Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Stop fidgeting.” Combeferre commands, using the strict authoritative voice he only uses when they’re on a mission. “You’re drawing attention to us.”

Courfeyrac teasingly bumps Combeferre’s foot with his own underneath the coffee table. “I’m playing it off as first date jitters, it’s fine.”

Combeferre blinks. “Come again?”

Courfeyrac grins, his knee still jiggling incessantly beneath him. “For our cover. If people think we’re on a date, my being nervous will arouse less suspicion. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect.” Combeferre echoes, a little less enthusiastically. Well, two can play at that game. Unfurling his hand from where it’s placed on his lap, Combeferre reaches out and covers Courfeyrac’s hand where it’s tapping out a nervous rhythm on the table. “Although the effect might be reduced slightly due to the fact that we’ve been dating for months now.”

Courfeyrac’s easy smile falters at that, and Combeferre thinks he knows why. Some people would look at them and think they make a lovely pair, but they both know that they function better as a triangle. And right now, that triangle is missing a side.

“He’ll be back.” Combeferre says confidently. “We just have to be patient.”

Courfeyrac still seems troubled. He uses his free hand to check his watch under the guise of stirring his coffee. “He’s late. Enjolras is never late.”

Combeferre hums in not-quite-agreement and they lapse into silence.

At least Courfeyrac’s first date cover is working out well, Combeferre thinks wryly- anyone looking at the two of them would simply assume they were first-time lovers experiencing a bout of rather awkward silence.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Courfeyrac whispers after some time has passed, staring down into his mug resolutely, like he can will Enjolras into being from its caffeinated depths.

Combeferre feels his chest clinch painfully at the mere suggestion of his other boyfriend not returning, but he forces himself to consider it rationally. He knows the risks of waiting too long for someone to return, but he also can’t bring himself to leave whilst not knowing Enjolras’ whereabouts .

Enjolras isn’t an expendable member of their crew by any means, and if Combeferre has to extend their reconnaissance a little over the regulation, he’ll do it.

“Fifteen minutes.” he tells Courfeyrac. They’ve already been sat in this same spot an extensive amount of time, and who knows what could be waiting for them around the corner if Enjolras really has found trouble.

(Not that Combeferre thinks anyone would be able to force information out of Enjolras so quickly, that is- just that it’s best to plan for the worst in these situations.)

Courfeyrac chews on his lip but eventually nods his head jerkily. Combeferre squeezes his hand, the barest minimum comfort he can bring himself to give.

When Combeferre’s clock informs him they’ve got three minutes of waiting time left, the door to the coffee shop suddenly swings outwards with much more force than necessary.

“Oops,” says Enjolras, when he notices the many eyes on him. “Sorry about that, ma'am, I must have tripped.” This is directed to the old lady behind the counter, Enjolras’ easy charm shining bright within his eyes and immediately putting her at ease.

Relief sweeps through Combeferre at once, and he smiles at Courfeyrac ever so slightly. Enjolras is over schedule by a long time, but whatever the reason behind his delay, Combeferre knows they’ll find out later. Right now they have a mission to complete. 

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac know what is to happen next; Enjolras will order a coffee, wait a suitable time in the cafe, and then make his way to the toilet at the back. Combeferre will follow him there after a few minutes and take the information he needs from Enjolras, after which Enjolras will go back to the secretary’s office to commence stage two.

This is not what happens.

Instead, he approaches their table. 

Enjolras is a professional as far as going undercover is concerned- his charming personality a natural predisposition for spy work- but not even he can hide an injury from Combeferre. He may have pulled it off in front of the store owner and her patrons but Combeferre can clearly see how he’s favouring his right side more than his left, can sense that Enjolras’ breathing is far too uneven for him to be in a completely unharmed state .

“He’s hurt.” Courfeyrac whispers. Combeferre nods gravely. If Enjolras is redirecting the plan mid-operation, it must be something serious.

Fortunately, both him and Courfeyrac are Good Spies and therefore they do not freak out when Enjolras gets close enough for them to be able to see the blood on his shirt.

“We need to go.” Enjolras says as soon as he’s not in danger of being overheard.

Courfeyrac nods sagely. “How long?”

How long is their established shorthand- whether it’s how long until the police come, how long until the end of the world, or how long until someone bleeds to death, is irrelevant. ‘How long’ is enough.

Enjolras inhales sharply and for the first time Combeferre can see pain in his expression.

“Twenty minutes, if we’re lucky.”

Combeferre nods, digesting the information. Twenty minutes. That will be a tight turnaround, but they’ve managed worse.

“Right,” says Combeferre, doing some quick calculations in his head. “Right, we’ll have to be quick. Can you move?” he asks Enjolras, because a lot depends on all three of them having a functioning set of legs.

“I’ll manage.” says Enjolras, which isn’t quite the affirmative response Combeferre was hoping for, but he trusts Enjolras and his judgement, so if Enjolras says he can manage, Combeferre will just have to believe that he can.

“Okay- there’s a car off Earl’s Court Station, we’ll meet there. Courfeyrac, you go Circle, I’ll go East Bound and switch, and Enjolras you’ll take the District line. Seventeen minutes, tops. No waiting.”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras nod, Enjolras waves a quick goodbye before he walks back out of the shop. Combeferre and Courfeyrac only wait a few seconds before following suit. It’s not quite the discreet exit they wanted, but time is precious- no one seems to be paying particular attention to them anyway, a huge weight off of Combeferre’s shoulders.

Enjolras’ blonde head is just visible walking down the steps to the station, so Combeferre wastes no time in walking after him. He gave Enjolras the shortest route on purpose- it should only take him ten minutes. He and Courfeyrac, however, will be more pushed for time.

Wrestling their way down the steps to the tube (there’s a reason they chose this particular cafe, after all- it’s close proximity to both the station and the secretary’s office made it ideal) Combeferre and Courfeyrac split up just before the gates- Courfeyrac going westbound and Combeferre east.

This way is less direct, and it means he’ll need to change lines again, but it’s better than all three of them travelling the same route.

The fourteen minutes it takes him to get from Westminster to Earl’s Court are perhaps the most anxiety-ridden moments of his existence. His outside appearance looks for all the world like a lost tourist trying to navigate the tube system, but inside he is fighting to remain calm.

Combeferre wouldn’t be any good at his job if he couldn’t keep his cool in stressful situations, but this is different. This was supposed to be a simple intelligence pick up, and now Enjolras is bleeding and he doesn’t know how it happened and somehow the mission went wrong and he’s worried they’ll get separated on the underground and-

Combeferre forces himself deep breaths as he climbs the ascending steps from the station. He still has three minutes to spare, but if running to the car is what will put his mind at ease, then run he will.

When Combeferre turns the final corner, he is overcome with relief at the sight of Enjolras, leant up against the side of the silver Renault Clio on his phone. From this distance, he could be any bored uber driver looking for their next job.

Combeferre slows to a walk as he approaches Enjolras- who doesn’t look up until Combeferre is a foot away. Up close, Combeferre can see the toll exertion has taken on his boyfriend’s face; Enjolras’ eyes are lacking their sharp quality and there’s a thin sheen of sweat across his brow. It suddenly occurs to Combeferre that Enjolras is leaning against the door because he can’t stay upright on his own, and with that another realisation hits him like a fist.

“Where’s Courfeyrac?” Combeferre asks abruptly- if he sounds a little desperate, well then- who can blame him, really?

“I haven't seen him yet,” Enjolras replies, looking troubled.

Combeferre fights the urge to let his fear overwhelm him- just as it may be true that him and Courfeyrac can’t function without Enjolras, it’s also true that Enjolras and he can’t function without Courfeyrac.

He’s their centre and their sun, and also- probably important given their current situation- he’s their best getaway driver.

“He still has two minutes.” Enjolras says, in what is maybe supposed to be a comforting way.

Combeferre hums, but no sooner has the thought that perhaps they’ll have to leave without Courfeyrac entered his head, than Courfeyrac himself comes hurtling round the corner, red faced and panting.

“Sorry… Got… Ambushed by.. Tourists.” he gasps, both hands on his knees.

Combeferre heaves a sigh of relief at the same time as Enjolras mutters “Damn tourists.” And then Courfeyrac is unlocking the car door and scrambling in behind the wheel, Combeferre following his lead and helping to ease Enjolras into the back of the car before getting in himself.

“Let me see.” Combeferre orders gently as Courfeyrac starts the engine. Enjolras is quiet as he removes his jacket, lifting up his shirt to display the wound.

It looks bad, but not as bad as Combeferre had feared. It’s a deep gash, that much is obvious, and Combeferre tries not to panic too much as he balls Enjolras’ jacket up and presses it to the wound. Enjolras hisses in pain, but eventually settles, placing his own hand on top of Combeferre’s.

“I don’t know what it was.” Enjolras tells him, shifting into a more comfortable position. “It wasn’t a knife, I’d have seen it- but it was sharp.”

Combeferre resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes Enjolras, I think we can deduce that whatever you were stabbed with was indeed sharp.”

In front of him, Courfeyrac chuckles, though in the wing mirror Combeferre is able to see that there are tears running down his face. Combeferre wants nothing more than to hold both him and Enjolras until everything is okay again, but he knows that wouldn’t be productive for any of them at the minute.

Next to Combeferre, Enjolras winces in pain, his breathing becoming slower, more restricted. Combeferre frowns. “Can you breathe alright?” he asks.

Enjolras regulates his expression in to something more neutral. “I’ll take it off as soon as we’re inside. Promise.”

Combeferre nods. He knows very little about the effects of wearing a binder when you have an injury, but he can’t imagine it’s in any way recommended.

Hopefully they won’t have enough time to find out. “Ten minutes.” Courfeyrac informs them and Enjolras nods grimly.

Both him and Enjolras are pressing the fabric of Enjolras’ jacket to the wound now, but the amount of blood still pouring out is enough to concern Combeferre.

Gripping the jacket still more firmly, Combeferre raises his free hand to Enjolras’ forehead. “You’re not feeling tired, are you?”

Enjolras gives him an incredulous look. “I think you’d need to be more concerned if I weren’t feeling tired.”

Combeferre shakes his head, resisting the urge to sigh. “Let me re-phrase. Are you in immediate danger of passing out?”

Enjolras considers this. “Immediate danger, no.”

Combeferre squeezes his hand once more. “Good. Stay that way.”

Smiling just slightly, Enjolras hums in agreement, “I’ll try.”

Their journey back takes less time than expected (”Nine minutes, I know, I know, what an accomplishment, you can thank me later.” Courfeyrac says as he helps Combeferre assist Enjolras inside) and by the time they’re back, it’s a matter of seconds before Combeferre has the medical kit out and is prompting Enjolras to take off his binder and lay back on the cushions of the makeshift sofa they have in the centre of their flat. 

Courfeyrac is messing about with said cushions, making sure Enjolras is adequately comfy, despite the injured man’s protestations. 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you get to complain about me fussing over you, Mr-I-got-myself-stabbed.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t call it getting stabbed, exactly. It’s more like a scratch. And it’s not like I did it intentionally.” Even so, Enjolras reaches out for Courfeyrac, who eagerly seats himself at the top of the sofa, pulling Enjolras’ head into his lap and burying his hands into the soft curls there. 

Enjolras hums in content, only to gasp as Combeferre works on cleaning the wound. “This is more than a scratch, Enjolras.” he says gravely. “And we still need to know how it happened.”

Enjolras closes his eyes briefly. “They knew someone was going to attempt to steal the files.”

This time, it’s Courfeyrac who scoffs. “Impossible. We were thorough in our clean-up, there’s no way they could have known we’d be there.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras sighs. “Not us. Apparently Patron-Minette thought it’d be a good idea to get some dirt on the secretary for their next money laundering scheme, and it just so happens that they also chose today to do it. Unfortunately, they are not as good as us as covering their tracks. The Office were ready for an attempt, and when the alarm went off, all hell broke loose.”

Courfeyrac’s fingers are still carding through Enjolras’ hair, but they stop briefly at the mention of Patron-Minette. “Bastards.” he breathes out, and Combeferre feels himself inclined to agree. 

“Once I heard the alarm, I realised what was going on. I knew I hadn’t set it off, but I could hear voices on the floor below- I should’ve got out when I had the chance, I know that, but I was so close and I-” here he stops, and Combeferre gently dabs at his side wit cotton wool. He thinks Enjolras will be okay without stitches, provided he’s careful and stays out of danger for the next week or so. 

“What did you do?” asks Courfeyrac quietly, drawing Combeferre back into the narrative. He applies more pressure to Enjolras’ side, which makes him hiss in pain, but also seems to increase his focus. 

“I went for the file. I could’ve left, but then I would’ve jeopardised everything- and who knows when we would’ve gotten another chance as good as that? I know the plan was to make digital copies of everything, and not take them directly, but they were right there and I just- I was so close.” Enjolras trails off slightly, before seemingly realising that he hasn’t fully finished explaining the incident surrounding the stabbing. “Anyway, on my way out I ran into a member of Patron-Minette- Guelemer, I think? I don’t know, but he realised I had the files they wanted and before I knew it-” Enjolras shrugs with one shoulder. “There was a struggle- I think one of them recognised me and didn’t want any trouble, so I slipped out and got as far away as I could. I’m afraid I wasn’t discreet enough for your liking,” he says, nodding to Combeferre, “but at least I got away. I don’t think I really even registered the pain until I got to the cafe and saw you two.”

Combeferre continues wiping Enjolras’ wound, information bouncing around in his brain. He doesn’t know which emotion is dominant- the relief he feels that, yes, Enjolras got away, or the fear that shakes his core when he reflects on how it could have gone really, really badly had he not. 

“I’m okay.” Enjolras says, apparently sensing the desolate atmosphere he’s created with his retelling. “We’ve all survived worse.”

Courfeyrac leans down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead; when he lifts his head, Combeferre can see that he’s been crying. “I love you, you idiot.” Courfeyrac tells Enjolras through tears. 

Enjolras reaches up to thread his fingers together with Courfeyrac’s. “I love you too. And you, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre meets Enjolras’ eyes, the other man’s having regained some of their alert sincerity. He nods. “And I you. Both of you.”

Enjolras lets his head fall back into Courfeyrac’s lap and closes his eyes. Combeferre finishes up where he’s dressed Enjolras’ wound (his earlier statement was correct, it does look a lot better now that it’s been cleaned,) and rests his head on Enjolras’ legs. 

It’s not a comfortable position by any means, but Combeferre finds solstice in the fact that he’s here with the two men he loves most, and there’s nothing that he wouldn’t sacrifice for either one of them. 

Combeferre knows they have a lot of work to do; in the immediate future he’ll have to look at all their security sources to make sure that they weren’t followed, and after that there’s the problem of what to do now that their files are missing-

“Enjolras?”

“Hmmm?”

“You said you went back and got the files… What happened to them after that?”

Enjolras props himself up on the sofa, blinking down at Combeferre in surprise. “Oh. I forgot- they’re in here.” Enjolras reaches behind him to his now blood-soaked jacket and fishes around in the inside pockets. Eventually, he seems to find what he’s looking for and pulls out a blue memory stick, passing it over to Combeferre for inspection. 

Courfeyrac watches the proceedings with stupefaction, “You’re amazing, you know that?” he tells Enjolras, who characteristically brushes off the praise.

Combeferre smiles- this will certainly make things a lot easier.