Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What the Hell, Marat?”         

Several of the other workers stopped what they were doing to look at him, but they all went about their business, the constant pounding of the ink bulbs against the type, the roll of the carriage as it carried the paper underneath the plate, and then the pull of the lever as it created the final imprint filling the place with sound.

“I’m sorry, Ronan,” his boss said, his Swiss accent becoming thicker even amidst the the sounds of the printing press in action, “But right now you’re our only hope. It’s been too quiet for the last few months, and the people need to know the actions of our enemies.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t exactly the type to blend in with the aristos. What do you want me to do, huh? Put on some frilly dress and trot over to Versailles?”

Marat looked at him, unblinking. “The Bal de l’Opera, actually.” From the corner of his eye, Ronan could make out the silhouette of a mannequin, a bunch of silvery tissue dotted with roses hanging off of it, posed against the printing press as if it’d just walked in of its own free will and was looking at the different papers, probably staring back in shock at some of the worst. What had the lady even asked for? A garden in dress form? “In my time as a doctor at the royal court, I took a great many patients, some of whom paid in…unusual ways. It’s slightly out of date, but it should work.”

Fuck. No. It’d been a joke- A joke. They couldn’t-They wouldn’t-They weren’t serious. But Marat’s face was grim, and Robespierre and Desmoulins hung closely behind him, exchanging fearful, anxious looks.

They’d never take him alive.

Ronan shook his head. “No, no. You can’t be serious. Couldn’t you have picked one of the women?” He reached out to his sister, who stood on the other side of the room, arms folded across her chest. “Solène, couldn’t you do it? Mademoiselle Duplessis-”

“He already asked us,” Camille’s fiancée said, grinning.

“We refused.” Solène’s face was almost a smirk as she looked at him with no small amount of satisfaction. “It looks like you’re on your own, dear brother.”

This was revenge. It was revenge and, worst of all, it was justified. It was just like when they were younger. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

He had one last chance and he knew it. Time to see how pissed off she really was at him. “Solène, about what I said earlier, I’m sorry. You were right. I never should have said all those things to you.” Fuck, the arms weren’t coming uncrossed. She still looked like their mother when he’d come home after dark with a bruise or two from fighting with the other boys. Fuck. Time to bring on the tooth rot. “You’re my little sister. And I love you.”

The arms went loose at her sides, and he felt a wave of relief go through him. “I love you, too.” Ronan breathed a sigh of relief. He could get out of this still, everything was going to be alright. That was the Solène he remembered-  “But, to do what you ask, to primp around like some aristocratic woman…that would go against everything that I believe in. And you know, brother, if we lose our dignity, it’s the end.”

He felt the dagger go into his heart. Fuck. She really was pissed. He was dead. 

“We wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t of the utmost importance to the cause,” Marat said. “The rumor is that both the Comte d’Artois and the Austrian will be in attendance, going in disguise. This could be a chance to find out the plans of two of the enemies of the people before they strike. And with the King’s behavior before the Estates General, it is of even more importance. Every day, they conspire against us. Do you really believe he will react well when we don’t walk in line with him anymore? Or will we be slaughtered in our beds?”

“I know that,” Ronan said. After working for Marat, he could give out a spiel in a second. “But-Couldn’t you have chosen something else?” Really, it wasn’t even the dress. Olympe had pulled off a soldier’s uniform alright, so why couldn’t a man pull off a dress as well? It didn’t make sense. And it was for the good of France.

But did it have to be so…so…much? The cost of the flowers on the damn thing could have probably fed his entire village for the month, much less the silvery white…stuff that it was made of.     

“In times of trouble, everyone must do their part, for the good of the patrie,” Robespierre said.

“Yeah? Why don’t you do it then?” Ronan asked. Typical bourgeois. It was perfectly fine for them to manage the Revolution from on high and reap the rewards, but GOD forbid they do the work. No, they chose to pick on the working class for that. (He didn’t want to think about where he’d heard that from, because that smug bastard had been WRONG. Even when he was right, he was wrong.)

Robespierre’s face went even whiter than the powder he used on one of his wigs. “I’m a member of the National Convention. If I was discovered-”

“They might think he’d done something interesting for once in his life,” Danton said, slinging an arm across Robespierre’s back, pulling the other man closer to him. “God forbid.” 

“Yeah? And what if I get caught, huh?”

“You won’t,” Marat said, “After all, they have no reason to take notice of you. A mysterious, attractive young woman shows up at the Bal d’Opera, no one takes any notice, and it is not entirely uncommon for that young woman to be a man. There’s no reason to make any more of it than possible.” He chuckled. “After all, what have you ever done to attract the Comte d’Artois’ attention?”

Oh, I don’t know, I spent about a week or two at the Bastille because I saw the Queen getting up on her foreign relations, spent about a week getting closer than I ever wanted to my father’s murderer in his chamber of horrors, dodged a hit from the King’s little brother, and then was saved by the Queen’s crossdressing errand girl, but really, I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me, right? Must happen all the time.

Ronan shook his head. “Nothing. But the Comte de Peyrol might-”

If the bastard was good for anything, it’d have to be this. Surely they’d have to realize that if he was there, Ronan would be done for. Whether because he recognized Ronan or because Ronan recognized him and couldn’t resist taking one swing at him when he had the chance.

Marat shook his head, “As good an attempt as that was of getting out of it, no. By all accounts, he keeps to himself, busy readying his troops to spill the blood of the people.”

Son of a bitch. Of course he’d had to piss off the only officer in the damn city who cared about his job instead of spending a night out on the town. Of course he did. He could say a lot of things about the man, most of which he already had at some point or another, but he couldn’t say that he was lazy. If he was on their side, they’d probably have had a revolution already, toppled the monarchy, danced on its ashes, and created a new government. But no. He’d had to choose the Crown and imprisoning innocent people in prison, keeping them tied up all day no matter how sore they got.

But, if Peyrol wasn’t going to be there, that meant that he wouldn’t have to see him, at least. Him and his obnoxiously serious face. God, what would Peyrol even do at a party, anyway? Scowl all night? Have a staring contest with the gargoyles? (Or whatever it was they had standing there, taking up space.) He didn’t know all that went on at one of these things, but he couldn’t imagine Peyrol suddenly growing a sense of humor. It was a shame, given he wasn’t even that bad looking, if he ever learned how to make more than one or two facial expressions.

And wasn’t…him.

He probably wouldn’t even change his outfit, going everywhere in that blue uniform he always wore, just to make sure that if something came up, he could ride away to kill innocent peasants or invade Germany or England or whatever it was he did. 

It was good, it was a good thing, this way he wouldn’t get close to Ronan, and Ronan wouldn’t have to think about the last time they’d been close, when he’d made the offer to him, when they’d spent time together in solitary, away from Peyrol’s soldiers, when he’d seemed…like himself, but different, like he didn’t have to show off for the men, when it’d been less like an interrogation and more…something else he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to. And then after that…

The poor aristo woman who would have to dance with him, though! Come in thinking you’re going to dance with a rich, good looking comte, end up dancing with an icicle. It’s probably why he wasn’t married. They’d have one dance with him and then run out the door.

God, what a strange man.

Good thing he wasn’t going to have to put up with him. Really good.

“It’s not all over,” Camille said, putting his hand on Ronan’s shoulder as he patted several times in a way that he supposed was supposed to somehow be helpful. Ronan moved the hand away. No touching for traitors. “We have Danton as a second choice if you refuse.” 

“Danton?”

Danton pulled a dark dress from where it was slung across the plank of the printing press, holding it up to himself. “Well, what do you think?”

“Hey, why couldn’t I have gotten that one?” Ronan asked, pointing at the dress. It looked good, he thought, and it didn’t look like someone had fired a bouquet out of a cannon. It was a dark purple, with a black fabric draped along the waist that looked like a thousand stars. It would’ve looked better in a bright orange or red or yellow, but purple worked. He guessed. The skirt itself was trimmed in gold which, while still probably worth at least the cost of a small farm, at least wasn’t as obvious about it, and the bodice dripped with black jewels in a series of webs, the pattern only being broken by the neckline, which was made up of the same sparkling black pattern as the drapes along the skity. It was obviously the kind of thing that a rich lady would order to show off that she had nothing better to do with her money, but at least she’d look good while doing it. 

Not like…

Marat shook his head, “Unfortunately no, not with your measurements.”

“There has to be some way—”

“No.”

Damn it. There went that idea.

Well…

He looked over at the dress they wanted to foist on him, picking at a little bit of the fluffy fabric spread out along the bottom, at the sparkles that seemed embedded in it alongside the roses, and then at all the tiny flowers and butterflies that lined the bodice and the lace sleeves. It seemed out of place, this obvious aristocratic…thing, in the musty air of the printing place, shining and glimmering and so fucking much.

“How the Hell am I even going to move in this thing?”

Camille brightened up at that, running over to Lucille as he wrapped an arm around her, with her responding immediately by resting her head on his shoulder. “Lucile will teach you everything she learned growing up!”

He felt his stomach go queasy at the thought of being taught how to prance along like an aristocratic lady while wearing a fluffy, flowergirl's nightmare of a dress, smiling and nodding at everyone he saw. God. This was going to be Hell.

Marat must have seen some of his resolve weaken, because he laid a heavy hand on Ronan’s shoulder, “The obligations of a citizen are difficult, and they rarely come with praise or reward. But what we are doing is not just for ourselves or for any frivolity, but for France, to once and for all kill despotism and free ourselves from the chains of the ages. Or do you put your own vanity above that?”

Ronan swallowed. He was doing this. For France. If he remembered that, he could survive it. Even in that dress.                     

“Alright, I’m in.”

So long as Peyrol wasn’t there, he could do this.

Chapter Text

“Lazare.” Artois was spread out on a divan of black and gold silk, a cool, languid smile on his face and a glass of wine in his hand. His voice was low, smooth, no hint of danger, which raised Peyrol’s defences immediately. With Artois, it was never “simply” a simple request or an innocuous statement. This was when he prepared to drive the knife in, and Peyrol would allow him because he was his superior, because he was one of the senior members of a line chosen by God to lead France, and because it was Peyrol’s place to accept what was in his power to give, with as much outward humility as he could muster and a face that showed no anger. But, perhaps if he played along for a time, the worst could be avoided. Artois liked to be humored, liked to have everyone else go at the pace he set, like God setting the stars and planets to their proper order. 

“Yes, Your Highness?”           

“Why do I never see you in the city?”

Peyrol dipped his head. “With apologies, Your Highness, I believe that you often see me in the city, during the course of my duties.” 

“Not like that,” Artois said, “Outside of…all of that business. You never go to any balls, any gaming rooms…any brothels. I should almost think that you had taken orders.”

“I have simply been busy, as of late. The recent upsets in Paris have taken up all my time.” And provided a very, very easy excuse to avoid any kind of…mingling with society. Others could waste their time on such things, but he had better things to do than to sit in a room to a group of gossiping, vicious men and women who rank, breeding, and a shared suffering obliged him to be polite and smile to while being pressured to drink and gamble and waste his money on frivolities.

The hint of a disdainful smirk touched Artois’ dark lips. “All your time, and yet keeping one worthless peasant in the Bastille was somehow beyond you. I would expect that kind of incompetence from an idiot like Ramard,” from his place in the corner, Artois’ blond shadow flinched, “But not from you.” 

It had been a frequent topic of beratement, recently, when Artois’ usual favorites ran dry. And it had been effective, for its purposes. The one subject that he most wanted to avoid in the world and forget, and Artois made it utterly impossible, and so Ronan Mazurier lingered on like a ghost, always there in his mind, brought back to haunt him with every conversation.

Had he had him a day or so longer, he would have accepted his offer, he was sure of it. He would have seen the folly of the cause he’d married himself to and come to understand the importance of law and order, and he would have joined Lazare gladly. And Peyrol would have unchained him quickly, and he would have fallen into his arms, slightly weak from hunger, but strong, in his way. And then after that-

And then? A treacherous voice in his head, not his own, hissed. He smothered it. It had not happened. Mazurier had escaped. There was no point in thinking otherwise. It was for the best to focus on the peasant boy as he was, an escaped criminal who was now free to wreck havoc and anarchy in the streets. Nothing more. 

No matter. He was just a stupid, reckless boy, one who Peyrol had simply had the misfortune of crossing paths with twice. A third time was hardly likely.

“It was a grave error on my part, Your Highness. I have investigated all my men, however, despite my best efforts, nothing turned up. I…humbly beg for your clemency in the matter.”

As he saw Artois look at him with heavily lidded, dark eyes that shone faintly in the dim light of the room (a stray voice in his head, the same one that had treacherously spoken earlier, reminded him of how Mazurier’s green eyes had been bright and lively even in the Bastille before he silenced the thought. Mazurier’s eyes were not the topic of the moment, nor were they ever likely to be), he wondered what he was thinking. He was a man that seemed to have a thought process that was entirely his own, to be predicted and calmed, but never understood. Would the wolf bite, or would it lick and soothe? It all depended on the whim of the moment.

“My clemency?” He said, putting the wine glass down on a nearby table, and even though it was little more than a faint whisper, Peyrol felt it in his marrow. A brief, terrible moment ensued, as Peyrol waited for the blade to fall. Then, Artois chuckled, the laugh rolling off of him, “Oh, I have a mind to dispose of you for something better, leave you to languish in the countryside somewhere, however finding devoted men of…some intelligence, at least, is a rarity. And it would take time to break your replacement in, time I have no desire to spend. At the moment. However…” Peyrol stilled the sense of relief he had, foolishly, allowed to make its way through his body. “The cause of this…trouble will be dealt with. Come here.” There was a slight widening of the eyes, a sign that this was a commandment, not to be argued against. Peyrol dutifully walked over to his side.

“I intend to go to the Bal de l’Opera later this week. As little of an interest as I have in dealing with those of a lesser stock, crowding together like common chattel, it frees me from my brother’s petty conventions here at Versailles.” A simple translation: He could be the center of attention as much as he wanted without his brother nearby to remind him of the inconvenient fact that he was the king and Artois was not. “You will accompany me.”       

“Me, Your Highness?” This was a strange turn. To be hit with the flat of a sword, he could handle, despite the humiliation. It was no worse than anything he had not endured before by those of a closer blood relation. Shouting, screaming as Artois angrily tore apart his career and his life, he could handle. After nearly a decade in service, most of which had been spent under Artois’ eye, very little could shock him that came out of the prince’s mouth. The innocence, the awe (he refused to say “love” because if it was…that emotion, insofar as he believed himself capable of it, then it was nothing more than a boy’s love, a simple-minded devotion resulting from his own gratitude and youthful dazzlement at being noticed by a member of the royal family, especially the notoriously handsome, charismatic Comte d’Artois) that had defined his earliest connection with the Comte d’Artois had long since been washed away by the years. He was more level-headed now. He would never allow himself to be so caught up again.

Hearing those words, however, Peyrol found himself in genuine, complete shock at Artois for the first time in years.

“It’s simple, Lazare, you need to do something besides…whatever it is you do with your men, I have no care one way or another so long as you do the tasks I command you to do and keep their stench off me.”

Peyrol opened his mouth to protest, but he was waved off with a heavily jeweled hand. He would never-not with his men. It would cause too many unnecessary complications, too much of a potential for discontent and confusion in the ranks, especially if it was believed he favored one over the others. It was strictly professional, no undue familiarity, with firm discipline applied whenever necessary.

“You’ve become dull. And you know, as well as anyone, how dangerous that can be.” The raise in Artois’ voice, slight, but significant, stilled him. Artois grabbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger, Peyrol buried his urge to run at the cool touch of hands that were soft and unworked (not like…no. He would not think it. Not now. Not ever. He would destroy that), “So, you will attend the Bal de l’Opera with me and you will not skulk in a corner like you always do. Appreciate the favor I’ve done you, hm?”

They both knew it wasn’t a favor. It was hours of humiliation and awkwardness as he tried to understand what other people thought and did outside of the boundaries of his own life, of putting up with mindless conversation and incessant noise and people crowded in everywhere so he could scarcely breathe, and then the vultures attacking him with unsubtle attempts at getting him married off so that he could produce societally-required spawn. And, since men went unmasked in Bals de l’Opera, from his understanding of the business, he was at a disadvantage as well as being outnumbered.

The Army was easier. Clean-cut strategy, lines on a map, a set number of positions and formations, his men all in a row, all of them waiting and obedient to his orders, all with a limited number of possibilities. Even when some sort of complication developed, it was all a matter of strategy. This was madness, predicted on human whims and follies, his foes and allies uncountable, the terrain unfamiliar.

And Artois knew it, as the full smile that spread across his face, showing teeth that were too white, too gleaming, showed. Oh, he would enjoy this, Peyrol knew. A full night of being the center of the Paris’ attention, free to consume as much alcohol as he pleased (even though some of the more…unusual substances he prefered, the lingering traces of some of which could be smelled in the room, would presumably not be at hand), to seduce as many women and men as he wished right in front of Peyrol’s eyes, many of the former of whom would be emboldened by the secrecy provided by their disguises, and all with the added entertainment of watching him stumble over himself trying not to permanently ruin his reputation over a word, step, or glance out of place. No doubt he’d brought up Mazurier purely for this purpose, to weaken him for it. He’d been feeling bored, so he would find amusement where he wished it, and Peyrol would, as always, provide.                  

He would resign himself to his fate of being used for a half hour, perhaps, before being abandoned in lieu of the latest object of Artois’ affection, and then to utter boredom and a dispirited evening punctuated by thoughts of everywhere else he could be.

He took some small comfort in the thought that at least his mind would be too occupied to think of Ronan Mazurier. Perhaps it would even be a welcome respite, despite his own awkwardness.

Chapter Text

“And…done!” Lucile stood back as she clasped her hands, admiring her handiwork. An hour. A fucking hour to get into a DRESS, with all that tugging and tying. How the Hell did aristo women even get up in the morning? It wasn’t as bad as he would’ve thought it would be, with the stays and everything, it was actually a little comfortable. Snug. Not that there was anything THERE to hold up. (Though Danton had done his part to fill it in. How’d he know how to do that, anyway? He was going to have to ask Solène about it when she was done making his life Hell. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever anyway, could she?) And he supposed the fabric was nice, cool and light and soft, even if it was a little itchy around the sleeves.

He’d spent the whole time focusing on the butterflies on his bottom sleeve, close to his wrist (of course there were butterflies on his wrist, there were butterflies fucking EVERYWHERE), fuming after Lucile and Solène lectured him for fidgeting after Solène took advantage of the chance to apply makeup, a cloud of white powder filling his vision and nose, causing him to give a violent sneeze before it settled.

AN HOUR. In that amount of time, he could’ve been ready and at work. What the Hell, if he’d been at the farm still, he could’ve made good work plowing the field. Who had the kind of time to spend an hour just on the dress, huh?

He absently scratched at his shoulder, where some of the fabric was starting to get to him.

“Don’t forget the wig,” Solène said, with a cheeriness that was terrifying when it came from her, coming up from behind him, and suddenly his head was several pounds heavier as he fell forward, white and pink powder spraying all over the place.

“Solène!”

“You have to have the whole look, brother,” she said, smiling, and Ronan could see the knife just underneath the surface.

He was never going to make his sister mad ever again, he decided.

It was quiet now, at least, the place being closed for the night while they worked by the light of a few lanterns that they’d brought along. Which was good, because he couldn’t imagine looking Jacques and Michél in the face after this.

He’d change his name and go to America if he had to, revolution be damned.

“So, how does it go?” Marat said from across the floral screen that they’d put up. (What was it with florals, anyway? Why couldn’t it be something useful , like wheat? Or potatoes?)

“We’re done here,” Lucile said. “What do you think, Solène?”

“I can barely recognize my dearest brother,” she said and, just underneath the surface, Ronan could hear, “He’s completely unrecognizable from the little rat who abandoned me in the countryside and then shamed me for my job.”

That was the thing with siblings: They had their own language. And the two of them...they’d figured out how to speak theirs a long time ago.

“Well,” Desmoulins said, and he could hear the relief in his voice (after this was over, he was going to fight them. All of them. At once. And win.) “Let’s see.”

Ronan raised himself up as the screen was removed, and there was a hush over the four of them, as Lucile quietly walked over to put Camille’s hanging jaw back in place. Even Marat looked stunned.

“ Ronan ,” Danton said, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He turned to see what the Hell they were talking about and then nearly fell backwards.

Fluff and the occasional shiny, itchy butterfly on his non-existent cleavage aside, he looked good . He didn’t even recognize himself in the mirror. Hell, he barely recognized the dress in the mirror. Instead of some monstrosity with a thousand flowers thrown onto it for the hell of it, he just saw yards of lace and shining, silver fabric, all the flowers and the butterflies scattered around it glistening in the candlelight. The wig that Solène had nicely slammed on his head complimented it, the ends of it colored a slight pink that faded into the rest of it. And the necklace...he’d only seen that kind of shine on winter days, when sunlight made the snow shine for as far as the eye could see. Still wasn’t sure about the big white feather that poked out of the back; it tickled a little, but it didn’t look bad .  

He turned experimentally, and a thousand gems shone and shimmered with the movement, the light hitting off every butterfly and flower, every jewel buried in the wig. Holding out his arm, he could make out all the different lace designs edging their way along it, like clouds made of cloth.

It was still fucking expensive , but it was hypnotic. At least a little bit. Still not worth the money, not when it could feed a whole family for a year on its own, but pretty.

He still looked like a cake, though.

Marat nodded his head, in the way he usually did when a paper was about to be released, one of those moments where he could relax even if it always seemed like there was always a bull with a burr under its hide ready to get out. “You’ll do, Ronan, you’ll do.”

He stepped forward, the shoe beneath him wavered and shook, and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor, his eyes filled with white and shiny for as far as the eye could see, like a blizzard had come in and hidden the whole room from view. Except for instead of snow, it was layer after layer of gauzy shit that was covering his face.

Fucking heels .

How the hell did Olympe run in those things? He was starting to respect the queen’s errand girl a lot more than he ever thought he would. Maybe that was why she liked the soldier’s uniform.

Well, that and the uniforms just looked better . He could understand why soldiers had the reputation they had. Not that he’d seen it from any of the soldiers that’d hung around the Bastille. Or the officers. But he’d guess so. From the colors. And the way it...fit. Nicely. Snug. Probably warm too, when he thought of it. Especially with a large fur--

Fuck. No.

After he’d gotten the mess straightened out, Robespierre and Desmoulins both offered their hands, with Ronan taking Robespierre’s. (Camille still didn’t have touching privileges. Neither one of them did, but Robespierre didn’t do the whole “more than brothers” shit so he came closer. What did that even mean? “More than brothers?”) Robespierre had a brief moment of triumph before having the sense to show a hint of shame, keeping his face down even as he kept running his thumb back and forth across his hand long after Ronan had snatched his hand back, nearly falling backwards again under the weight of the movement.

Huh, what a strange guy.

“We still have to work on walking,” Lucile said. “And table manners.”

“Don’t forget dancing!” Robespierre said, receiving a glare from Ronan that almost made his hat fly off his head. Well, his touching privileges were revoked again. Ronan didn’t even care if he let him touch the press again. He didn’t have much left, but there was one thing they couldn’t take away: His self-respect.

“Just remember,” Camille said, “If you need to talk, just smile and laugh. Or don’t do anything at all.”

“And drink!” Danton said. “See if you can’t get a handsome boyfriend to buy you off for the night, huh?” He clapped him on the back, causing Ronan to nearly fall again, hanging onto the frame of the printing press for dear life. “Sorry.”

“Not that there will be time for that,” Marat said, “When you’re trailing the Austrian in her lair. Remember, Ronan: We’re relying on you here.”

Like he hadn’t heard that a hundred times already. What did they think he was, stupid?

...Actually...nevermind.     

As Lucile and Camille (who he pushed away) tried to guide him back into place, Lucile started using terms like “deportment,” “gavotte,” "allemand," and “the language of the fan,” which interrupted him mid-frustrated attempt to swat a fly that’d tried to settle on his wig (what the FUCK was that, anyway? Wasn’t it confusing enough without having a SILENT language as well? And what good was a fan if it couldn’t be used to cool him down and kill annoying bugs, like a horse’s tail?) and a hundred other terms that he couldn’t wrap his head around before another new one came to smash into him.

This was going to be a fucking nightmare.