Chapter Text
Cosette holds his hand on the way into work, which should be irritating, but it isn't, because it's Cosette, and honestly, he's missed stopping by on breaks, too, if he's being honest. He gets a mini-lecture from his boss - what an asshole, it was like a week - but other than that, no one seems to have noticed that he was gone at all.
Except for Azelma.
He's not sure if she's just into dead-end guys (ha) like himself or what, but Cosette was right. She finds excuse after excuse to come by, chat him up, lean against the wall and smile a gap-toothed smile that, well, yeah, it's nice. It's been a while since Grantaire's flirted with anyone, the 60s at the earliest -
("Lies," Cosette says when he mumbles something to that effect over lunch. "You and Enjolras flirt all the time."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Well, I mean, it comes across as arguing, but look at Lizzy and Darcy, look how they - "
"Gonna stop you right there, Cosette.")
- and he's a bit rusty. Not that he's going to actually go out with this girl, because he doesn't quite trust himself, not yet. Just the thought makes his hands shake a little around the mop, makes his throat dry. For all that Cosette wants to pretend that things like going on dates and flirting and walking around like he belongs are still possible for someone like him, the fact remains that Cosette's condition is one day out of the month - twelve times a year. Grantaire has to trudge day after endless day with the reminder that he is a monster every time he inhales too deeply. Not that he has the heart to tell her this; she's a little bit ridiculous, straightening up and beaming whenever he pops by the desk.
However badly he flirts with Azelma (not flirts, not exactly, tries to let her down gently would be a more apt way of describing this, or perhaps one could call it the verbal equivalent of falling down two flights of stairs before weakly calling, "I'm okay"), he's nowhere near as bad as Mr. Pontmercy. The barrister is, quite frankly, awful at this, but he gets points for trying; the poor sap has apparently braved his grandfather's ire three times since Grantaire's been skivving, and today will make four.
"They're cute together," Azelma informs him, and Grantaire jumps. "Sorry, did I scare you?" she teases him. Yes, Grantaire thinks. She's tugging on her earlobe - it's actually fairly endearing, as nervous tics go.
"They are, kind of," he hedges. The tiny nurse cocks her head at him.
"Do you…you know."
"Do I what?"
She gives Cosette a significant look.
"I mean, do you fancy her?"
Grantaire laughs, caught by surprise even though he really ought to be used to this thing by now.
"No. We're just good friends. Promise."
"Oh," Azelma replies, and her gaze is a little intense, so he goes back to watching the lovebirds, uncomfortable. "So, um. So, do you want to maybe go out tonight then?" Grantaire is shaking his head fondly at the way Cosette sticks her tongue out when she listens to Marius; he's glad for her, even if Marius is a bit of a doofus.
"Sorry, what?" he asks belatedly. Azelma bites her lip.
"Do you want to maybe go out?" she asks again. Grantaire freezes - he hadn't expected her to come right out and say it.
"Er - "
Azelma shrugs a shoulder, smile suddenly tight.
"Right, yeah, silly me - sorry, that was really - ugh, that was really dumb - "
"Sure," Grantaire blurts, and her mouth drops open.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Grantaire says eagerly while he brain moans that this is the definition of a bad idea. "Er, tonight work for you?" Azelma smiles, a startlingly wide, mischievous smile.
"Musain's at five. It's on me." And she flounces off without a single backward glance, and Grantaire knows in the deepest, dustiest regions of his soul that this will not end well.
~
Cosette, predictably, disagrees.
"Wear this - no, I lied, this one's better, it'll show off your eyes - "
She tosses a green plaid flannel shirt that he hasn't worn in months at him, and he barely has time to catch it before a pair of too-tight black jeans smack him in the face.
"No," he complains holding the offending clothing items up as if they physically pain them (and they do). "No, this is not even a real date, Cosette, I'm not doing this - "
"It's a date, Grantaire!" Cosette cries, propping her hands on her hips. "Look nice! This is part of it, this is good - don't touch your hair, I'll do it." She produces gel from nowhere, jaw set, and Grantaire slumps.
"Cosette."
He ends up sitting on the edge of her bed, scowling, while she massages the gel into his hair. He half wonders if she'll paint his nails and do his mascara and any number of things that won't make any difference regarding his oh-so-appealing physical appearance. Along with staunchly refusing to hear any sense with respect to the fact that he is a soulless, blood-sucking murderer, she also becomes conveniently deaf whenever he reminds her that he is a soulless, blood-sucking murderer who doesn't even have the perks of being a magical vampire model like Edwin Cutler or whatever the fuck his name is. He picks at his too-tight black jeans petulantly, privately making up his mind not to enjoy the evening at all. A pop.
"Hello, Enjolras," Cosette says brightly. Whenever they're both in the room, she has a tendency to go a bit kindergartner teacher, so to speak. Grantaire hopes it'll wear off. "Grantaire's going on a date, isn't that lovely?"
Grantaire raises his head, daring Enjolras to comment - if his breath catches in his throat at the expression on the ghost's face, he tosses it in a hole, kicks some dirt over it, and resolves never to linger on it again.
"I think that's progress," Enjolras says coolly. "Going out. Making an effort. Trying." Grantaire lets his head drop again. Passive-aggressive bastard. "Good luck," Enjolras says.
"Thanks," Grantaire says, and thinks, Fuck off.
Once Cosette is quite finished with whatever she's doing to his hair, she all but pushes him to the door, cheerfully throwing out tips and bits of encouragement.
"Just try to relax, it's just a date - I'm really proud of you, Enjolras is right, this is progress - speaking of which, don't mind Enjolras, he's just jealous - "
"Is that what you called that?" Grantaire interrupts grumpily. This is a terrible idea. Cosette kisses him on the cheek.
"Well, your thighs look pretty great in those jeans," she pointed out, fiddling with his hair again. Grantaire bats her hand away and she narrows her eyes at him. "You are so dumb," she sighs. "Just go out and have a good time tonight, okay?" And, unexpectedly, she wraps her arms around his middle. "We're all right. We're really all right. I love you."
"I love you, too," Grantaire replies, bemused. She pulls back - and wait, is she crying?
"Cosette. It's a date." Cosette flaps a hand at him, the other swiping at her cheeks.
"I know. I just - is this how mums feel when they send their kids off to school for the first time?" Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"I'm just under two hundred years old," he reminds her. "I'll be just fine, Mummy, I promise - I'll make friends, and share my crayons, and no, really, stop crying, this is embarrassing for both of us."
"Go, then," she all but sobs, half-giggling anyway. "Mummy's proud of you, you complete arse."
He sticks his tongue out at her, salutes, and then heads to the car, in a significantly better mood than he'd anticipated.
~
Azelma's waiting for him at the front - the Musain's is busy tonight, all clinking mugs and laughter and sweat. Grantaire orders a drink almost straight off, good mood souring to that oh-so-familiar prick at his teeth.
"Are you all right?" Azelma asks over the din, and he jumps.
"What?"
She nods toward his hand, which is shaking so badly that some of the drink has slopped over. He considers lying, but at this point, it's starting to get to be too much, too much noise, too much stimulation, too many people.
"D'you want to take a walk?" he suggests, and she grins.
"Though you'd never ask."
She slips her hand in his as they meander the streets. It's not particularly welcome, but Grantaire bites his tongue and focuses on not biting other things, and it's not so bad after a while, not really. Azelma talks enough for the both of him; all he really has to do is make neutral noises every so often, and he thinks he might just get through the evening unscathed.
"You're awfully reserved, Grantaire," she comments as they pause on the corner. The streets are quiet, nearly deserted. Something begins to prickle up Grantaire's spine. "Anything the matter?"
"No," he says slowly. Her eyes glint in the darkness. "But we should probably start heading back."
She stops. He stops. Behind them, a very familiar voice drawls:
"Oh, but we've got so much catching up to do."
Grantaire turns.
"Montparnasse," he says, tugging Azelma behind him. She twists out of his grip, flouncing over the Montparnasse, who smiles a smile that shows off his long, curved incisors. He winks, and his eyes go black, two smooth, cold stones.
"Told you we'd find you in the end," he says, and there's no point in even putting up a fight.