Chapter Text
Enjolras made it to the car and was about to drive away from the curb when he heard the passenger door open, Combeferre hurling himself into the seat, ‘Drive. Eponine is going to call the rest. She knows what to do – we will all meet were we agreed we would if this ever happened.’
Enjolras put his foot down, counting down the minutes, the seconds it would take to get to the Musain – each one felt like an eternity, pure torture. For Enjolras it was like every minute that passed was another minute off Grantaire and Jehan’s lives. They had to get there now.
Combeferre kept his eyes fixed on Enjolras, trying to gauge how clearly the blonde man was thinking – they would be no use to either man if they wrapped themselves around a lamppost before reaching the café. He could hear Enjolras muttering to himself, ‘Stupid, stupid… it’s taking too long… God fucking DAMN IT!’ he yelled at the end making Ferre jump as Enjolras banged a hand down on the steering wheel.
‘Enjolras!’ Combeferre chastised, ‘Calm down, or you’ll be no use to them. Do you have your gun?’
Enjolras’ eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say that he was an idiot and left it back at the flat. Combeferre jumped in, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare for you.’ The small grateful smile was the first real emotion that Enjolras had shown since Eponine arrived at their door and it made Combeferre feel somewhat better about his friend’s state of mind.
Finally, after an eternity they arrived at the café, Enjolras pulling up on the curb with a screech, hitting it with his front wheel. When Combeferre saw the other car pulled up in front of them, one that had clearly been here for longer than they had, he turned to Enjolras expecting to have to refocus him and cut through the panic. What he sees however is pure rage. Enjolras’ eyes are set and it’s terrifying. Combeferre opens his door at the same time Enjolras does and gets out in time to pass Enjolras a loaded gun as he runs past. Combeferre follows him in with his own gun, never far behind.
Enjolras can hear screaming – there is a fight going on in their meeting room that he can only partially see through the ajar door. There’s obviously more than one person still alive in there, yet he can see the boots of someone lying on the ground, completely still despite all. He raises his gun and throws the door open ready to shoot whatever comes at him first.
Grantaire is there, it was clearly his screams that Enjolras heard. He is on the ground, his face with a cut on his cheekbone, under his eye and a clearly broken nose. He has been beaten and is holding his damaged shoulder strangely. Next to him is a body, lying face down in a pool of blood, Grantaire’s knife lodged firmly in his back. Not Jehan then, Enjolras has time to think before the man who Grantaire was fighting advances on him again.
Grantaire looks up pitifully at the figure that burst through the door, recognition lighting up in his eyes and igniting a whole new kind of fear in the soldier, ‘Enjolras, no…’ Grantaire croaks before he is lifted up from the ground, a forearm around his neck and a gun to the side of his head.
Grantaire though can’t take his eyes from the golden man in the doorway.
He is magnificent, he thinks, like a lion, like an angel, like Death.
He is completely enraptured and hardly registers Combeferre joining Enjolras at the door, raising his own weapon.
He can see the moment that Enjolras realises who is holding him captive, and can see the way it makes him shake with rage.
‘Claquesous,’ Enjolras growls, through his clenched teeth, ‘How could you?’
He can feel Claquesous shrug in response and can imagine his grin, teeth-beared like some Cheshire cat, ‘Guess you never did see my true face until now, dear Enjolras,’ he said, calmly, as if this were no more out of the ordinary than one of the many meetings he took part in in this same room.
Enjolras is blinded by rage for a moment, calming himself to ask, ‘Where is Jehan?’
The name sends a shock through Grantaire.
I was too late, I realized too late. How could I be so stupid? I could have protected him and yet I was as useless as when I had men bleeding out on my lap in Belgium.
‘Gone. You just missed him actually. He will be getting to know some new friends. But shhh, it’s secret,’ Claquesous winks.
Enjolras tilts his head towards Combeferre, keeping his eyes locked on Claquesous, and says something in a hushed that Grantaire can’t quite catch. Combeferre turns to look at his best friend, a mixture of anger, shock and confusion on his face before nodding once and walking backwards out the door – likely to try and find Jehan somewhere.
It will be no use. We are all dead. It’s my fault. I couldn’t stop any of it.
Enjolras remains and it’s like another punch to Grantaire’s gut. Enjolras is going to die and it’s going to be because of me.
Claquesous tightens his grip on Grantaire, cutting off a little more of his oxygen, stars appearing around the corners of his vision. Enjolras takes a step forward, his eyes flicking to Grantaire with a worried look that Grantaire would have missed if he would not completely and utterly focused on the Apollo before him.
‘Careful now, Enj, you wouldn’t want me to do anything rash,’ Claquesous teases.
‘Enjolras,’ he says quietly, ‘Please, no.’ Grantaire hears and feels Claquesous laugh again.
This time the look on his golden face lasts longer, and it’s almost a look of pain and Grantaire want it to go away, wants to never ever see it again. Enjolras needs to leave right now. Grantaire can’t watch him die; can’t watch bullets pierce his chest or the light drain from his eyes.
He can’t. Enjolras needs to get out of this. Grantaire won’t let anything happen to him.
It happened in a split second; Grantaire knew that he had very little time. He spared a last look for Enjolras, drinking in the glorious sight of him in that doorway. If I am to die at least that will be the last thing I see.
He closes his eyes and sends an elbow straight back into Claquesous’s unprepared sternum. He spins himself around with his hand on Claquesous’ gun and without turning back screams, ‘ENJOLRAS, GO!’ before raising his foot, ignoring the pain and bruising in his stomach and chest and plants it straight down on Claquesous’s kneecap, hearing the sound of bone snapping as he goes down to the floor. He however doesn’t relinquish the hold on the gun, taking it down with him and tearing it out of Grantaire’s hand.
Despite his best efforts, Grantaire looks over his shoulder hoping to see Enjolras gone, hoping beyond hope to see an empty doorway. But that’s not what he sees.
Enjolras is still there, gun following Claquesous to the ground as he strides across the room. He comes to Grantaire’s side and clamps a hand around his wrist, squeezing with everything he can manage. Claquesous trains his gun on Enjolras, or at least tries to through the pain in his leg.
‘You have done a very stupid thing, Claquesous,’ Enjolras says, ‘A very stupid thing indeed.’ Some fear begins o creep into Claquesous’s expression. Enjolras takes another step forward and steps down on Claquesous’s leg, right at the point that it broke. The scream that Claquesous lets free from his body is blood-curdling, making Grantaire cringe and bringing back far too many memories, ‘Never, never, attack me through the people I lo- the people I care about. Never. Maybe tonight you vermin will get that message.’ Claquesous’s eyes go wide and he tried to raise his hands for forgiveness, or defense, Grantaire isn’t sure which. What he does see however is Enjolras lean down to place his gun against the traitor’s forehead, ‘Vive la Resistance,’ he whispers and fires.
Claquesous’s lifeless body slumps to the ground, blood spreading. Enjolras takes that in for a moment before silently turning around. The look that Grantaire sees in his eyes is no longer fire – it’s ice.
Enjolras drops his gun to the floor, and Grantaire can see his hands begin to shake, the dead look still in his eyes.
Grantaire realises that this must be Enjolras’ first time. Having never signed up to the army, Enjolras would never have had cause to kill a man before, let alone kill a man in the cruel, cold way that Grantaire just witnessed.
Grantaire lets him stand there for a moment and steps in when he sees the adrenaline run out and Enjolras’ legs go weak. He is there to catch him when he almost falls.
‘Enjolras? Enjolras, we need to go,’ he says, knowing that someone has to be coming for them, to clean up, make sure, whatever, someone will be coming and Grantaire knows that he won’t be able to take them on, not like this. ‘Enjolras,’ he says louder this time, trying to wake Enjolras up to himself again.
The golden man’s eyes are still glazed over, not registering Grantaire’s voice – not yet, anyway; not really.
Grantaire reaches for one of Enjolras’ shaking hands and clasps it in one of his own, and notices that the shaking lessens and then stops. ‘Enj? Apollo, we have to get out of here, right bloody now!’
The shouting cuts through whatever temporary wall Enjolras had put up and his head snaps to Grantaire. The hand that’s not held in Grantaire’s lifts up to the soldier’s face and ever so gently – so gently Grantaire could almost cry – traces along a cheekbones and then cradles his face, ‘Grantaire, you’re bleeding,’ Enjolras says, his voice practically a whisper, as he absent-mindedly moves his thumb soothingly on Grantaire’s panicked face.
‘I’m fine, ’ Grantaire says, allowing himself one moment to close his eyes and take in the feeling of Enjolras’s soft fingers, before reopening his eyes and remembering what he is doing, ‘But we need to get out of here, seriously, Enjolras – I’m alive, we are both alive, but we won’t be for much longer if we don’t move,’ he continues as gently as he can, removing Enjolras’ hand from his face and watching an expression come and go.
He does however see the light slowly returning to his leader. He can see Enjolras’ posture changing little bit by bit, growing back into a god. Still holding Enjolras’ hand so takes a step, coaxing Enjolras out of his position. Enjolras follows, gripping Grantaire’s hand tighter as he does.
Grantaire continues to make strides, collecting his knife from the back of the agent he killed and wiping it on the dead man’s shirt, before continuing out the room and into the main cafe. Enjolras swallows when he watches the action but lifts his eyes to Grantaire’s and galvanizes himself. Finally awake to their predicament, he takes the lead again, Grantaire all to happy to finally follow again, limping behind.
They get onto the road and see that Combeferre has taken the car that Enjolras drove here, leaving only the car that presumably carried Claquesous and the other. Grantaire reaches for the passenger door handle but almost cries out when he moves his shoulder too much. Enjolras opens the door for him and helps him into his seat, before running around the front of the car, making sure they aren’t being watched and getting into the driver’s seat, starting he car and leaving the café for the last time behind them in a screech of tyres.
Grantaire in the seat next to him is beginning to look very green, the pain setting in fast – the man has closed his eyes and is trying to breathe slowly, through Enjolras can see every time his breath hitches due to a number of likely broken ribs. Enjolras wants to reach out for him and comfort him but known he can’t – he has to focus on the road. They have to get to the others.
****
He is relieved when he reaches their emergency point that everyone is there. Everyone except Jehan. Combeferre is rubbing at his eyes, sitting down next to a sobbing Courfeyrac who has his face in his hands and his knees tucked under his chin. Eponine is holding her arms around herself, having changed her clothes, watching them - Gavroche is there too his his arms around his waist. Her face is blotchy and her eyes red. Everyone but Courfeyrac looks at up them as they get out of the car. Feuilly gasps when he sees the shape Grantaire is in, but he doesn’t let anyone fret over him as he makes a beeline for Eponine and pulls her and Gavroche into a hug. Enjolras watches him go and then joins Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sitting on Courf’s other side and putting an arm around him. Courfeyrac leans into his touch raising his head enough to put his forehead on Enjolras’s shoulder.
Enjolras allows them five minutes of this; five minutes for himself and Grantaire to breathe, then stands up and declares to the group, ‘We need to get out of Paris.’
There are a couple of noises of agreement, the others just nod.
Grantaire releases Eponine, ‘And how are we going to do that?’
Enjolras looks at him and simply says, ‘With your help. We need to contact The Lark.’
‘Why my help?’ Grantaire asks, his chest tightening a little.
‘Because you are now the only one here who knows all the radio contacts and lines,’ Enjolras replies after a moment, sparing a glance for Courfeyrac who has put his head back down on his knees.
It hits Grantaire that they have really lost Jean Prouvaire. He watched them carry him away as Claquesous and the other man came at him and was powerless to stop it. Guilt washes over him and he can only nod in reply. ‘Let’s get it done then.’
Twenty minutes later Grantaire has established a line, using the spare radios that Combeferre and Enjolras had stored for their emergency pack. Among them they have three cars, and Bossuet and Eponine start packing their things as Enjolras and Grantaire stand over the radio.
A voice says, ‘What’s the phrase?’
‘Martyrs into saints,’ Enjolras replies
‘One moment,’ and the line goes dead, only white noise remaining.
‘I take it you know who I am then,’ a woman’s voice starts, making Enjolras smile a little.
‘I do, mademoiselle, and I hope that you have hear of us also – we are Les Amis,’ Enjolras says to her. Grantaire hears a small gasp from the woman he assumes is The Lark – the woman that he read so much about during training; the woman who was going to get them out alive.
‘And why do you need my help…’ she pauses, thinking for a moment, before continuing her question, ‘I take it this would be… Enjolras?’
‘That is I.’
‘It’s a pleasure. But back to point, how can I assist?’
‘We need safe passage. Out of Paris. Tonight.’
There is silence for a minute and Grantaire starts to sweat.
Maybe it’s not possible, our notice is surely too short. She won’t be able to get us out.
However the reply does come after a bit of movement that Grantaire and Enjolras can hear on the other side of the line, ‘It can be arranged.’
‘Time and place?’ Enjolras says, the first real smile finally lighting up his face. Finally, a true victory.
The Lark tells them where to go and who to meet and Enjolras says a simple thank-you to which The Lark replies, ‘I wait for our meeting,’ cutting the line there.
With the cars packed Combeferre drives one, with Eponine holding his hand form the passenger seat, and Courfeyrac in the back; Feuilly drives another, with Gavroche next to him, watching Paris fly by out the window, already missing its familiar streets and sites; and Grantaire and Enjolras get into the back of the car driven by Bossuet, both men too exhausted by their night to drive anymore themselves.
Grantaire tries to get himself comfortable but fails miserably, no comfort to be found with so many bruises and cuts riddling his body. Enjolras looks at him worriedly, which makes Grantaire squirm even more under his gaze. He sees Enjolras try to move as far away as possible, ‘I don’t want to hurt you accidently,’ he states as his reason. Grantaire smiles weakly though realises that the gesture makes the cut on his cheek bleed again. ‘Shit,’ he says, ripping off a part of his shirt to cover the blood.
‘No, don’t use that!’ Enjolras exclaims, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief, ‘Here,’ he continues as he dabs it gently on Grantaire’s cheek until Grantaire winces, ‘Sorry,’ he says jumping back and simply passing the rag to Grantaire who gratefully accepts.
What he doesn’t say is how much he wants Enjolras to move back into his space, even for a moment. For the chance to smell his hair and feel his skin again.
Grantaire falls asleep before too long hearing Enjolras whisper before he completely dozes off, ‘When we get to The Lark the first thing we are going to do is get you checked out, I promise, R,’ as he sweeps a small piece of hair off Grantaire’s face. Grantaire then went out like a light.