[There's a pause where the vampire tests the air in a long, steady inhale, measuring the scent. It's there, exactly as he remembers it, of course: gingered brandy, sweet with a spicy-hot bite. Slather it in grave dirt, taut leather, and the perfumed velvet crush of rose petals, and we have ourselves a Vicious, or at least a familiar approximation to the man Javert-the-Gadjo knows well.
Intimately well. In a physical sense, at least, though the mind has done a bang-up job fabricating an even more fruitful mental connection, a lengthier one, in this alternative life.
Javert hoists the chain and palms the keys. He pivots slowly on his heel and takes in the changes in his regular bedfellow, his judgment reserved until he gets a good, hard look. He breathes in the sultry scent, eyes dropping from the gold bangles and the opened button-down to the, ah, constricting pants.
And a smile blooms, predatory and sharp, and very, very wicked. All of his teeth, as well as his gums, gleam as he prowls an approach.
From the front, Vicious might be surprised to see that this Javert is... different, yet not. He is a Javert who is equally resolute, equally foreboding, equally dark and a touch melancholy, but there is a confidence and mischief in him that isn't fully realized in his 'realer' self. This is a Javert who'd come to accept his wretchedness at a young age, rather than late into adulthood; a Javert who spent a lifetime building his way up the streets as a common gamin picking pockets, then a letter courier and lookout for the older gang boys, then a cutthroat, then a gang leader, and so on and so forth. He has the decorations to prove it, too, from the hoops in his ears to the branded skin at the back of his shoulder. Hints of more artful 'medals' peek through the deep collar of his robe; there are his starburst death-scars and the slits in his throat, yes, those are the same, but the pack of wolves stamped into his chest is new.
He really is mostly bare-arsed under there.
He blithely plucks the bouquet from Vicious's hand, twirling the stems between his fingers. The palmed keys rustle with his intent teasing. A low chuckle seeps through his teeth.]
Precisely what I was looking for with our standing appointment. You listen carefully to my vexed asks, I'll grant you that. [A beat, regarding Vicious through half-lidded eyes. He hums an approval.] This look suits you.
[Javert drops the bouquet in an empty decanter for now. He returns to Vicious just as quick, his thumb stroking a line down the line of his pressed maroon collar.]
I'll have the Mademoiselle arrange them at my office. Hold my drink, will you, and help yourself to a taste. I have got the door.
no subject
Intimately well. In a physical sense, at least, though the mind has done a bang-up job fabricating an even more fruitful mental connection, a lengthier one, in this alternative life.
Javert hoists the chain and palms the keys. He pivots slowly on his heel and takes in the changes in his regular bedfellow, his judgment reserved until he gets a good, hard look. He breathes in the sultry scent, eyes dropping from the gold bangles and the opened button-down to the, ah, constricting pants.
And a smile blooms, predatory and sharp, and very, very wicked. All of his teeth, as well as his gums, gleam as he prowls an approach.
From the front, Vicious might be surprised to see that this Javert is... different, yet not. He is a Javert who is equally resolute, equally foreboding, equally dark and a touch melancholy, but there is a confidence and mischief in him that isn't fully realized in his 'realer' self. This is a Javert who'd come to accept his wretchedness at a young age, rather than late into adulthood; a Javert who spent a lifetime building his way up the streets as a common gamin picking pockets, then a letter courier and lookout for the older gang boys, then a cutthroat, then a gang leader, and so on and so forth. He has the decorations to prove it, too, from the hoops in his ears to the branded skin at the back of his shoulder. Hints of more artful 'medals' peek through the deep collar of his robe; there are his starburst death-scars and the slits in his throat, yes, those are the same, but the pack of wolves stamped into his chest is new.
He really is mostly bare-arsed under there.
He blithely plucks the bouquet from Vicious's hand, twirling the stems between his fingers. The palmed keys rustle with his intent teasing. A low chuckle seeps through his teeth.]
Precisely what I was looking for with our standing appointment. You listen carefully to my vexed asks, I'll grant you that. [A beat, regarding Vicious through half-lidded eyes. He hums an approval.] This look suits you.
[Javert drops the bouquet in an empty decanter for now. He returns to Vicious just as quick, his thumb stroking a line down the line of his pressed maroon collar.]
I'll have the Mademoiselle arrange them at my office. Hold my drink, will you, and help yourself to a taste. I have got the door.