Chapter Text
“The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world.”
It was supposed to be easy. Or relatively uncomplicated, at least.
Enjolras wondered when he would stop trying to convince himself that easy missions were at all possible with partners like this.
Marius could have done it. Which was not really a knock on Marius’s abilities (yet, at least), only his experience. Given that, maybe it would have gone smoother if it were Marius he had been tasked to work with.
Grantaire was not a bad agent, really. He just tended to be unnecessarily antagonistic and stubborn and had a penchant for putting himself and whoever he was with into the craziest, most ridiculous situations and then somehow, somehow managing to get them out of it.
Also, he flirted.
Endlessly. Shamelessly. A week ago, he and Grantaire had been been kidnapped and tied to a post, four guns pointed to their heads. That didn’t seem to matter. He flirted with Enjolras, anyway. When Enjolras glared because it was distracting him from thinking, he flirted with the gunmen.
At that point, Enjolras shouldn’t have expected any less, but holy fucking hell, it worked.
And so, Grantaire was inappropriate and difficult, but he was one of their best.
“You were dead, the last we heard.”
“Ah, that was a while ago,” Grantaire grinned.
The mission, as it was, seemed to be beyond them both. The problem was, he supposed, that it was actual spying, and only actual spying. Enjolras had respect for the more tedious points of espionage, meaning the parts that actually revolved around data-gathering, but when he had to deal with them, it was usually a tiny, most likely improvised part of follow-through action with already thoroughly established intel.
It was rare for them to be the ones actually establishing said intel. It was a welcome change of pace, he supposed. Unfortunately, his partner seemed to lack the capacity to understand words like ‘simple’ and ‘easy.’
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
click
“Ah, shit.”
That morning, Combeferre had told them that the plans had changed, that he’d put Enjolras on as Grantaire’s partner for this mission. Enjolras didn’t complain, because it would have been unprofessional, but he had put on an indignant scowl anyway because it seemed appropriate. Grantaire told him it was rather adorable, and he scowled further. Only when Combeferre had begun with the specifics of the mission did he begin to protest, but only in his head.
Combeferre knew better than him. Combeferre had his reasons.
“Grantaire did you just throw your gun away - “
He thought it odd that Grantaire would even accept the mission, and then thought that perhaps Grantaire had learned to share the same unshakeable faith in Combeferre, and then realized that even if he had, he would be contentious for the the sake of being contentious, because he was Grantaire, and so the conclusion was that - well, there was no conclusion, because he was confused, but who had time to think about such things when there was a mission to complete?
The mission went like this: find a person who apparently did not exist, who a lot of very scary people tried very hard to pretend they didn’t know existed, whose security was tight and thorough and who was apparently behind a lot of horrible events, and stalk him because they literally knew nothing about him, and then find some way to… well. Spy on him.
“I suppose,” he said, “we could always do this the old-fashioned way.”
It was an important mission.
Enjolras just didn’t expect to have to deal with it until all the boring parts were over.
Their sole opportunity, provided by an anonymous informant, was a meeting between their target and a potential client. They didn’t want to confront him just yet, they simply wanted to gather data. In that sense, the meeting was not the discreet drilling of rock solid fortress walls that they usually did, but the first time they were even going to see said walls - an inspection, of sorts, a preliminary prodding of weak points.
Somewhere, somehow, Grantaire had taken this to mean crashing through said walls, guns blazing.
Thankfully, their actual target hadn’t noticed, and had already left, but the people he had come there to rendezvous with had somehow managed to recognize Grantaire, and -
“Damn it, we are not here to look cool! Do not do that again.”
Enjolras expected an ‘I’ll try my best,’ or ‘we’ll see,’ or - or, something to that effect. Instead, Grantaire only nodded, and that was even more troubling, because even though he tying the three unconscious men together, this had never stopped him before and childish, overdramatic what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this banter was their thing and oh god, Grantaire was rubbing off on him.
(He comforted himself by attempting to convince himself that Grantaire’s newfound, most likely temporary sanity was an effect of Enjolras rubbing off on him.)
“How did these people know you, again?”
“Old friends,” Grantaire said, walked over to the little device, and then yelped as sparks flew into the air. “No dice. A bullet wrecked it completely.”
“It’s fine,” the voice in their ears said. From scores of kilometers away, Combeferre was their de facto guardian angel, their handler, their spare set of eyes, ears, and brains. Enjolras would have died many times over had it not been for his careful guidance, and the aforementioned faith was something each of them learned very early on. “We’ll make another one.”
Grantaire pursed his lips. He was staring at the broken device, distracted, before looking at Enjolras, and then at the desk.
“Grantaire?”
“Ah, yeah, okay,” he said, uncrumpling a piece of paper, grabbing a pencil and marring the stark white with tiny graphite scratches. He paused, and slid the little electronic to Enjolras. “Could you salvage this into its components? See if there’s anything still usable?”
“I’ll put Feuilly on the line.”
“No need,” he said. He gnawed on the tip of the pencil, and then brought out his phone. He opened the calculator app, made some calculations, and began noting the numbers that resulted onto the paper. “Favor, Apollo. Find me a power source, yes? A battery holder with some working batteries, maybe.”
Enjolras walked towards the television, crouching down and searching for a remote control. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “A bit from… my past. A bit from when I asked Feuilly to teach me.”
“Ah. Perhaps we could include it in our training,” Enjolras suggested, finding several remote controls, most held together with tape and willpower.
“What is the chance they’ll have solder and a soldering iron in this room?”
“Rather little. Anything else you could use?”
“Yes, but…” Grantaire started, pursing his lips. “Okay, I can handle it. Speaking of training, this mission is exactly the kind of opportunity we should be utilizing to train Pontmercy, you know.”
“Too important for things to go wrong.”
“Too late for that,” Enjolras said.
“Ah, I admit it, Apollo.” Grantaire said. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I was bored and intentionally tried to make things more interesting, because I’m an asshole. Are we happy?”
He handed him the battery holders in pointed silence.
“I don’t understand why you here with me, all right? It’s my punishment. I ended up playing poker instead of actually - er, doing whatever it was I was supposed to do. You had to rescue me, yada yada. I don’t know why you’re being punished, as well.”
“He’s not,” said the voice in their ears, and by all that was good, for all the time they didn’t have, he still sounded impossibly patient. “And you’re not, either. This is an extremely important mission, and you are two of my most competent agents. It’s not punishment.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Grantaire said.
“Monsieur Madeleine trusts you, R.”
“So did Lamarque.”
And that was a lot, coming from the man who idolized him beyond belief, and seemed to think so little of Grantaire. Who could not respond, stripping the ends of the red wire and the black wire with his teeth. He looked up at him. “Do you trust me?”
“Focus,” he said instead, and it might have hurt had Grantaire not expected it completely.
“Right.” Grantaire said, looking down at his fingers, at the wires he was twisting. “Right, okay. This should work fine now.”
“It does. Good work, Grantaire. Leave the room, go right, and then there should be a fire exit to the left.”
And they did, Enjolras fiddling with the device as Grantaire kept conscious of their environment. The hallways were empty. They had disabled the men before they were able to get backup. Their walk was quiet, the air terse.
(This was where Enjolras should have looked. Where he ought to have prodded further into. This entire day, this moment, and all these walls that weren’t around Grantaire.
But he hadn’t.)
“There’s - “
“Yes, yes,” Grantaire said,
“Like I said, we’re not here to look cool.”
“I don’t mean to, it just happens,” Grantaire sighed.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
A smirk crossed his lips, accompanied with a quiet shrug. It was frustrating, in a way that was very uniquely Grantaire. “Through this door?”
“Yes. You’ll be in a crowded square, and the target will be within view,” the voice in their ears said. “Once you’ve found him, ascertain yourselves a position where you’ll be able to observe him without him observing you.
“I won’t save you, you know,” he said, using his palm to straighten his jacket back into something decent. He pushed open the door.
“Yeah, you will.” Grantaire said, as he put his sunglasses on. “You always do.”
Before Enjolras could think of anything to say to that, the voice in his ear spoke again.
“Cut the flirting, boys. Target, 3:00.”
Enjolras slipped a pair of sunglasses onto his face as well. He looked at the direction Combeferre had indicated. It was a small, unremarkable patisserie, and outside were several tables, some spotted with customers. One table held two men, one of them their target.
They had already seen the target earlier, but even if they hadn’t, he was hard to miss. Leaned back, long leather clad legs crossed over in an elegant, almost lordly manner, one arm hung loosely behind the back of the chair, the other with its elbow propped on the table, carrying a cigarette that had gathered too much ash. Glossy eyes were focused somewhere far in the distance, head tilted back, letting sunlight hit sharp, defined angles, leaving neck bare, taut flesh starting from a strong jawline, to the curve of his larynx, to a defined collarbone, unhidden by the undone buttons of a black shirt with a popped collar, which was in turn layered underneath a violently purple blazer that could not be described by anything short of ostentatious. The man looked like a rock star, and carried himself as though he were one.
Beside him was a man who seemed more annoyed than subservient. Bodyguard, assistant, partner-in-crime. He wondered which. He wasn’t built like a bodyguard, but had the tetchiness and situational awareness to be one. After all, he was the one looking around, scowling, actually smoking, while the rockstar beside him seemed to daydream.
“Try not to flirt with this one.”
“I’ll try,” the voice beside him said, far too tinged with amusement. “But fuck my life, why do the evil ones have to be so damn beautiful?”
Enjolras snorted in derision, ripping his gaze away from the target’s direction. Even with their eyes obscured by sunglasses, they had stared long enough that anyone sufficiently paranoid enough - who no doubt either the target or his companion was - would take offense.
This did not seem to faze Grantaire. In fact, this seemed to prompt him to walk over towards the direction of the target. “What - “
“I need a coffee,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras wanted to yell at him.
“We’ve got somewhere to be!”
They had nowhere to be. It was just much, much closer than guidelines prompted, but there seemed to be no stopping Grantaire, and what could he do but follow?
Before Enjolras could complain, Grantaire had taken the seat he wanted. He tsked, which the man replied to with a bright, unrepentant grin. The optimist inside Enjolras tried very hard to believe that Grantaire had taken the seat with a plan, and not for the exciting view it came with.
Grantaire took his phone out, and placed it in front of him, in what was a seemingly vain act of taking a selfie. Enjolras rolled his eyes. When he had first seen him do this, his exasperation had been genuine. He had repeated it a couple of times before Enjolras realized that he did it to keep vigilant of what was behind him.
They made light, unimportant conversation, basking in easy words and easy smiles that didn’t exist outside of moments like this. Enjolras was very good at what he did, and so was Grantaire, and when they had to work together, they were excellent At any other time, they were fire and ice clashing fiercely, failing to find a medium without destroying one another. Grantaire baited him incessantly, seeming to take pleasure in making him angry. Enjolras never took him seriously, countered with sharp words that injured because he meant every bit of them. The one or two moments they tried to be friends, the way Grantaire was with everyone else, the way Enjolras was with everyone else, it ended in pointed silence. It was not that they were not important to each other, because they were, in the way that callouses were to their skins. And moments like this, moments involving almost getting killed a couple of times, recovering from nauseating adrenaline highs with flirty banter, stalking a sociopathic, murderous criminal, and enjoying coffee under false pretenses, was the peak of their friendship.
It was not bound to last very long.
“Yes, and then - ”
“Mm,” he said, unfocused, gaze beyond Enjolras’s shoulder.
“Too much Irish in your coffee, perhaps?”
“Not enough, I should think,” he grinned, picking it up and taking a sip. His gaze flickered to meet Enjolras’s, and then went back over his shoulder, glassy. Towards the target, Enjolras assumed. Grantaire put his mug down and licked his lips. He tried not to let it distract him.
“I try to see the best in people.”
“You’ve never seen the need before,” he said, off-handedly.
“I always do. Besides, I’m giving you an excuse. That’s Irish creme flavored syrup, not actual whiskey, so in actuality, you have no excuse. What are you doing, then?”
Grantaire smirked, looking at Enjolras again. “I asked you earlier, if you trusted me.”
Enjolras hesitated. “I recall not replying. What are you doing, then?”
“Eyefucking the target, it seems.”
Enjolras lifted an eyebrow.
“He seems interested.”
Grantaire leaned back. His gaze flitted to meet Enjolras’s, his lips curling into the softest smirk. He looked back over his shoulder.
“Is this wise?” Enjolras asked. It was exposing themselves unnecessarily. They were already exposing themselves unnecessarily. While the target might not recognize two strangers from a cafe, he might be able to recognize a stranger from a cafe who spent the entire time staring at him. The target could have been gauging, planning, making a move to attack. After all, they knew nothing about him. In the two, three hours they’d seen him, he didn’t seem particularly volatile, but with these types, the most normal-seeming sometimes ended up the most fucked up.
“It’s - something. I was planning on more traditional methods of surveillance, and was trying to figure out how to get around the fact that he knows how to escape it better than anyone else.” Bugs did not work. Following cars did not work. Their target knew how to disappear. ”Did you see how they moved, earlier? I was almost unable to spot them here. I have no doubt they could escape anyone’s gaze. This could be easier, more efficient, more thorough, should you succeed, but with much, much greater personal risk in case of failure. If Grantaire takes the opportunity to get close to him, he could find out where he’ll be tonight, or get us a lead of some sort, any sort. However, I can’t guarantee what ‘getting close to him’ might involve - “
“We all know exactly what it’ll involve.”
From the other side, Combeferre cleared his throat. “Are you up for it, R?”
Grantaire wanted to laugh. Just the slightest bit. At that moment, his entire body was Combeferre’s weapon. There was only one answer to this question.
Combeferre knew this, too.
There was no need to ponder on its ethics. They would all lay their lives down for this country, for their people. Their lives were not theirs anymore.
There were filters in Grantaire’s earwig that prevented background noises from seeping into the feed. It was his work - well, his and Feuily’s - all of it was, and it did not take much tweaking for Combeferre to change the filters, to set it to allow Enjolras to receive Grantaire’s audio as well.
Enjolras was about to rise from his seat.
“Stay where you are,” Combeferre said, “It will be too conspicuous if you suddenly have full view of them. I’ve sent the feed of the CCTV to your sunglasses.”
Combeferre watched Enjolras put them on, watched as he took a sip of his drink. “Positive.”
The cafe’s subpar CCTV would not offer them much of a view, but it would at least be enough to monitor for any signs of danger. It was less likely, in such a crowded place, but Combeferre was still uncomfortable with the entire situation. He knew all the exit routes now, all the places they could hide. He watched Grantaire place the palm of his hand on the target’s table, and Combeferre wondered how many deities he could pray to in that half-second that he had made the right call.
“Excuse me,” Grantaire said, carrying an unlit cigarette in his hand. “I seem to have lost my lighter. Could I borrow yours?”
The target lifted an eyebrow, but a smirk played his lips. “Of course, but my companion seems to have... left it in the car. Sit down, perhaps, while he retrieves it?”
The man beside him frowned. He looked entirely unamused. The target only smiled, pointedly. Some conclusion seemed to have been reached in their silent stares, as after some moments, the man scowled, muttered something under his breath, stood up, and walked away. There were no cameras that would show Combeferre the man’s movements. He checked, again, once more, through the various other cameras in the surrounding area, if there were any that had even a glimpse.
Grantaire seemed to have sat down. It was his audio that he relied on, as his eyes were busy watching camera after camera come to life in several monitors around the one in the center.
“From around here?” Grantaire asked.
The target shook his head. “I’m only visiting.”
There was none, really. Combeferre did not even know which car the target’s was. Rows upon rows of cars, but none of which his companion seemed to have approached.
“Oh? For how long?”
“Just tonight, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Business or pleasure?”
“A little bit of both,” he said. “Native?”
“No, but I… explore,” Grantaire said. “Is it your first time?”
“No,” the target said, and now Combeferre had returned his eyes to them, and wondered if in all that time the target had removed his gaze from Grantaire once. “But I never venture far away from cafes and conference rooms, really. So it’s mostly been boring, so far.”
“We could show you around, perhaps.”
“Ah, I’d love that, but…” he started, seeming to consider this. “We have somewhere boring and important to be tonight. Maybe you could join us, instead. Make it more interesting.”
Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Tell me more about it."
He smirked. He brought his phone out, but faced away from the camera, Combeferre couldn’t see its contents. “It’s nearby, but I’m not sure about the exact location. Give me a moment,” he said, and spent some moments on typing something into the phone. Combeferre had attempted prior to gain access into his phone, but it was well protected. He had even allowed his underlings to try, out of desperation, even though he knew fairly well that what he could not do, well - they certainly wouldn’t be able to. It was not a point of arrogance, just the truth. The target put it on the table, and slid it towards Grantaire. “It’s at this place...” he said, as the other man returned and reclaimed his seat. He handed the target the lighter, and placed an envelope on the table. “What was it?
“Grantaire,” he said, as he put the phone down and pushed it back towards him. He placed the cigarette in between his lips.
The target smirked, using his teeth to pull a glove off by the fingertip. He flicked open the zippo’s top. “Grantaire,” he repeated, leaning close, striking the roller. He sheltered the flame, holding Grantaire’s gaze as he lit his cigarette. “Do you like disabled children?”
Grantaire quirked an eyebrow upwards, exhaling smoke through his nose. It dissipated into the air. He smirked. “A little bit too much for me.”
The target returned this smirk. “Ah?” He put the lighter away, taking the cream cardstock envelope his companion had placed on the table. “What about art?”
“I like art,” Grantaire said, his gaze steady on the man. By this point, Combeferre had already produced a list of events nearby, and with this information managed to narrow it down to one. A real event, and a grand event it was.
The target handed Grantaire an envelope. “It’s a charity auction,” he said. “Artworks donated by the biggest names in Europe. Strictly by invitation only. It’s exactly as boring as it sounds. But there’s free alcohol, and then after, you could... show me around?”
He ashed the cigarette. Seamlessly, his gaze shifted from the target to the envelope. “And my… companion?”
“There are two invitations in there.”
Grantaire took the envelope. A lazy grin swept across his face. “Thanks for the light.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“You never told me your name, you know.”
“Be there tonight. You'll find out.”
Minutes later, in his own seat, in the middle of a heated discussion of ladders and stepladders, they were interrupted by the rustle of two men getting up. The target and his companion rose from their seats. The former passed by their table with a wink, before disappearing into a car
When the car was well away, Grantaire grinned at Enjolras. “I’m amazing.”
“Congratulations,” he said, taking the invitations out of the envelopes. “What do you think they’re doing there, then?”
Grantaire shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”
Enjolras snorted. He retrieved a tiny device from his coat pocket. He flipped a switch, and then placed it onto the table. Grantaire picked up the device and brought it close to him, running it from head to toe - a sweep for any transmitting object, the results sent straight to Combeferre for analysis.
Moments later, he replied:
“Nothing that isn’t from me.”
“Good.” Enjolras said. “Next move?”
“Originally, it was to continue following him. Instead, we’re calling you back for rebriefing and re-outfitting. I’ve confirmed the event as legitimate and having months of prior history; it’s unlikely to be a trap. I’ll update Monsieur Madeleine and finalize a plan of action with Cosette.”
“Affirmative,” Enjolras said. “We’ll be there in half an hour.”
In elegant but simple typeface was a name: the Corinth. Underneath it were stone stairs that led into the ground, to a heavy set of wooden doors. Grantaire stepped through the doorway, and held it open for Enjolras. They walked into the dimly lit, poshly decorated basement, all dark browns and blacks and reds, mismatched velvets and woods and cushions; large, color-splattered paintings, gaudy sculptures, odd books and accessories, loosely wrapped in fairy lights, coming together in a way that was almost cohesive, in a way that, if one were to squint, might be called bohemian.
The identifying piece of the Corinth was the walls of wine. Shelves, racks, casks - odd holders and tables, all stuffed endlessly with bottles and bottles of wines - reds, whites, pinks, even odd exotic fruit wines, tossed and stacked together. It was, for reasons unsaid, Grantaire’s favorite place in the world.
The Corinth was not a particularly special winery. It disappeared among every other just in their arrondissement, and among every other in Paris, and in all of France. Yet it was special, too, in its own way.
A short woman in an apron approached them. She was plain, with slightly more delicate features, and looked and smelled just like the Corinth, like wood and wine. Dark brown ringlets of hair fell over her shoulders and face, an amiable but insincere sort of smile completing her get up. “Messieurs,” she greeted, tilting her head back in sharp familiarity. “Her room is ready for you.”
“Thank you,” Enjolras said.
The woman nodded. With her ever-present wine list clutched to her chest, she led them further into the basement, past the scattered tables and makeshift bar, past a wide mirror that went from the ceiling to the floor.
Enjolras paused, glanced at the mirror, and then to the woman. “Moscato d’Asti. Cascinetta Vietti, if you’ve not run out yet. And a perrier.”
“Very good, monsieur. Something to eat?”
“That will suffice.”
A nod, her notes placed back into her pocket. She led them to the door with the nameplate that said ‘le Chambre de Marie.’
“Your wine will arrive promptly,” she said, and opened the door.
This room was a constant in his life, but it was not really a place that registered to him as real. The room was all blacks and whites, modern and sleek, cold had it not been for a recently lit mantel that kindled a small fire. The lights were bright, especially for an enclosed square that could not fit very many people comfortably. As with the outside, the room housed all sorts of kitschy accessories, including a chunky old telephone. However, its appeal was not solely in its odd aesthetic. Mary’s Room, as it was called, housed a certain few features that charmed the people for whom it was something to be sought. The simplest of which was a window, behind thick black curtains, that saw back into the basement, the innocuous seeming mirror they had passed by earlier. Another was the thick walling that kept all secrets inside, and the boltable door that helped do so. Finally, the telephone contained a signal jammer, and at the press of a button one could ascertain that nothing transmitted out of the room. While the Corinth’s wines and food were something to be reckoned with, this was its true essence.
Grantaire sunk into the black leather seat, leaning back and looking at Enjolras. “I’m suddenly regretting this.”
Enjolras quirked an eyebrow upwards. “That’s generally what happens when you do things without thinking them through.”
He grinned. “Because you’ve never done the same.”
“I’ve never been proud of it.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” Grantaire said.
The door opened. The woman from earlier entered with a little wheeled cart. On top were two bottles and two glasses. In silence, they were placed on the table. Simultaneous thank yous came from the two men, and when the woman left, Enjolras closed the door, and bolted it shut.
Grantaire reached forward and grimaced at his bottle of water. He twisted open the cap and took a quick swig.
Meanwhile, Enjolras pressed his palm against the window. For some seconds, nothing seemed to happen. And then Grantaire pushed his finger through one of the dialling holes of the telephone, and seemed to dial a few numbers. In some moments, the flame in the fireplace went out. The mantel and a portion of the wall behind it sunk into the ground, and appeared in front of them a button, with an arrow pointing downwards, placed on a slab of shining metal.
Enjolras pressed it. The metal doors slid open. Grantaire sighed, stood up, and took the bottle of wine with him as he entered the elevator.
The doors slid shut in front of them, and the metal box descended.
A smooth, but distinctly artificial voice boomed around them: “Good afternoon, agents Enjolras and Grantaire. Your mission, should you choose to accept it - “
“PATRIA,” Enjolras called. “Halt script. Grantaire, have you been messing with the defense AI again?”
“Why do you always blame me?”
“Because I’m always right,” Enjolras said.
“No comment. God, at least let it reach the ‘this message will self-destruct in forty-five seconds’ part.”
“Don’t mess with our defense. What if we were actually in danger?”
“It would’ve been able to tell. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
“PATRIA, disable Grantaire’s authority access for twenty-four hours.”
“I’m sorry, that action requires level three access,” replied the voice.
“Now that’s dangerous. What if I needed to defend myself, and I couldn’t because it won’t recognize my authority?” Before Enjolras could reply, the elevator came to a halt. Grantaire smirked, and handed the bottle to Enjolras. “Hold this, yes?”
The elevator door opened. He took a step -
A hand gripped his wrist. Even though he had anticipated this, there was no time to think, and he pulled his attacker down, hard, and went for a hit to the ribs, but he had dodged, had grabbed him and flipped him. This, of course, made Grantaire grin as he landed on his feet.
“You would’ve been here with other people.” Enjolras said, uninterested in their rabble.
“Injured, my ass.” Grantaire said, hand darting forward to grab at Bahorel’s exposed arm. His hand was intercepted, and his other hand was used to throw a punch.
Something popped in the background, followed by a gushing sound.
In a real fight - well. A real fight would have been much shorter. Punches were not the most practical, but they had fantastic looking-cool factor.
“In a real fight!” Bahorel yelled, seeming to address the little bunny of a person in the corner. “What would happen?”
“He’d - er, he would break his fingers?” Marius asked.
Grantaire smirked. Their little new trainee was learning after all. It was time to move into something more practical, then - something they would actually use. Still not as preferred as something more straight to the point, knee-to-the-groin sort of fighting, but was useful in its own way.
“Unfortunately, Grantaire’s always had a habit of choosing coolness over practicality.” Joly said, taking a step beside Marius, sipping from a wine glass.
“What’s the point of life without theatricalities?” Grantaire grinned, using his forearms to free himself from Bahorel’s grip.
“Actually staying alive?” Enjolras suggested.
“Sounds boring.” Bahorel said, as he went in to try to jab at Grantaire’s ribs.
Grantaire stepped back to the left, dodging Bahorel’s hand. His hands moved quickly, and Grantaire could find very little opportunity to attack. So, backwards and backwards he went, until his back was pressed against a metal wall, and his defense was to move down. As he did, he realized there was a long metal pipe there, which was odd, but he grabbed it anyway, using it to parry Bahorel away, who grinned as he leaped for the second metal pipe, and that was one too many odd things happening.
Bahorel lunged towards him, but Grantaire dropped the pipe and pulled out his gun, pointing it square at his opponent’s chest.
For too long a moment, there was silence.
Bahorel smirked, and dropped his pipe, raising his hands in the air.
He grinned. “Ah, Pontmercy! In a real fight, at this distance, the man with the gun wins.”
“Back to work, now!” Joly said, walking over to Grantaire. The sound of scribbling hit the air, and Grantaire wanted to roll his eyes because the kid was taking notes. “Combeferre’s pissed.”
“You put us all at risk.”
Grantaire knew this.
Combeferre was angry. It was not obvious, most of the time not obvious even to those who knew him best. But they could see. Grantaire could see. “The guards had spotted you. The contact could have informed him already.”
That was probably not the first assumption the guards would fly towards. There were things that even Combeferre did not know yet. “Yes, they could have.”
There was silence, and Grantaire swore he actually saw Combeferre’s jaw tighten, just the slightest bit. “Grantaire, this is, from this point onwards, your mission.” Combeferre said. The previously blank wall lit up with color. “Enjolras has been assigned your partner, but as always, you may choose to switch unquestioned. We’re escalating this mission to priority two and allocating you one other agent of your choice, as well.”
Grantaire glanced at the screen, and then looked away in disinterest. “I’ll keep Apollo. I enjoy the eye candy. What toys do we get?”
“Feuilly will brief you on those today.” Combeferre said, flipping through the pile of papers on his clipboard. “Not very much, though.”
“Are we using the Aventador SV?”
“The one that exists in your head?”
Grantaire grinned. “I know what I saw.”
“I’m sure you do.” Combeferre said. “You can use the Clio.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not really.”
“Those aren’t very conducive for chases, you know.”
“We’re not expecting to chase anyone tonight.”
“Always be prepared, the boy scouts say. The RCZ, then?”
“That’s Courfeyrac’s personal car.”
“Why don’t I get a fancy schmancy sports car all for myself?”
“You can when become a hotshot avocat.”
“I will. You just watch,” he said. “Meanwhile. Can’t we get nicer cars?”
“Because sports cars blend right in and are incredibly conducive to espionage.”
Grantaire pouted. “Because a Clio will blend right in where we’re going tonight.”
Combeferre pursed his lips.
“I’m taking that as ‘fair point, Grantaire, but I enjoy making your life difficult because seeing you beg turns me on.’”
Combeferre paused. And then he tilted his head. “Go ahead, then.”
He grinned and opened his mouth to speak, when something shiny flew in his direction. Without even thinking about it, he caught the key ring, and grinned at the direction it had come from. “This should suffice. Thank you, bless you, you’re the best.”
Enjolras pursed his lips into a thin line. “You’re welcome. Don’t damage it.”
“What a - turn of events.” Combeferre said. “Anyway, the third agent wasn’t a suggestion, R. This is more than potentially dangerous. You need to choose someone.”
“Eponine,” Grantaire said. “I want Eponine there.”
Combeferre lifted an eyebrow, the expression on his face not shifting. Despite this slightest crack in this facade, there was not even a beat before he said his next words. “I’ll relieve her from her current position. She’ll be briefed and ready for dispatch in twenty minutes.”
He nodded, and stood up. “Cool. That’s all?”
“Mhm,” he hummed. “Ah, yes. As always. Grantaire? I implore you not to do anything too stupid.”
“Like what?” he asked, a bright grin on his face.
“I’m not giving you any ideas.”
The venue was secluded, atop a hill. A wonder of postmodern architecture - bright white and all angles. Its most prominent feature, its grand lobby, was a four-story tall high-ceiling hall, entirely rectangular, stark white, with a view of the outside in floor to ceiling windows. As they approached, they could see the elegant mess of bespoke suits and designer dresses, shoes that cost more than tertiary education.
Eponine stayed in the car, with an entire arsenal of gadgetry and weapons. The man at the door glanced at their invitations with barely concealed interest, but let them in without objection, in fact rushing to do so. Inside was brightly lit, soft instrumental playing from an orchestra in the corner. Artworks of all kinds and sizes displayed in a manner that seemed to make sense in a messy way, splayed across the spacious hall - it was quite possible that they were displayed ordinarily, and it was the nature of the artwork itself that made it so confusing. Uniformed waiters carried trays of food and fluted glasses, although there was, as well, a minibar in another corner, where Grantaire could see in ivory and gold his target, talking, quite casually, to a man in more orthodox attire. His target was bright and blinding among the blacks and greys and odd splashes of colored fabric. Even in his choice of drink, he refused to blend in. Almost everyone else carried crystal, but in his hand was a copper mug.
“He drinks like a basic white girl,” Grantaire whispered, jostling Enjolras, as though scandalized, which doubly served the purpose of distracting from the hand attaching the bug to the bit of exposed metal.
“That’s the first negative thing you’ve said about him.”
“That’s because he’s perfect in every way. Except that.” Much like Enjolras. Minus the fact that Grantaire had still not found the ‘except that’.
Enjolras did not look particularly amused. “When have you ever been judgmental about someone’s pursuit to get smashed?”
“All the best movie spies are horribly elitist when it comes to liquor. I thought it appropriate. Ah, bartender, get me the 80 year old Macallan, I have taxpayer money to waste tonight.”
“We don’t run on taxpayer money.” Enjolras said. “Also, no alcohol.”
To his surprise, Grantaire didn’t roll his eyes. He only kept his eye on the target, unfocusing from Enjolras. “No alcohol,” he agreed. “Anyway, we’re already subversive. Moscato’s basically like drinking soda. It’s the opposite of discerning taste.”
This time, he did roll his eyes. “He looks busy. Let’s look around.”
It wasn’t looking to be a particularly special night. Not in terms of espionage, at least. There was the usual checklist - updating their awareness of the venue, checking the cameras and their ranges, the layout of the venue, the rooms, or at least those that they could access; assessing security; mingling with the crowd; trying to intercept communication lines; and other such typical things.
The usual way to go about it would have been to split up, cover more ground. Instead they stuck together and gawped at artwork like unappreciative children. They seemed to agree on nothing, although after the third one, Enjolras suspected it was less clashing tastes and more Grantaire trying to rile him up.
Not that it mattered. He didn’t particularly appreciate art. He understood its essence, even its function, but there was something about it, or perhaps just these ones, that escaped him. Mostly he saw them as status symbols, luxuries that were priced artificially, pawns in a pointless game of who has more money to waste than who. Sure, they evoked emotion, but were they really worth what they were? Even though there were people willing to pay for them, and these ones, particularly, went to a good cause, there was something inherently elitist about them.
In this room, they didn’t seem all too impressive, outshadowed by each other. Many of the people looking around, making comments that only they understood, were names and faces that Enjolras recognized. Forbes-ranked businessmen, politicians, heirs and heiresses, socialites of all sorts, old and new rich both. Of course, there were many more that he didn’t recognize, but that tended to be most of the world. In general, that seemed to fare well as a breakdown of the composition of the evening’s guests.
Sauntering towards them, as Grantaire stuck his tongue at a particularly tepid painting, was their target, blazered in gold. He stepped closer to Grantaire, much too close, and responded to Grantaire’s last comment. Enjolras didn’t hear, nor did he care to. He stepped away.
He turned around. Something in the air shifted. He stilled.
A crackle. “Yes. They’re watching Grantaire. Try to move, I’ll see if they’re surveilling you as well.”
Enjolras did as told, wandering over to another painting. He gave it a disinterested glance, heading instead to the direction of the hallway.
“Positive.”
Enjolras bent down to retie his shoelaces. An old code, dating back to the Cold War, but one that ought to be effective still. He continued towards the hall. A man blocked his way.
“This section is off-limits, monsieur. The auction should start soon.”
Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “What’s beyond this hallway?”
The man only smiled. “The auction should start soon.”
Without a further word, Enjolras nodded. He returned the smile, and promptly walked away. He coughed.
“Ah, yes. Give me a moment.”
Enjolras looked over his shoulder. The target was still standing much too close to Grantaire. Which really shouldn’t bother him as much as it did.
“You seem vaguely irritated.”
“Carry on with it, ‘Ferre.”
“Other rooms, it seems. Nothing much out of the ordinary for a house, except, in one room, a painting. Very heavily guarded. There are people there. Three, they seem to be very much interested. No audio at the moment, but there’s a window. Eponine is currently setting up a laser microphone.”
Enjolras pursed his lips in thought. A sculpture was in front of him, that he seemed to have unwittingly been staring at. Coolly, he stepped away. A waiter passed by him carrying a tray of drinks, and Enjolras took one.
“A drink, then, perhaps?”
Grantaire grinned. “I’d love to, but I’m not allowed.”
“No?”
He shook his head. He looked over his shoulder, as though searching for someone. Enjolras wasn’t there, of course. “Terms of our continued friendship, if you will.”
“I’d call it a fickle friendship, but I know nothing about it.”
“I appreciate it,” Grantaire said. “A water, maybe?”
“In a champagne flute?”
“Perfect,” he said, and they walked towards the minibar. “I just remembered, I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
“An old, lost painting, of some sort, that - “
“I literally have no idea what’s happening here, so forgive me if this is very obvious, but I keep hearing talk about…” He gestured vaguely. “A painting.”
“Ah,” he said. He took a moment, regarding Grantaire for a moment, putting a hand on his forearm to mark his pause, as well as to pull Grantaire closer, moving to order from the man in the bar. After some seconds, he looked back to him. “You can see for yourself. You’ll understand immediately.”
Grantaire raised a curious eyebrow. “I’d love to see.”
“And your friend, as well, he can come with us.”
“Too risky,” said the voice in his ear. This didn’t even need to be said. Away from prying eyes, into their target’s territory. It was much too dangerous.
Grantaire merely let out a sound of amusement. “I don’t think he’d be interested. He doesn’t think too highly of these things, I’m afraid.”
“We could ask, still?”
He smirked. He looked around, this time his search for Enjolras legitimate. Enjolras fit in so perfectly with this crowd, that if Grantaire did know this mess of blond curls on top of this head so well, he might not have noticed. He had refused to let them brush it back for formality. Despite that, despite his objections, he seemed at ease in this crowd, as though he’d been training for it his entire life. Which, he had, Grantaire knew, even if Enjolras did not know that Grantaire knew.
“If you insist.” Grantaire said, and waited for him to receive his drink, before leading him back towards Enjolras.
Of course Enjolras had rejected the offer, making some polite excuse or the other.
His gaze lingered, for a moment so, as Grantaire and the target left.
There was not much groundwork left to do, and so Enjolras had nothing to do as well. “Keep me updated.”
“Are you certain you want all of the details?”
“Spare me the details of the flirting. I get enough of that.”
Enjolras swore he could hear the smirk through the microphone. “The painting, whatever it is, is definitely illegal. The rest of the auction is legal, and while the works have their value - none seem as priceless as this. The auction itself is odd, despite its legitimacy. Media blackout, but the results and in-house photography will be released to the press. Grantaire and the target will be in the room soon. They’ll be out of view. Would you like a direct feed, or a recap?”
“Direct feed.”
Grantaire stared at the painting.
His silence was revealing.
“No,” he managed to say, eventually.
“Yes,” the target said, with a soft chuckle.
Grantaire looked to him, and sighed. “Of all the stolen paintings, really.”
A stolen Rembrandt. The Storm on the fucking Sea of Galilee.
Combeferre sighed, too. His life was a joke.
“An illegal auction,” Combeferre said, over their headpieces. “Regroup. Eponine, continue to monitor the microphone.”
It wasn’t too long before Grantaire found Enjolras.
“How many millions do you have with you right now?” he asked, with a bright grin.
Enjolras pressed his lips into a thin line, lifting an eyebrow towards the flute glass.
“Water,” Grantaire said, with a little look. He smirked again.
“This is beyond our reach. With the crowd, I doubt the DGSI would do anything other than look away. The target is still first priority.”
Grantaire searched Enjolras’s face for any sign of conflict. He seemed about to speak, but a voice interrupted him - one that wasn’t Combeferre’s. “Or we could just steal it ourselves!”
A bit of static, the telling sound of Bahorel being shooed away.
Enjolras was looking at him. Even after every shootout, every fight, every close call and brush with death, there was nothing quite worse than this. This. This uncertainty. This thought that sometimes he was looking back.
Even with their new assignment, the night, at least for Enjolras, had come to a lull. His feet had led him here: in front of a painting, a mess of colors and textures, morose scenery, vague human figures centered around two sad-looking men. Le Baiser, it said on the nameplate. Grantaire, previously, had called it pretty, but plain, shallow; he had scrunched his nose at its apparent lack of substance, and stepped towards the next one. Enjolras’s gaze had lingered. And hours later, without meaning to, he had ended up in front of it once more.
“It’s rather striking, don’t you find?” the target said, tucking loose strands of hair behind his ear.
Enjolras didn’t falter. He swept his gaze over the artwork, only flickering to the target for a moment, before responding. “My friend said it was, I quote, ‘utterly too respectful of the rules of composition, there was no creativity whatsoever involved in its creation,’” he said, in his best imitation of Grantaire. “Although, that’s just the kind of thing that he says.”
The man grinned. “Is that so? Interesting.”
“Do you like it?”
“Quite,” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “Your… friend’s words, whether they’re meant or spoken to be contrarian, shouldn’t stop you. It could be the opposite, it could be ugly and unique and impressively deep, but it could as easily fail to make you feel. In the end, that’s the purpose of art. To be beautiful, or to have meaning, is a side-effect.”
He had meant to reply, but when he turned to look at the man he had been speaking to, he had already walked away.
The target pressed his index finger against his lips, and with his other hand beckoned Grantaire towards him. Without waiting for a reply, he turned around.
Grantaire made no sign that he saw. Not in expression or in word, but nonetheless weaved through the crowd, his sight steady on the sauntering gold jacket. He was careful to keep his distance from him. Enough that no one would suspect them of colluding, but simultaneously enough to be able to follow him with ease. It was not too difficult, as he was hard to miss.
The crowd grew sparser, until it was only a crowd of two. They had reached a hallway, and so Grantaire allowed himself to walk closer, but still not by his side. If any of the doors were to open, or someone to appear around the corner, they would simply see two men heading in the same direction.
“Grantaire, I can’t spot you.”
Combeferre could not spot him. Neither could he track his heartbeat, his vitals. His location on his phone would not be specific enough, and phones could be left behind. He supposed he could not blame Combeferre for not yet having a crisis to have experienced to know this. Besides, their bodies were not completely his yet. Freedom was a liability, he had likely yet to discover.
Still. He ought to remember the I’m-alive-but-speaking-will-change-that protocol soon enough.
“Grantaire?”
They were on a roofdeck.
The target propped his chin up with his palm, his elbow flat on the surface of the balcony railing. He looked into the distance.
Grantaire walked up to him. Curiously, he followed his gaze. From their vantage point, a mansion on a hill, in the distance one could see only dark woods and empty roads, a twinkling city against the blackness of a vast starless sky. Finding nothing, he looked back to the man. The target. Moonlight tempered the sharp angles of the bones of his face, but still he was cheekbones and jaw and nose, punctuated by soft, full lips and glossy eyes. The man was beautiful in the same way that the sun was, that fire was, bright and blinding, and so he was beautiful in the same way that Enjolras was, and accordingly, untouchable in the very same way.
And yet, in a way that Enjolras never would, he looked back at Grantaire. He smiled. He tapped his ear once, and made a flicking motion towards the nothingness at which he had been gazing.
“DCP3 - delta charlie pa -”
He coughed, pulled the earwig off, and tossed it into the sky.
"Damn it, damn it, damn - do you have eyes on Grantaire?”
“No, he’s not here. Should I look for him?”
“... no. No. Continue with your orders. But if you see him, alert me.”
Enjolras stood up. He looked around, trying to see through the crowd of perhaps not unimportant, but quite irrelevant people. He walked through the room once. When he was sure that Grantaire wasn’t there, he took another round, and confirmed the feeling in his gut. “The target. Where is he?”
“Where he was earlier. North east, by the bar.”
“He’s not.” Enjolras said. “Where is he, ‘Ferre?”
“He’s right in view of the CCTV. Where are you?”
“North east, by the bar.”
“Ah, putain.”
“I’m not there, am I?”
“No.” Combeferre said.
Enjolras looked around. “Tell me what you see.”
“What do you mean?”
Enjolras took a seat by the bar. He glanced at the bartender, who seemed in a rut taking and making drinks. Several empty and half-empty glasses sat on the counter. Among them was a telltale copper mug. “The target didn’t leave too long ago. Do me a favor? Describe exactly what you see. Every detail. Every person.”
There was a moment’s pause. “The target, situated near the middle. He’s drinking.” That spot was currently unoccupied, lying in front of the copper mug. “On his left was the man who was with him earlier in the cafe. He’s occupied with his smartphone. On his right is a long, thin, pale man. He’s looking around. The bartender is mixing a drink in front of them.”
Enjolras frowned. “That’s strange.”
“What is?”
“That’s exactly what they’re doing.”
“Exactly?” Combeferre asked, the same tinge of suspicion in his voice.
Enjolras frowned, but before he could reply, a man, hair slicked back, tired but uncomplaining, in the clothes of a bartender, moved towards him. “And for you, monsieur?”
He blinked. “A Moscow Mule, please.”
Without reply, the bartender left to make his drink.
“Hello,” the man said. “I apologize for all the precautions. What, with all the secret spies and all, these days - I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me?”
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “These secret spies of yours, what do they look like?”
“Please do,” he said. He paused, and seemed to consider this. “Tall. Muscular, I think. Very beautiful. Eyes that make you swoon.”
“Sounds terrifying. I’ll be on the lookout.”
The man grinned.
And then there was silence, but it was the comfortable kind, as though they were taking the moment to regard each other. It was not at all the blatant eyefucking that had occurred earlier on, but something warmer, more intimate, something up close. Not I-want-you-writhing-underneath-me, but - something else.
Earlier in the day, in the cafe, the man had made a show of pointing out directions on his phone. They hadn’t been directions.. Where Grantaire had expected a map, there had been words: ‘is this the part where I pretend not to know you’re a secret agent, and you pretend not to know I’m pretending not to know you’re a secret agent, and we have a conversation comprising entirely subtle hints and innuendos?’
It was a shame. That had always been his favorite part.
“Les Amis de l’ABC,” the target said, breaking the silence.
Grantaire shrugged. “Patron-Minette.”
“How many people do you have ready to fire at the first sign of trouble?”
“None, actually. Unless you count my partner and our driver.”
“Your partner?”
Grantaire smirked.
The target returned this smirk. After a moment, he nodded. “None at all?”
“My side knows nothing.”
He looked surprised. “What are we doing, exactly?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” Grantaire said.
“Yet you’re still here.”
A small, one-shouldered shrug.
“I see,” he said, his gaze seeming to settle on Grantaire’s lips. “There are currently thirty-three personnel in this building whose sole purpose in life is to make sure things go my way.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I thought I would need them.” the target said. “I wouldn’t say you’ve earned yourselves a reputation, in fact, it was quite the opposite, it proved immensely difficult to get anything at all about you - however, I expected… from what I did hear, you see.”
“They’re not wrong.” Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow. He looked up, tore his gaze away from the target’s lips. Had Combeferre been listening, he might have wondered who it was, exactly, that had given away this information. Grantaire already knew. “But what did you expect we would do?”
“Attempt to stop my nefarious plans, I suppose?”
“Which are?” Grantaire asked, a curious, if slightly teasing smirk.
The target smirked back. “I don’t actually have any.”
“Me neither,” he admitted.
“I’ll call them off, then.” he said.
“No need,” Grantaire said. “It’s fine, if you like having them around.”
“All right. I don’t quite know what to do now. This is quite an interesting game. Your move.”
“I don’t know, either. I’ve no idea what to do when my handler isn’t here to micromanage,” he said, with an air of amusement. “Anyway, I’m not part of the game.”
“Yet you’re in the middle of the battlefield.”
Grantaire’s lips carefully curled into a smirk.
“Where do your loyalties lie?”
"Where do yours?"
"To myself."
No. It wasn't even that, not for Grantaire. He took the same pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There was nothing special about these cigarettes. They were not tools of the trade. He took one, and offered the pack to the target, who did not even glance at it. “You don’t smoke?”
“It makes me sick.”
Grantaire nodded. “Fair,” he said, and put the pack away.
The man did not bring his lighter out, but took the cigarette from Grantaire’s hand, throwing it like the had the earwig. "Where do your loyalties lie? What do you believe in?"
“Describe the man on his right again.”
“Long. I don’t know - tall, thin, exaggerated by his pinstripe suit.”
“Ah,” Enjolras said. “Merde.”
As Combeferre continued to describe what he saw, when the scenes pictures had been identical to the clothes on their backs, with minor discrepancies in the form of entire persons, the sinking feeling had exhausted all there was to creep into, had settled into his core.
“Facial recognition?”
“Nothing. I can’t get anything on these people. They don’t exist. I’m comparing against every database I can think of. Internal databases, public databases, DGSE, CIA, GRU, BND, Mossad; MSS, RAW, and ISI databases, even, The only major one I haven’t is MI6, and only because it’s nigh impossible, and there are most likely redundancies elsewhere, anyway. They’re very good.”
“What now?”
A thin copper mug was set in front of him, identical to the one some meters away. Enjolras took a tissue, took to wipe the rim, and gripped the handle with caution. He brought it to his lips for a sip, and grimaced. It wasn’t bad, but...
It felt wrong, somehow.
“Tell me when you see me.”
He stood up and walked away from the bar. It unsettled him somewhat to carry a shining copper mug in the midst of elegant glassware. He supposed he wasn’t ostentatious enough to carry the sore thumb look very well.
“I can see you now.”
“Can anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.”
Enjolras dumped most of the drink into a potted plant.
“Grantaire would cry if he saw.”
“If only he were here to,” Enjolras said, walking back to the bar. He took the unoccupied seat between the two men. The mug, thankfully, was still there. It had a little bit more than the amount that remained in Enjolras’s cup, but it wasn’t enough to be significantly obvious.
“It seems, then,” he said, with no respect for the distance that had once been in between them, “that we’re playing the same game.”
“Sous,” the man on the left said.
“Mm,” he responded, before blinking, and looking at the man who had sat next to them. “Oh. That seat’s taken.”
“Oh,” Enjolras said. He gave them a look of mild annoyance, casually picking up the wrong mug.
“No prints. He’s wearing gloves. We might manage to get some saliva, though. Hm. Do you think I’ve just gone and given them the same information?”
“Perhaps, if they realize. Enjolras, they’re still not here.”
“Maybe he took Grantaire for a bit of,” Enjolras said, pausing, “fun.”
“I would have heard. Grantaire was fine one moment, and then silent and nowhere to be seen the next.”
“What does that indicate? Kidnapping? Chloroform to the mouth?”
“No, he… the deep cover protocol. He responded. And then he removed his earwig.”
Enjolras sighed, exiting to the hallway. When he was sure that no one was there, he allowed himself to speak. “Grantaire can be very… creative in his methods, sometimes.”
“Scarily so.” Combeferre agreed. “In fact, all of this sounds like something he’d come up with. It would have taken quite a bit of orchestration, wouldn’t you say?”
Enjolras stepped through the doorway leading to the parking lot. “Definitely. It was a trap, it seems.”
“For people like us.”
“All the people who weren’t in the camera…?”
“No, likely not. There are still a nice number of honest-to-god philanthropists, I’d say.”
“Honest-to-god philanthropists. You should introduce me sometime,” Enjolras said. There Eponine waited, and to her he gave the glinting copper mug.
A lie. Or two, or three, or twenty.
Tick.
A painting. A boat rolling through a raging sea.
Another painting. Two figures. A kiss. Or almost one, at least.
Tock.
Grantaire was an idiot. Enjolras had told him many times.
This time, he knew he was right.
Ticking
Ticking.
Ticking.
Burning.
The heat was rising.
The night was coming to its climax.
The auction - the one everyone in the room had actually been waiting for, the only one that mattered, was about to start soon.
So with all this excitement, it was natural that the heat would rise, right?
Except it rose. And it rose, and it did not stop rising.
And before Combeferre could alert his agents -
An alarm was ringing. All conversation stopped at the deafening blare, heads turning to see how everyone else was reacting, as if waiting for someone to declare it a mistake, a drill, a sick joke, part of the music, part of some elaborate performance art. It was a natural reaction, he knew - not everyone else had to be as used to reacting to disaster as quickly as he was, but still, he swore under his breath.
“Fire!” someone somewhere finally shouted, which catalyzed the flurry of voices that broke the gaining tension, harmonizing seamlessly with the already deafening amount of noise.
A man rushed down the stairs, looking around, and did not pause even when he caught Enjolras’s gaze. He pushed through the crowd and rushed towards him. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Get everybody out,” he said.
“There’s a fire?”
“I lit the fire.” Grantaire focusedly flipped through his phone. “The room is in flames. I need people out to evacuate, not in to try to put it out. It was a trap. There’s a bomb that’s going to go boom in fifteen and a half minutes, but no one can know. Can you get everyone out before then?”
“Staff, nearby buildings - “
“Staff, too, but it’s not strong enough to go past this building. Start now. Or don’t, it’s your life,” Grantaire said, turning around and rushing away.
“Grantaire!”
“What?” He asked, turning around in irritation. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Don’t try to defuse it. Let’s go, now.”
Without a smirk, without a grin, with nothing else but cold, distant focus, he ran.
“Get back here! God - fuck - ” Enjolras sighed, and pressed his lips into a thin line. “Combeferre. Confirm.”
A pause. One moment too many. “Confirmed. Go, now.”
Enjolras glanced at his watch. Smoke poured into the room, the gentle roar of fire blazing in the near distance. Most people shot straight for the door, but a stubborn few headed the opposite direction. His gaze zig-zagged calculatedly across the room, trying to take in everything. Glass walls. Wide doors, wide enough for the crowd. Another entrance to the side, but bolted and blocked by flowers and a buffet table. His initial panic frozen deep within the icy focus, and without time to really think about it, Enjolras drew his gun and shot at the glass wall. It only dented, but the sound of gunshot seemed to have incited the panic he searched for, and he shot one, two more times. Met with fire and smoke and threatening shots, the people rushing further inside pushed outwards, except for a stubborn one or two.
“Putain,” he swore, rushing in their wake. “Eponine, how is it looking outside?”
“Messy. Too many cars trying to get out all at once. Too many people trying to get into their cars.”
“Is there anything you can do to expedite the process?”
“If there were, I’d be doing it already. They’re taking their damn good time.”
Enjolras swore, quietly, under his breath. “Are there any people in the other rooms?”
“Yes - “
Enjolras had helped all that he could. Smoke filled the rooms and Combeferre saw no more stragglers. He could only wait, outside, with Eponine.
Fifteen minutes was not enough time. And yet Grantaire was still not there.
What could they do but wait?
“It can’t be defused,” Grantaire said, rushing out, clothes scorched, dirtied with soot, drenched in sweat. He reached forward and picked the earwig from Enjolras’s ear, putting it in his own. “Combeferre.”
“Get away from the scene.”
“Check through the cameras, if there’s still someone there.”
“Most of the cameras are obscured in smoke or down from the heat - ah, merde. There’s someone passed out in one of the backrooms. Fourth from the left.”
“There’s not enough time,” Enjolras growled.
“There’s still a minute. Almost two!” Grantaire said, as he ran, wrapping Eponine’s scarf around his mouth.
“Grantaire!” Enjolras screamed at the wind, at the door slamming shut.
Enjolras readied himself to run -
Eponine locked him in place. “We can’t lose you both.”
“We’re not going to lo--”
The building exploded.
Enjolras stared.
Because of course the countdown wasn’t honest because of course he should have done everything in his power to stop Grantaire from doing something so stupid because -
Eponine recovered from the throw of the explosion. She pulled him towards the car -
He resisted, he tried to pull towards the door -
Eponine was trained, too. And this was not her first time. She held him in place.
“He could still be - “ he continued to struggle.
“There is no way - “
“It’s Grantaire - !”
Click. Click. Click.
Screen after screen, Combeferre saw nothing but fresh static snow.
He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
She drove them away.
Grantaire walked out from where the explosion had been, unscathed. In one hand was a rolled up piece of canvas. In another, he was fumbling with his phone. He took a tiny black card from inside, and slipped it into his trouser pocket.
“Grantaire,” the man, who he supposed was no longer his target, greeted.
“That’s me,” he said, forcing out a little cough. There was dust everywhere, including what seemed like his lungs. He shrugged his dirty jacket off, and threw it into the still flaming building, along with his phone.
“Cigarette?” the man offered.
He took it, and handed the canvas to the man.
He smirked. He unrolled it, looked at it, and looked pleased enough.
“Horrible,” Grantaire said, scrunching his features.
“Quite,” he agreed, sounding amused. “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” Grantaire said. “Yeah. I suppose. You?”
“I am. I was worried, for a moment there,” he said, rolling the canvas once more.
He smirked, putting the cigarette in between his lips. Silently, he made a lighting motion with his thumb, throwing a questioning look at the man-who-was-no-longer-his-target, who produced a lighter from his pocket, and lit Grantaire’s cigarette.
“You know, you promised me something.” said Grantaire.
“I did?”
“Your name,” he said, and inhaled smoke.
The man knocked his fingers against Grantaire’s, who readily gave him the cigarette. He brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, and took his good time. “Montparnasse.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
They stayed like that for some moments, smoking.
“So, where to?”
Grantaire raised an eyebrow.
“You said you’d show me around,” Montparnasse said, opening his palm to Grantaire.
Grantaire smirked. He stubbed the lit end of the half-spent stick into the concrete wall behind them, and took his hand.