jaimemieux: (Default)
State of the me:

I’ve been an absolutely dreadful role play person over the last few months, and don’t I know it. Busy work, increased involvement with some non-work organizations, and the dreadful state of the world has just sapped away all my energy. You’d think that rp would make a good escape from all that, but for a while there it turned into one more emotional (and time) commitment that I couldn’t handle. I deeply appreciate everyone’s patience with me! Though my life is still busy, and I am still going to be a slow tagger (let’s be honest, I was a slow tagger before it was cool), I am itching to get back into writing, and I think I’m ready to give it another go.

I’m using this SOTP to catch people up on what my pups have being doing MIA, and to get some thread ideas going. What have your pups been up to that my pups should know about? What should our pups do next? What newbies should my pups meet? Gimme ideas. :D

Onto the Pups... )
jaimemieux: (pic#6705182)
Combeferre can’t believe what the woman is telling him.

“She never came to get little Sybil,” the calm, no-nonsense voice of the nurse who runs the hospital day-care comes through his phone as clearly as if she was standing beside him. Sybil had taken Sybbie in with her to work that day to allow Combeferre to take some time for him to run errands on his own. “You haven’t heard anything from her, have you? You must know that you are supposed to call us to schedule a late pick-up time-“

“Yes, yes, I know,” Combeferre answers swiftly, imagining a dozen terrifying scenarios - an accident, a car crash, a sudden, terrible illness.

“I just don’t understand it. Sybil isn’t the kind of person to show up late for no reason. Are you sure-“

“Yes, I know,” Combeferre snaps, and then takes a breath to steady himself. No need to take his panic out on someone who is entirely innocent of wrongdoing. “Thank you,” he adds. “I will be there shortly.”

The mystery - and Combeferre’s panic - only deepens at the hospital. Taking Sybbie with him, he asks at the nurse’s station, among Sybil’s coworkers and friends.

“She never came back from lunch,” says one.

“I didn’t even see her this morning,” says another.

A third nurse, one he knows to be a good friend of Sybil’s, places her hand on Combeferre’s arm. “Her locker’s cleared out. It’s like she just…disappeared. It’s crazy.”

Like she just disappeared. Combeferre’s heart sinks, and his skin goes clammy. The nurse in question, Cynthia, might not mean to be so literal. He has never been able to pin down what any Darrow natives believes about their neighbors and friends who appear and disappear without warning. But he knows in his soul that she has spoken the truth. Sybil is gone.

He is clutching Sybbie tightly, and the girl begins to squirm. “Let me take her,” says Cynthia carefully, that practicality that makes her such a good nurse and a good friend arising to Sybil arising at just the right moment. Combeferre nods wordlessly. “I’ll look after her, and you go find Sybil. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

Combeferre nods again, but he doesn’t believe it, and he isn’t sure Cynthia does either. He leaves nurse and baby standing under the harsh lights of the break room and leaves the hospital. He knows exactly where he has to go.

Courfeyrac opens his door after Combeferre’s second knock, his eyes going wide to see his friend looking so pale and rumpled. “Combeferre!” he exclaims, all but dragging the man into his apartment. “Marius, get another wine glass. Our friend here looks like he has seen a ghost."
jaimemieux: (pic#7178213)
Combeferre has seen little of his friends lately - less, he knows, than he should, as more than one exclamation-filled text from Courfeyrac has reminded him. Despite that, most have responded to his suddenly overfull schedule with only gentle entreaties. Combeferre certainly had not expected that Grantaire would be the one to put his foot down and demand he spend a day away from school, and home, and the overwhelming tasks of unexpected fatherhood. But the man had insisted with surprising kindness, and when Combeferre had mentioned it to Sybil, she had insisted, and that is how he ended up standing on Grantaire’s doorstep on a Saturday night, thoughts still lingering on the stacks of books that sit at home, waiting impatiently for his return.

He isn’t entirely sure what to expect from a night with Grantaire. The man has mellowed a little in his time away from Paris, but God only know what he might have planned. With a rueful shake of his head, Combeferre knocks. It’s too late to change his mind now.
jaimemieux: (pic#7178224)
The snow still stands in high drifts when Combeferre makes his way through it towards home. The city has done its best to clear what paths they can, but lazy merchants and forgotten corners have left enough icy patches upon the pavement that one must walk with careful step. Combeferre should be weary from his days of making do in the stranded hotel - deep down he is - and he should be cold from the slushing snow - he must be, if he stops to think about - but neither tiredness nor weather trouble him today. In plenty of ways, his week with Sybil has not been what he planned for, but in the way that mattered most, it had been precisely right.

Leaving Sybil at her own apartment, he walks through snowdrifts to his building with a light and cheerful step despite what should be a miserable trek. When he arrives, he is glad to see his flat alight. Prouvaire will need to know that he has returned - and should be told his other news as well.

“Jehan? I’ve made it back."
jaimemieux: (pic#6705182)
It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Only through sheer force of will and plenty of experience taking on more than a usual man can handle does Combeferre get this far without collapsing. He had not begun the autumn with the intention of taking on so much, but slowly, the commitments had grown: medical school, teaching French, keeping up his ever-growing collection of flora, and now, tutoring Gavorche. Each new duty had seemed small on its own - small, and important, and meant for him, and so he had taken them on without thinking, not realizing the way his sleeping hours shrunk to nothing.

Combeferre had been weary and ragged at times, uncommunicative to his friends more than he would like, but he has always made time for Sybil. They have not seen each other as often as either of them would like, but when he joins her in her apartment, that time is for her and her alone. Tonight, he is even more tired than usual, and even more grateful for the thought of her company. The evening before had been full of exams, the day’s lessons with Gavroche and the French students dedicated more to keeping order than anything resembling education. And though he had greeted Sybil at her door with his usual warmth, he is already drifting by the time he sinks onto her couch.

In the few moments that it takes her to fetch wine from the kitchen, Combeferre has fallen fast asleep.
jaimemieux: (pic#7178224)
Even as September marched steadily on, summer clung to the fields and woods outside Darrow. The last flowers of the season were still blooming, the grounds lush, and the leaves on the trees stubbornly green, though the air hinted at autumn. Soon, the days would turn cooler still, and the opportunity to collect specimens in the wild would be gone for another season. What better time for one last walk in the nearby wilderness?

“Now, what was this project you mentioned for your biology class?” Combeferre asked his twelve-year-old companion as he offered her a hand, helping Flavia up a steep incline just off the more usually trodden paths. Quick-witted and keen-eyed, she made for an excellent compatriot on Henri’s exploratory walks. In addition, he supposed it was better that someone knew which poisonous plants she was collecting for her chemical arsenal. Just in case. “Is there something we can find while we are out here?"
jaimemieux: (To be free)
Combeferre usually liked silences. He appreciated calm, he preferred order - not exclusively, not rabidly, but such was his natural inclination. But here, now, after an evening of silences, he feared he could stand them no longer. Pregnant pauses between empty words at the dinner table, that long stretch of wordless horror when he had made his thoughts known, Sybil’s look in the hall, filled with uncertainty and what Henri feared was regret.

And now this silence at the back of an automobile.

He could not stand it any longer. “Have you worked for the Crowleys for long?” Foolish, foolish small talk. Henri hated himself a bit for it.

Blue eyes met his in the rearview mirror, and the driver arched an eyebrow - with surprise? annoyance? Amusement? His expression was too carefully closed to tell. “I’ve been at Downton for about five years now.”

“Then you know Sybil - pardon, Lady Sybil - well?”

This time, the fellow did not speak for a long second. “As well as a servant can be expected to know his employer’s daughter.”

Henri flushed. Was it his imagination, or did the driver look embarrassed, too? “Yes, of course.” Wearily, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I fear I may have done something foolish at dinner.” Le Bon Dieu, why was he still speaking?

Again, the eyes in the mirror had a slightly startled, slightly amused air about them. The driver seemed to consider his options, and against his better judgement asked, “What did you do?”

“Ah.” Henri laughed a little, weakly, almost fearfully. “I may have suggested that if Lord Grantham truly wished to help the war effort, he might ease the crowded hospitals by opening some of his unnecessary rooms to the wounded.”

Combeferre had not know what to expect - disgust, glee, more awkward silence? Perhaps the man would be so offended on his master’s behalf that he would toss him out of the car, forcing Henri to find his way to town in the darkness. Instead, the driver did something quite unexpected: he grinned. “You’re a bold man.”

Combeferre chuckled. “I- I have rarely been called such, I confess.”

“I assume the Dowager Countess did not respond well?”

This time, he almost choked. “No. Not in the least.”

A silence followed, but Combeferre got the distinct impression that some distance between them had been breached - though why, he could not quite say. He was rewarded when finally the man added, “They don’t like change at Downton. It’s the way of their sort, and one can’t blame them for it, I suppose. But…”

“But it makes them difficult?”

“As you say.” The driver smiled.

After another comfortable silence, Combeferre asked. “You are from Ireland, am I correct?”

“I am indeed. And you are French.” He didn’t pause for confirmation. “Do you miss your home?”

Combeferre almost laughed. Which home, he want to ask. Paris, where his friends were, marching bravely to their deaths? His family, farmland, warm Provencal accents? Or Darrow, where he and Sybil were equals, and need not hide their love, and family could never come between them? “More than I can say. Do you?”

“Infinately.” A beat. “But I have found those things that keep me here, even as my country fights for freedom. As you have as well, I presume.”

Combeferre didn’t have time to ask what the man meant, for soon the car had stopped in front of the town’s single small inn. “I believe this is where you are staying, sir?”

He flushed again. “Please, call me Combeferre.”

“Branson.” The man hesitated again, and Combeferre thought he saw some deep struggle dance across his eyes. “It is possible to keep your head down in a place like this, and still do good. Nothing comes easy in the countryside, with so many people set in their ways. But take a bit of care, and you can make your own way here. Live by your conscience.” He paused, turning back around in the cab. “Good luck.”

Henri exhaled a breath. “And you. Thank you.” As he left the car, he found himself equal parts comforted and unsettled. But as he watched the car drive away - back to Downton, back to Sybil - he found himself hopeful that he had found an alley in this strange and confusing place.
jaimemieux: (Default)
They waited for the right moment, when Jehan was safely occupied in some mysterious corner of Darrow, when Marius was knee-deep in translations and unlikely to show up unexpectedly in some sheepish panic, and neither would notice - or question - the absence of their friends. Though brought together years ago by circumstances, and still more brothers-in-arms than natural friends, there were things these two men could only share with one another. Once, the confidences they shared had been matters of munitions, and strategy, and Enjolras’ latest tantrum. But now they met for a reason more visceral and strange.

Combeferre brought questions, and Courfeyrac brought the wine.

He had barely popped the cork, the sound filling the unnaturally silent flat, when Combeferre began: “Tell me.”

Courfeyrac’s smile as he filled two glasses was dark around the edges. “No time for pleasantries, my friend?”

Combeferre exhaled. “Forgive me, Courfeyrac. I fear that since Pontmercy found himself on our shores, my mind has teemed with questions, and I do not know what else-”

“And Marius, dear Marius, for all his infinite good qualities, makes for a terrible messenger.” Courfeyrac waved his hand with a chuckle, and Combeferre was reminded how easily that good cheer could soften the tension of any room. “Drink your wine. I have quite the story to tell.” And though he waggled his eyebrows and made Combeferre laugh outright, both their eyes were serious.

Both men emptied their glasses with ease - Courfeyrac quickly and unselfconsciously, and Combeferre with more care. Courfeyrac was again pouring when he asked, “I assume le petit poet et Monsieur le Abbe have at least sketched out the generalities?” Combeferre nodded, and Courfeyrac took a deep breath. “You couldn’t have imagined a worse day for an emute. Oppressive from first light, raining by noon. It never really stopped. Old M’sieur Hucheloup would have been horrified by the state of his courtyard. All the mud and blood.” This time, he swallowed the wine with a grimace.

“Combeferre, they didn’t- no one came. Not no one. Too few.” Never a master of stillness, Courfeyrac abruptly pushed himself away from the little kitchen table and stood, taking a half-step away for the sake of something to do. He paced the hall between the table and the window, through which early summer sunlight streamed - an affront to his tale, frankly. “Half a dozen from the Polytechnique. A handful of stonecutters. Those friends of Bahorel’s, the ones who met on the Rue Chapon.”

“No one else?”

The silence served for an answer. “I saw Loucon at Lamarque’s funeral, but none of his men, and I lost him quickly enough. Didn’t hear a peep from the printer’s guild, or the surgeons, or those artisans up near Montmartre - mother of God, I’ve never seen Feuilly so angry. And those fucking doctrinarists, the ones I spent half of January wooing, who wept idiotic crocodile tears when I read them your description of the conditions at St. Lazare. Not a single word.”

Combeferre watched his friend as he gripped the stem of his glass so tightly, he half feared it would snap. Still without a proper wardrobe, Courfeyrac was wearing one of Combeferre’s shirts, and it fit him poorly - strange on a man usually so perfectly dressed. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, and Joly blamed the rain. Makes people reluctant to go out.”

“Courfeyrac.” He saw the muscles of Courfeyrac’s back tense and relax, his shoulders straighten, and slowly, the grip on his wineglass loosen. He thought of the man he had met eight years ago, never serious, quick to take slights personally, someone who would shirk responsibility and certainly never blame himself for a failed rebellion.

How far they had come in such a short time!

“We knew by dawn that the situation was doomed. Enjolras had saved a few uniforms from dead guardsmen, those we could we convinced to flee. You gave a pretty little speech.”

Combeferre almost smiled.

“We lasted until mid-afternoon.” Now, he looked at Combeferre, flashing a smile. “We don’t die easy in the Republic of France.”

“Never.” Combeferre’s voice was gentle. “And somehow, we’ve made it to the other side.”

“Somehow.” Courfeyrac’s laugh rang truer this time. “Tell me true, friend, what do you make of this strange afterlife?”

Combeferre chuckled. “Too much. And too little. It’s a welcome respite after a difficult year.”

“Leave it to you to make the future seem boring.” Courfeyrac collapsed into his chair again. “Now, does Prouvaire tell me true? Have you found yourself une chere mademoiselle? An Englishwoman? She’s far too pretty for you, isn’t she?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes but a warmth had returned to the room - to the world - that he had not quite realized was lacking. “You will just have to find out for yourself.”

“Oh, very well.” Courfeyrac pointed a warning finger. “But only because I’m feeling magnanimous. Instead, tell me about the new spiders you’ve discovered or something else miserably dull. I’ll just finish the wine.”

And with thoughts of pain, and hurt, and defeat dispelled - at least for now - two friends who thought they had lost each other talked into the night.


Apr. 24th, 2014 07:20 pm
jaimemieux: (Default)
Henri Combeferre

(I'm sorry, really I am. XDDDD)

Current: Pretty much where I left him last time I did one of these things, which says something about how much life keeps getting in my way. Happy with Sybil, somewhat unsure what to do with Marius, learning about the supernaturals, trying to figure out what to do with his life. Deense and I are in the middle of playing out Henri and Sybil Sexytimes ( :O ), and once that is done, we will fiiinally be homeplot-ing them and sending them to Downton for a few days.

Future: I have a plot that has been percolating in my brain for a few days now, and while I'm not sure what form it is going to take IG, it's something that I'm increasingly excited about.

I want Henri to get involved with KIRIN.

Here's the thing. When rping or writing fic for Les Amis, it's really easy to forget their radical roots, especially when you put them in a modern setting. Combeferre comes from a world where most political progress has happened via violent regime change and even nonviolent methods called for fundamental destruction of the social order. Combeferre might be relatively moderate, but the list of people that he is said to read regularly is almost entirely made up of scientists and proto-socialists. So the idea that people would try to further equality by kinda sketchy scientific means? Doesn't make him blink. He's already sort of sympathetic to the idea that Darrow “natives” would be suspicious of newcomers and when he hears about KIRIN, he's going to genuinely believe that making powers more widely available will make relations better.

Because Equality. And Science.

I'm not sure what will convince him that this is a Bad Idea. He'll disapprove of Kirin's Horn, but that won't make him think that that Kirin's goals are bad. He won't be turned off by the shady, cold, intense characters involved because, well... anyone who has a passing knowledge of Les Mis can probably guess why icy, intense revolutionary types don't bother him. He's going to have to do a /lot/ of thinking about his own powered friends, of course, and something will finally come to a head. For now, he's just going to start gradually hearing about it and making sympathetic noises.

Dr. John Watson

Current: John Watson is a goddamn father. Let's just let that sink in for a moment. As one can imagine, he has been doing a lot of not-sleeping, and a lot of flailing over Evie, and he and Mary have probably been exhausted and zombie-ish at most of their friends and acquaintances.

In general, I'm still trying to get John some more friends. He's gotten close to Tara and, as an extension, Jax pretty quickly, and I love he and Alex trying to figure each other out. But he still needs doctor buddies, and ex-soldier buddies, and detective buddies. Sometimes I feel like I haven't done enough to get him settled, but John is really bad at settling. Still, he needs friends. Gimme all your threads, people. :D

Also, though he is currently in Pretending To Be Normal, I would love to get him involved in crimesolving/troublemaking/badassery-requiring plots, because that's what he does best. He will insist every time that he is getting involved Just The Once, but like a good addict, he will always come back for more.

Future: Already, though, John is getting antsy. He keeps getting himself into little bits of trouble, and though he doesn't quite know it yet, there's more than meets the eye to just about everyone with whom he has struck up a rapport since arriving in Darrow. Things are really going to get messy when the creepy carnival shows up in town and starts leeching all its bad vibes. He's going to get twitchier, and fall back into old (snatched from ACD canon) gambling habits, and somewhere amidst it all will most likely find out Mary's secret. And then he will definitely need his friends around.

Rene Courfeyrac

I've finished my re-read of the middle section of Les Mis (Marius' first appearance through the fall of the barricade) and put my darling crusading lawyerboy on reserve and ahhhhhh. I am so excited. Since he bears a distinct resemblance to Patrick Bateman, he is going to have plot right off the bat, and once that settles down, well, there are people to meet, and friends to mock, and women to sleep with, and politics to play. And then there's Operation: Get Marius Laid. Now that the Work Month of DOOM is almost at an end, I can actually start thinking about writing the app, too. YAYS.

jaimemieux: (Default)
Admittedly, Combeferre had quite a bit on his mind as when he arrived on Sybil’s doorstep for a comfortable evening that had become delightfully routine. Short on the heels of Pontmercy's unexpected arrival in Darrow had come Courfeyrac, and though he was overjoyed and relieved to have both friends here, they brought news that weighted heavy.

So they had failed at the barricades, that was certain. And, if Courfeyrac account was correct, they had been abandoned, betrayed by the dozens of minor acts of cowardice as men who had sworn loyalty hid behind closed doors once the fighting started. In the week since Courfeyrac had come to Darrow, Combeferre had awoken each morning with this knowledge twisting his stomach anew.

But how could he share such a fate with the woman he loved? No, that he would have to keep to himself.

Taking a breath and pulling a smile onto his lips - he was glad for the comforting evening ahead - he shifted the bottle of wine in his hand and knocked on Sybil’s door.
jaimemieux: (Default)
Henri Combeferre. Oh my bb. My current job has been an insane and overwhelming boon to playing ‘ferre, and the more historical context I learn, the more I realize how much I still need to learn to properly get inside his head, and it’s scary, but ugh, I love it so. In the process, I’ve actually tweaked his backstory a little bit (not in any way that any of you should care about, unless you really want me to go history of science nerd at you), and while it doesn’t change anything directly about the way I play him, I do think it changes his mindset a liiiiittle bit, so that’s interesting. Also, I find myself constantly adding little details about his life in Paris beyond Les Amis, which is delightfully fun.

Basically, I am awash with an ever-growing library of headcanon that no one except me cares about and it’s awesome.

Despite some dips along the way, he is actually pretty deliriously happy and remarkably settled right now. Marius has arrived OH MY GOODNESS, and he’s feeling somewhat responsible for making sure he is okay. He is also having to deal with the certainty that he and all his friends died, which, while not a shock, is a lot to take in. But Henri copes by processing things in private and throwing his energy into making sure everyone else is all right. There are going to be some cracks in his brave front, and he’ll need a friend to talk things out with, but overall, he is good at coping.

His relationship with Sybil is going fantastically, and they continue to be cuter than cute, duh. Up next, they are going to be having Actual Sexytimes, and then will be homeplot-ed to Downton for a couple days. Cue hijinks.

Also looking forward, he will be starting medical school in the fall, but I think he’s going to realize pretty quickly that it’s not quite what he wants. In the 1830s, a doctor with a small private practice who does a lot of research science, teaches, and is involved in politics on the side wasn’t crazy at all, but in the modern world, the lines between all those things are much more distinct, and I think he’s going to start bumping up against the confines of modern medical practice, as well as his need to shape the wider world, not just help individuals (as noble as that might be, he is insisting I add). I have no idea what direction he is going to go in, and I’m pretty excited.

Dr. John Watson. This Saturday, John is going to be plunging headlong into fatherhood when Evelyn Sherlock Watson (yes, we went there) is born. Naturally, he is freaking the hell out. He has basically been throwing himself into being a Good Husband, and he’ll be throwing himself into being a Good Dad with just as much desperation, as though he can somehow make up for not remembering his wedding or most of Mary’s pregnancy. Poor man, he wanted to be married, he wanted kids, but he didn’t expect to get it All At Once Out Of Nowhere.

Of course, this is all part of his larger project of, I Can Totally Have A Normal Life If I Try Hard Enough, Honest. He has a wife, he will have daughter, he has a totally normal and boring GP position, and despite being thrown into someplace as wacky as Darrow, he is committed to carving out a stable life for him and Mary (and now little Evie). He’s even going to find himself a therapist (which I still need to figure out). But, well, the Watsons are both pretty crap at the Normal Life thing. Cracks are going to start showing pretty quickly, and he is going to start getting himself into lots of little bits of trouble, hopefully dragged into some crime solving and wacky adventures, which he will probably lie to Mary about, and then feel guilty, and everything will be a wonderful mess.

Plus, he has this giant piece of his heart still missing where Sherlock Holmes used to be, which he really doesn’t know how to handle. He never got a chance to process Sherlock’s return before ending up in Darrow, and though he is trying to hide it, he is basically having to grieve all over again. So there’s that to deal with, too.

Damn it, John, when will you learn that you can’t make Feels go away by ignoring them? Oh right, never.


Rene Charles Francois de Courfeyrac. But really, just call him Courfeyrac, or he will cut you. This app is happening, damn it. I was already pretty sure I would be apping him soon, but now that Marius is here, oh my goodness the boy won’t shut up. He says he needs to save his friends from themselves. Asshole. I’m in the process of re-reading the appropriate Les Miserables bits, and then very very soon one crusading lawyer boy will be finding his way to Darrow.
jaimemieux: (A hard student)
Combeferre had been spending many evenings with Sybil, especially since the strange faceless plague had descended over Darrow. Seeing the hospital slowly fill with those affected had shaken even her, the most sensible and competent of nurses. That would have been enough to keep Henri at her side, but doing so assuaged his guilt as well. He hated being useless, with no solution to the epidemic and without a position in the hospital that would allow him to at least comfort the fallen. At least he could comfort Sybil, and in that way do his part.

Jehan, dear friend that he was, had understand all this innately - even the slightest hints of apology for his absence were summarily dismissed. Still, Combeferre did what he could to make up for his absence, and to ensure that his friend was still safe from whatever horror had befallen the city.

“Prouvaire?” Combeferre had returned home from another night spent with Sybil, nudging open the door with his foot, in his hands a bag of pastries from the corner cafe. The morning was still new, so there was a decent chance that Jehan was still asleep, but Combeferre immediately saw him sitting on the sofa. “You’re up early,” he observed with a curious smile. “I have breakfast, if you haven’t eaten."


Sep. 1st, 2013 10:10 pm
jaimemieux: (More humane)
Voicemail for Henri Combeferre


Sep. 1st, 2013 10:09 pm
jaimemieux: (learned purist precise)
Mailbox for Henri Combeferre


jaimemieux: (Default)
Henri Combeferre

March 2017



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