logsinthenight | may catch all

characters: javert & ota
location: the invincible
date/time: may 22
content: javert drinks and is a miserable bastard
warnings: self-loathing

name day

( He hadn't paid much thought to the day, occupied as he is with reparations to the armory, and the patrol he keeps so faithfully. It wouldn't have mattered much. Javert has never had a reason to celebrate, nor would he care to. Many would consider the day of their birth to be a joyous event, but for him, it is only another reminder of how ignoble and wretched he is.

The son of a galley slave and a gypsy, born in a jail and raised behind bars, does not belong in proper society, and so Javert continues to keep to himself to the outskirts. He doesn't attend the daily meals, preferring instead to eat his meager supper by himself. He lingers on the edge of gatherings, keeping an eye out for troublemakers, but never socializing. It's almost as if he's a phantom, appearing only when he is needed, teaching others combat and keeping the town safe.

Being useful is the only purpose he's ever had in his life. He's never allowed himself any indulgence, save for today, when he pours himself a second glass of wine at supper. It doesn't seem like much, given how terrible the taste is, but Javert cares little for that. Right now, all he desires is a respite from his thoughts, and the maelstrom of emotions that have not given him peace in nearly a year. He's seated at the far corner of the tavern, donned in only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his hat and coat draped over the chair beside him. It doesn't seem as if he desires company, with his back turned to the rest of the room, but that's never stopped anyone before. )

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[Soldat brings more water, too, and sits as well, just barely within arm's reach, to set the glass down on the coffee table for him.]

What are you celebrating?

[Surely not having an empty room. They're missing something there.]

( Javert sighs deeply, slumping back against the couch, in a manner that is most unlike him. His hair is mussed a little, his eyes still red and sore from crying, his shirt rumpled, and his necktie hangs undone against his collar. He continues sadly, )

Perhaps that is not the right word for it. I'm told that is how some people celebrate their birthdays, though I have never had reason to do so before.

( He's never celebrated Christmas either, until he came here. His life has never felt so lonely before. )

[Soldat twitches in surprise and some dismay.]

It's your birthday? I. Happy birthday?

[Everything they know about birthdays says it should be happy, spent with people whose company you enjoy, preferably with cake.]

I didn't know or I would have made you something.

There's no need.

( He doesn't want anything. The only thing he wants is for Rosalind to come back, but since she is dead, Javert will just have to settle for being miserable. He'd probably be miserable even if she was here, and that isn't any of Soldat's fault. He shakes his head, explaining, )

It's not a day that I look forward to. That is why I never told you, because I don't wish to mark the occasion.

Why not? It seems like a good thing. People coming into the world.

[Misty and Sora are both so enthusiastic about birthdays. Though they suppose if someone was going to not be interested, it would be Javert.]

I don't even know mine.

( What's there to celebrate when you hate nearly everything about yourself? Javert was born in a prison, and the day itself is nothing but an unhappy reminder of that. Javert broods silently for a moment, before Soldat speaks and he says without a thought, )

You know your name. There's nothing to stop you from celebrating your name day.

[They almost ask, "Which name?" because there's been... a lot, it feels like. The original name, that they can't use. The one Steve gave them, that they can't use. The code name, that they hate. The name of the thing that was HYDRA's, that now lives in their head, not quite a friend but no longer an enemy. Now Soldat, once a title but now reclaimed. They do at least know the exact day they decided to use that as more than just a cover.

Instead of that, after a moment of though, they ask,]

Is that a thing? Naming days? I'd thought. Maybe. If people really wanted a date. It'd be the day I died and came here. Got free. But if naming is a thing people celebrate. That's a thought, too.

Must it be one or the other? Both are celebrated in my country.

( It's a Catholic tradition. Javert's mother may not have been, but his father was, and so his mother had named him as the wife of any good Frenchman would — after that of a saint. It feels wrong to possess such a name, and that is why Javert doesn't use it often, if ever. )

You have a biblical name. Would you ever wish to be called by it again?

Edited 2020-09-05 19:55 (UTC)

[Shoulders twitch, then hunch a little. Javert didn't even mention that name when he saw the memory. Why bring it up now?]

No. That's. Even if I could stand to hear it. And I can't. The person you saw. That's not me.

[They'd at least have to work up to "actual person", first. And they can never be a person who has never taken another person's life again.]

( Perhaps it's the wine that's making him bolder, and his tongue loose. Seeing the other man twitch almost makes him regret mentioning it, however, and Javert cannot hide the guilt from his face. He turns his gaze away, looking down at the floor. )

You're right.

( The man he saw in the memory is not much like the man Javert knows. Javert isn't the man he used to be either, completely changed and unrecognizable from his past self. He understands the feeling. )

Forgive me. It's not my wish to upset you.

I know. I know. It's. Fine.

[And it is. They know Javert only wants what's best, and it's not an unfair question to ask, after all this time. It's not his fault Soldat can't handle it.

They breathe slow a few times, thinking of folding paper, and then suggest,]

You should sleep, sir. You'll feel better. I can stay, still, if you want.

( Javert's not quelled by the other man's reassurance. He can tell Soldat's still upset, and he cannot hide the guilt from himself. Perhaps it is best that he retire for the night, then, before his loose tongue says anything else he may later regret. )

I do.

( He says, grasping the other man's forearm briefly, his hand curling just long enough for him to squeeze gently. Words have always been a bit difficult for him, but gestures are easier. )

Allow me to be selfish, just this once.

( He carries himself across the apartment slowly, mindful of his feet, to the bedroom with two beds separated by a wooden partition. He's silently grateful for obstruction — he doesn't know if he could stand to see Rosalind's empty bed so soon after mourning her. He leaves the door open, so as not to feel completely alone as he discards his trousers and pulls himself under the covers. )

[Soldat breathes again, then turns their hand over to return the grasp. Wrist-hugs. They can do those. They kind of like those.]

I think I would allow you to be selfish a lot the time, if you wanted to.

[They consider a moment whether to stay on the couch or join Javert in his room. Sit on the floor by the wooden partition, maybe. Yeah, that'd probably best, be where Javert could see and hear them, so he'd know he's not alone.

They dash off a quick message to Misty so she doesn't worry, and pace over to find the most comfortable-looking piece of floor, where they can see the door, the window, and Javert all at once. Optimum sight-lines, decent back-rest, protected side from the dresser. They can probably nap here.]

Sleep well, sir.

( He doesn't expect that he will take him up on that offer. It seems far too selfish to ask him for his company when he has no work for him, or nothing for him to do. He's surprised to see Soldat follow him into the room, but pleased. His lantern has been placed on the nightstand, and it casts a faint glow on his face as he turns to look at him. There's an extra blanket at the foot of his bed, for nights when it is too cold for him to sleep, and Javert offers it to him as he takes his place on the floor. )

Good night, Soldat.

( It doesn't take him long to fall asleep after that. Whether it is because of the company or the wine, he sleeps soundly. )

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