OOM: An Adventure in the Making

[le_centre]

 
Courfeyrac had come to Bossuet and Joly's room many hours ago. Now, it occurs to him that perhaps he should attempt to remember why, because the purpose is bound to be important, or at least will distract from the cherubs glaring down at him with what he's sure is reproach.

'Who are you to judge?' he tells them, a bottle of something clutched to his chest. 'Why, you of all Heaven's being are sure to know what it is not your place; save it, dear children, and allow me to-'

...wait, he has forgotten. Is this absinthe? He squints at the label, and then holds it up in the air.

'Bossuet, what are we drinking?'

Comments

[le_centre]

Courfeyrac ignores the assistant, and looks at Bossuet with the greatest offence.

'I have been busy,' he says, shocked - shocked! - to the core at the insinuation that he might have been remiss in his learning in this area. 'Being dead is time consuming.'

The shop worker comes to his attention at this point, because a strange look comes over her face at these words. He replays them in his head. Ah. Yes.

'Well!' he says, brightly, and claps his hands together. 'My girlfriend, indeed. I am not sure white would suit, though. Do you have anything more...what shall we say? Scarlet?' He looks to Bossuet. 'A suitable colour for such a fine girl, would you agree, my friend?'

The assistant just raises her eyebrows. Clearly, they are nowhere near the strangest customers they've had in the place. She gestures around. 'This is what we have. Take your pick. If you have a specific desire in mind, I'm here to help.'

Courfeyrac looks again to Lesgle. 'Nothing is tailored!?' he says, in a stage whisper.

This is a shocking future indeed.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Scarlet," Lesgle agrees gravely. "And--as it says: ready to wear." He gestures to a large sign proclaiming their new collection, Le prêt-à-porter. It's very blue and orange and stripy.

The shop assistant raises her eyebrows again, more disdaining than shocked, and steps away. She's still watching, though.

But Lesgle is entirely accustomed to being eyed suspiciously by shopgirls. He'll keep on browsing, thanks. Oh, here's something scarlet! He holds up a little triangle of cloth for Courfeyrac's consideration. "Yes? No?"

[le_centre]

'What is...oh.'

Oh. Well, that just seems inadequate. Although...

He turns his head to regard the large picture, where the model is wearing something equally tiny. It only now occurs to him that these modern women are groomed entirely differently to previous women of his acquaintance.

'I hardly know, Bossuet. I almost feel buying something so small would be an insult. Would she not find something larger to be a better use of coin than-'

He happens to catch sight of the price tag...and the name of the collection.

...and he would speak, but he is too busy collapsing on to the nearest rail in laughter.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Oh indeed? I'll tell your mistress--should such a creature appear--you said so. 'Hmm, no, she'll need something bigger, to be sure--'"

But his jokes, while assuredly very clever, can't be enough to provoke quite that reaction from Courfeyrac. He reaches for the item in question, and soon he too is falling onto the rack, legless. From laughter, of course, and certainly not drink and the wearing-off of adrenaline from their earlier adventures. First law offices, then street warfare, and now--the String Hugo, a grey film of cloth that barely stretches across the glass hips of a nearby mannequin.

The lingerie racks are not built to sustain the weight of two healthy young men.

[le_centre]

'Messieurs!' comes the cry from the shop assistant, but it is too late; Courfeyrac hears a crack through his laughter, and then the unfamiliar sound of metal coming free of plastic, and some strange material comes off the wall; one of the large pictures rocks, then falls, and Courfeyrac finds himself on the floor.

He's still laughing. He's covered with scraps and frills of lace, and has some sort of garter across his face, and perhaps this is why he is laughing, if it weren't the thought of ladies underwear possibly being named after Victor Hugo.

'After all, the man was a ridiculous old letch. So why not? He would think it an honour, no doubt.'

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"No doubt," agrees Bossuet weakly from somewhere under a heap of brassieres. "No doubt he would, the dirty-minded old gossip."

He struggles to sit up, pushing underwear off his face, almost weepy with laughter. "Ah--ah--hm, Mademoiselle--"

The shop assistant is saying something about calling the police. If ever there were a time for a deus ex machina, this would be it.