the other, pointing to the knives first. “Most of what I can get you are going to be butterfly knives and karambits. Karambits are technically legal, but if the police see it they’ll still confiscate it.

“I honestly like them better: they’re easier to clean since there’s no moving parts and they’re really easy to hold while fighting. Just swing it like you’re gonna deal a right hook and even if they jump back to avoid the punch you’ll still rip their throat open with this.” As he spoke, he picked up one of the blades, wickedly curved like a cat’s claw with a ring on the far end from the blade. Sliding his thumb into the ring, he positioned the knife so that the back of the blade ran next to his wrist and forearm, the curve arcing outward in a vicious hook.

He set it down again and turned to the notebook. “I keep this because a lot of the other stuff I have is took bulky for me to carry around or would draw too much attention. Smoke and frag grenades, body armor, police issue pistols, assault rifles, sniper rifles–recently got my hands on a  Venom Tactical for that one. It’s considered one of the best on the market worldwide.”

                   Thénardier only smirked as an answer to his opposite’s – admittedly legitimate – query. It wouldn’t make a difference to Montparnasse either way, since he’d see them whether he liked it or not. That said, he was on business, not pleasure.

                   Thank god for that, as drink and knives rarely mixed well.

                   Unable to keep his hands to himself as ever, he picked up one of the butterfly knives with a low whistle. He’d seen better, obviously – owned better too – but they were pretty little things. And, more importantly for his purposes, highly intimidating to those that knew nothing about blades. Intimidation was the name of today’s game, and a little work with a butterfly or switchblade would be more than enough.

                                         “Don’t worry yourself ‘bout that nonsense, ‘Nasse, ‘m only lookin’ for toys.”

                    It’d been a while since he held anything more than a gun, and it showed – but he was able to pull a few tricks with the knife. The bolts were all secure enough – though he would have tightened them, himself.