merryeccentricities

Madame Bar was indeed generous in the matter of fireworks supplies. Joly fires their first small rockets off the balcony. They explode overhead with relatively little noise, for rockets; white and red and blue, bright bursts of color in the soft summer night. There are distant cheers in familiar voices from somewhere on the grounds; a moment later other bursts of color, red and purple and gold, explode from somewhere above those cheers, not as high but much louder. Joly laughs; he should have known they wouldn't be the only ones celebrating tonight.

"But they have the colors wrong--" he starts, about to start automatically talking about Proper Fireworks Manufacture, but then looks at Bossuet, and laughs instead. "-- or they don't care. Here, hand me the next row in that box?" There are only a few, but enough for at least a couple more volleys.

The theater set-up took longer than Joly had thought it might;though, of course, he's not drawing on a wealth of experience in the matter. He's happily tired by the time he stumbles back into the Blue Room, toolbox clonking against the doorframe. Meta makes an automatic attempt to bolt out while the door's open; Joly automatically blocks her way with one leg. Corralling a cat adds nothing to the stealth and grace of his entrance.

((Continued from here))
It's a short enough trip with the two of them to carry one man between them--or for Bahorel to carry one man, and for Joly to get brought up to speed. By the time Joly opens the door on the Blue Room, he's heard of an upsetting number of potentially infectious conversations, and is warned enough to be ready to meet ...well, someone who isn't Bossuet for a while, when he wakes up.

It's not that Joly is worried over Bossuet being gone a while; although, given past history, maybe he should be. It's just been a while, and Joly's been in the infirmary trying again to figure out how some of the more advanced machinery actually works without taking it apart (and it does work, he's seen that, but how? The gearless mechanisms of times past his are so much more complicated.) and he needs a break, and Bossuet wasn't in their rooms or in the Bar and--

--And yes, true, Joly fusses, sometimes. He knows this. He tries not to, but he doesn't try very hard. Because he's not two steps out the door to the woods when he sees someone staggering in the general direction of the Bar with a familiarly confused and probably concussed expression.

"Oh no, Bossuet. What happened this time?" Maybe he should try to sound professional and removed, but that point passed long ago. He is calm though, and smiling, even while hurrying over to see where it might be safe to offer support. This is a familiar sort of disaster.

Joly is feeling grounded again- emotionally at least. Physically, he's already beginning to wonder if he couldn't move his leg around more safely if he made some sort of skate, and he's got a little toolkit with him to work on the idea down in the main Bar. He sets it up on a likely table near the fireplace.

Hopefully, he'll run into Autor while he's there, and get to smooth over any awkwardness, and to plan.

Joly leans back against the hearth and smiles. It's a new feeling to be able to talk openly about his friends, without fear of spies and secrets.

"Let me think, here-- some of my friends have been here quite some time. You may have met them already? Enjolras maybe? Severe looking fellow, looks to be about your age, very blond? He's wearing all black, in mourning for- well, us, I suppose." He has to laugh a little at that, but it's a soft, surprised sort of laugh. However often he says I'm dead the evidence still seems all against it. "And for others. All in black, with a cockade? Sometimes he can be a bit reserved, but he's the finest of men. And if we can convince him to join our endeavor, we may see a theater before the seasons change-- he has a fantastic way of focusing.

"Grantaire, I gather , has been here longest. Dark hair, dresses much like me..." Joly rubs his nose distractedly. How would Grantaire look to someone who hasn't known him for years? "...he's often drunk, and rather loud, you may have heard him, too. He's a loyal friend, and he's got energy, if he chooses to use it." And Joly would never count him out.

"Courfeyrac dresses like all of us, but better. Dark hair, very properly curled. A little energetic" says Joly, from his sober perch of two more years' experience "but quite sincere. Wonderful fellow, you'll like him." He feels no fear on that front. Everyone likes Courfeyrac.

"I think Bossuet hasn't been here much longer than me." Joly doesn't notice his voice warm, or the way his shoulders relax, but he wouldn't be surprised by it. Thinking about Bossuet is comforting and comfortable. "He's tending bar a good deal; you'll probably see him there eventually. Usually smiling; he's got an excellent sense of humor. I'm sure he'll be game for anything we try with the theater. He's easy to spot, he's bald even though he's only a little older than me, and wears this old coat, I think we'll have to wait until it dissolves in midair to get it away from him--we tried a few times, back in Paris, to get him into something more recent, but of course then he wouldn't be so easy to find..."

Joly's smile falters a little. We had meant something a little different, back in Paris. He makes his voice light again and goes on.

"If you see any of them, if anything happens, please let me know-- especially Bossuet, he's one of the cleverest men I've known but things do happen to him-- and if you ever need to get a message to me, any of them will pass it on." Even Grantaire. Well. " Though you might want to make sure it's written down, with Grantaire."

Joly thinks for a moment, then adds "If you've met any of my friends, it's probably Gavroche. I gather he's been here the longest by years, though he died with the rest of us, back in France. He's much changed from the boy we knew; still, he is a friend. And seems to know a good deal about the workings of this place, though that may only be so to my eye."


He tilts his head to Autor. "What of your friends? If a flying horse falls on your head, who should hear the news?"

Things do HAPPEN to Bossuet.