Lisbeth Salander. (stun) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2013-06-18 02:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, combeferre, lisbeth salander |
Who: Lisbeth Salander and Henri Combeferre
When: Backdated to May 18th.
Where: Greenhouse Cafe
What: Drink, squint, hack.
Rating: PG-13 for language, vague reference of evil government conspiracies.
Lisbeth didn’t know what to make of the kid. He was persistent, implausibly tolerant, and almost nauseatingly cheerful. She’d mocked him endlessly from the moment that he’d first commented her -- as much in an effort to see how easily she could shake him from her branches as anything else. To her continued surprise and general annoyance, he’d held on like a fucking koala bear. It was nothing short of maddening.
But it was also kind of fascinating. She wondered if he’d come from such a dire era that manufactured optimism was his only refuge. He wasn’t the first indefatigably upbeat man she’d ever struggled and failed to ward off; to that end, he reminded her a little of Mikael Fucking Blomkvist and his stupid, winsome face. Mercifully, he was only half as patronizing, and so she’d magnanimously decided to let him keep his balls.
It was only the promise of Irish whisky that found her standing outside the Greenhouse Cafe with a cigarette between her lips at roughly the designated time -- or so she stubbornly told herself. A pretentiously-dressed woman graciously deigned to grant her a disdainful look as she walked by. Lisbeth glared. In her riveted black leather jacket, black “I”ll try being nicer when you try being smarter” t-shirt, and frayed-hemmed black skirt, she was a walking warning sign. It was no coincidence that her eyeliner was a little thicker than usual; rather, it was meant to reinforce that she was not to be trifled with. This was a strange city with strange people. She wasn’t about to take any chances.
Speaking of strange people.
The first thing that Lisbeth said when she caught sight of Henri was:
“You owe me $20.87.”
--
Where Lisbeth was wary contention, Combeferre was an island unto himself. His clothes were unassuming and his heavy black hair, though having been brushed out of his face, fell into it as he emerged from the cab and limped to meet his companion at the door. His shoulders gave a minute bump.
The first thing when Henri said when he caught sight of Lisbeth was “ … are you sure you don’t have $20.87 worth of metal we could take to the recycling bin?” Any sting in his words, however, was lightened by the crooked smile on his face and his softly lisping tone.
He expected -- for all of her bluster and her pomp -- a woman of great stature. The compact nature of her size gave him leave to smile a little more broadly. Leaning on his cane, he extended his left hand to her. “It is very nice meeting you face to face.”
--
“More than $20.87,” Lisbeth answered flatly. “But the metal in my face didn’t pick a cafe on the other side of a tunnel.” She permitted herself one final defiant drag of her cigarette -- just to spite the snob who was now several blocks away and well beyond the reach of her smoke -- before stubbing it out under her boot. She frowned at his disturbingly earnest hand for a moment, but ultimately honored the gesture without succumbing to any stifling sincerity by giving it an exaggerated shake.
“Come on: you owe me twice that much in drinks.” It was all the warning that Lisbeth granted him before she walked into the cafe, assuming that he would follow. In her goth-punk outfit and his achingly nondescript attire, they made a funny pair. As it happened, the waitress had seen far weirder and didn’t bat an eye as she led them to a table. Lisbeth was beginning to get the sense that she stuck out a lot more in Stockholm than New York City.
For all of her rebellion, Lisbeth managed to sit down like a normal person and flip to the back of the menu in search of the spirit list.
Well, for a minute, at least.
When the waitress returned with the wine list and Lisbeth caught Henri’s eyes drifting toward it, Lisbeth practically snatched it out of her hand and sat on it. “No.” She chided him with narrowed eyes and a stern finger -- much like one might admonish a misbehaving dog.
--
If a sigh escaped Henri when they sat, he determined that he could not be held responsible. He had not yet had the opportunity to test the limits of his mostly healed legs and as such, determined that this night would be appropriate to push himself. He had thought that a woman of Lisbeth’s stature could (surely) see him back to his rooms, should an emergency occur. But -- for the first time in his not inconsequential timespan -- he was entirely wrong. He was under his own steam.
Then, a narrowed eye and a pursed lip: “A bottle of the good stuff. You choose.”
--
Satisfied with his deference, Lisbeth spared Henri from the wrath of her scathing glare and instead stared expectantly up at the baffled waitress. “Tullamore Dew.” Eschewing pleasantries entirely, she immediately redirected her attention to Henri after placing her order and proceeded to act like the server didn’t even exist. It wasn’t a matter of looking down upon the so-called “help,” so much as paying little mind to anyone who wasn’t of immediate interest to her. She would never admitted it if pressed, but for all of his weirdness, Henri presently fit the bill.
Upon closer examination, she frowned a little at the realization that he wasn’t bad-looking at all. With his too-long hair and extraordinarily boring clothes, he stood out from most of the New Yorkers that she’d come across. That should have been a deterrent, but deep down in her guarded little heart, she secretly liked that he didn’t fit in. This inconvenient feeling annoyed her immensely.
“Are you gay?” She asked bluntly, expression betraying nothing of her sheer presumption. Lisbeth had never cared for social conventions -- including the one that said not to ask people personal questions less than five minutes after meeting them in person for the first time. “You seemed awfully fascinated with that marriage law in république française,” She commented, affecting an exaggerated French accent for good measure.
--
Combeferre’s attention -- prone to wander, prone to focus and flit over to process his surroundings and learn from them -- was invariably brought back to Lisbeth when she asked her question of him. He sputtered for a moment and then, with a cough, regained his composure enough to raise his brows and smile. “You are suggesting, perhaps, that I look … homosexual?”
Then, a shake of his head. “I am not. I was merely drawing attention to the fact that France still fights for the equal rights of all i;ts citizenry; I was proud to see the protests. I’m not gay (but perhaps that is because I have never met a man that that I loved any less than in a brotherly fashion) … but that isn’t an absolute answer. If you’re seeking one.”
--
“No, I’m wasn’t suggesting that you look homosexual.” Lisbeth shot him a dirty look, mildly offended by the suggestion. After the articles that slandered her as a lesbian Satanist and fabricated intimate details of her supposedly “depraved” relationship with Mimmi, she’d had enough homophobic stereotyping for a lifetime. “But I read a summary of your book on Wikipedia. You hung out with a lot of guys and you seem to have read a lot of books. You wouldn’t be the first cultured revolutionary to take a fellow rebel to bed.”
The waitress returned with the bottle and two glasses, but peered skeptically at Lisbeth. Before she could so much as open her mouth to question her age, Lisbeth was reaching into her wallet and shoving her identification card in the woman’s general direction. She didn’t wait for a word of approval before she plucked the bottle and glasses from her grasp and began to pour. At an understandable loss, the server stood there dumbfounded for a few moments, before setting the ID back down on the table and departing.
“So what you’re saying is that you can’t rule it out completely, but you’re more interested in women,” Lisbeth summarized, charitably extending a glass to him -- only to stop short and squint at him suspiciously. “Are you married?”
--
Lisbeth’s particular ire was observed with a finely arched brow; the woman sought control above all else and also, perhaps, to understand on a granular level with all of the feathers and the fat stripped away. She cut swiftly. She hit bone like a deep sea diver. “You read a summary of the brick on Wikipedia? Then you know all there is to know, Lisbeth. I did not read yours supposing, instead, I could get your take on it..”
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean to say. One does not compartmentalize …” he paused. “There was no time for marriage.” Enjolras and Grantaire were the love that dare not speak its name. Combeferre -- in all his pedantic gentleness -- was well-pleased enough with his books and his friends. He had never imagined love for himself so Lisbeth’s insistence upon it made him wary. Should he have?
“What about you?”
--
At the mention of her books, Lisbeth stiffened slightly. It was irrational, she supposed, to resent the publication of her story when the trial had been so public. The statement that she’d submitted to the court had contained every intimate detail of her life from the day that she’d run afoul of The Section. She supposed that such novels would offer more insight into her thoughts than what she’d written, but the dark reality of her past could be glimpsed in great detail in either world. Perhaps it was the fact that she hadn’t authorized their release rubbed her the wrong way. Even if she was the author’s creation, it felt as though still another person had taken liberties with her life.
She expressed none of this, of course. Instead, she merely stared at him and asked: “Why? Are you trying to be a gentleman?” The word warranted a note of derision, and yet an astute observer -- quite possibly the one sitting in front of her -- might recognize it as somewhat affected and forced. Lisbeth would never tell him so, but the truth was that she appreciated his restraint. Even if much of her life was public knowledge, it was unsettling to think that someone might know the intricacies of her story before they’d even met her face-to-face.
“I’m not married,” Lisbeth supplied unhelpfully. “Were there prostitutes?”
--
A gentleman? “That’s rich, calling me a gentleman …” In Henri’s day, the true gentlemen were those of wealth and noble birth whose noses were too delicate for the rank stench of true humanity. But he left it there, a narrowed eye determining that she was not quite so combative as with the others in their short time together. Lisbeth Salander was not easy to read; she was a puzzle that wanted solving, its finely wrought pieces threatening to burn one with the slightest proclivity and yet …
“I hadn’t supposed you were,” he replied, folding his hands in his lap with some measure akin to the grace of one whose manners were -- despite circumstances -- taught. “By the way you excoriated the service more than once, I would hasten to argue that your patience for people is generally closer to nil than further from it …”
--
Lisbeth stopped interrogating him long enough to regard him thoughtfully when he objected to the term. She wasn’t an expert in the June Rebellion -- yet -- but it didn’t take an expert in French history to put two and two together and get “noblemen are assholes.” It was enough to make her frown at the cultural disconnect and make a rare correction. “‘Nice guy.’ A gentleman is a nice guy in this century,” She explained. “You can be dirt poor and still be a gentleman if you help a little old lady across the street.” That particular criterion was accompanied by a suspicious look -- as though Henri was entirely capable of such an annoyingly kind act.
“People are stupid,” She commented, albeit entirely without bitterness or malice. That he’d utterly ignored her question about prostitutes didn’t go unnoticed, but she didn’t press him. “Not all of them, but enough.” Lisbeth paused. “I guess you’re okay.”
Lest that brief glimmer of approval go to his head, she insistently pushed his glass toward him. “Drink your whisky and give me your phone. I’ll show you how to find out if that guy’s cheating on his wife.” She jabbed her thumb at an oblivious, well-dressed man sitting three tables away.
--
“People aren’t stupid, Lisbeth. People are taught to value ignorance and when they are enlightened -- when, I suppose, they develop a taste for truth and righteousness -- there will be a change. Until then --” He cut off with a shrug. Until then, Lisbeth walled herself off from stupidity and Henri believed himself alone and at the mercy of a public who abandoned and betrayed the principles which would liberate them.
He turned to look toward the man in question, lips pursed at the abundant wealth on display and the very young and scantily dressed lady at his side. From their close proximity, he was clearly entertaining someone whose presence was not familiar. With a snort, he turned and eased his phone from his pocket to slide across to Lisbeth.
A smile before, with one fluid movement, he swallowed his whisky like a good student: “Class is in session.”