Javert observed his new companion with the dullness of a man who had endured the longest day in all the nine hells and earth. He observed, and in spite of his unimpressed mien, he took notes, filing them away in a tidy mental cabinet beneath the subheading 'Pale Foppish Fellow.'
It did not take a brilliant leap of logic to conclude that he might be sharing space with a dandyish thief. As it were, Javert had extensive knowledge and experience with Astarion's sort, and to his fine-tuned investigator's eye, he knew that he was looking at the tools of a pickpocket. He tucked his cudgel beneath one arm and thrust his enormous fists (along with his assortment of trinkets) deep into his pockets, where he would be sure to notice an errant pluck of fingers brushing against his possessions. A precaution.
Of course it was a common thief he tried to save. Of course! Javert's expression contracted and dimmed further, pupils gliding after Astarion's long, pale hand, and violently stomped down his prejudices the best he could.
Give the dandy space, you hot blooded fool. You may have glimpsed wrongly. Perhaps he was a locksmith, or the keeper of a wine-cellar, with the bottle he's got. Let him show what sort of man he was. He shall either prove those suspicions wrong, walk face first into your worst expectations, or--
He dared not allow himself to consider the alternatives, his thoughts roiling beneath a flat surface. Not yet. His scorched soul, freshly wounded from Paris, was too tender to yield, and too shattered to break further still.
"Experience with what?" he asked gruffly, a wry, if tired, twist to his tone. He wasn't impressed just yet. He was wary, wholly uncertain what was to come next. "Taming wild beasts? If so, you ought to take your delicate touch and command him to show us out of this place. No baby-killing along the way, thank you."
no subject
It did not take a brilliant leap of logic to conclude that he might be sharing space with a dandyish thief. As it were, Javert had extensive knowledge and experience with Astarion's sort, and to his fine-tuned investigator's eye, he knew that he was looking at the tools of a pickpocket. He tucked his cudgel beneath one arm and thrust his enormous fists (along with his assortment of trinkets) deep into his pockets, where he would be sure to notice an errant pluck of fingers brushing against his possessions. A precaution.
Of course it was a common thief he tried to save. Of course! Javert's expression contracted and dimmed further, pupils gliding after Astarion's long, pale hand, and violently stomped down his prejudices the best he could.
Give the dandy space, you hot blooded fool. You may have glimpsed wrongly. Perhaps he was a locksmith, or the keeper of a wine-cellar, with the bottle he's got. Let him show what sort of man he was. He shall either prove those suspicions wrong, walk face first into your worst expectations, or--
He dared not allow himself to consider the alternatives, his thoughts roiling beneath a flat surface. Not yet. His scorched soul, freshly wounded from Paris, was too tender to yield, and too shattered to break further still.
"Experience with what?" he asked gruffly, a wry, if tired, twist to his tone. He wasn't impressed just yet. He was wary, wholly uncertain what was to come next. "Taming wild beasts? If so, you ought to take your delicate touch and command him to show us out of this place. No baby-killing along the way, thank you."