Work Text:
He is lost.
It is very, very embarrassing to be lost, especially when you are him.
It isn't his fault; the directions are unclear. Smudged ink on ancient paper, no street number--not even a street, for that matter.
He'll have to stop and ask someone. He hates doing that--it never goes well, and it usually just makes more work for him in the end.
Oh, well...
* * *
EXCUSE ME.
Combeferre's whole body goes cold. The voice isn't something he hears so much as feels. It's the sort of not-voice that should never be allowed to creep up from dreams and freeze your heart in the middle of a warm spring morning. He doesn't look up; he trains his eyes on the desk in front of him. "Can I help you?" he asks, and his voice only trembles a little.
I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT HERE.
No. Not here, not now. They've won, damn it, it isn't fair. "Here? No. I'm quite sure you're mistaken."
The figure in front of the desk pulls a crumpled piece of note-paper out of his robes. IT SAYS SO RIGHT HERE: 'AT SOME DISPUTED BARRICADE.'
Combeferre takes the paper, trying not to think about the state of the hand that passes it to him. The paper is brittle, the ink faded.
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And lilac-blossoms fill the air--
Light glints off something he can't quite see--he's afraid it might be a scythe. He takes a deep breath, hoping it isn't going to be his last. "Well, there's your problem," he says, handing back the note. "We're not disputed anymore, strictly speaking. We're an outpost of the government of the Republic--it's just that our offices are a bit of a shambles right now, as you may have noticed."
A BIT OF A SHAMBLES? The not-voice is dry as bone.
And it's true, Combeferre's desk is sitting in the middle of the street, behind a barricade that's being slowly dismantled as people come to reclaim broken chairs and legless tables. "Yes," he says, as firmly as he dares. "There's a great deal of confusion, of course, considering recent events, but there's no dispute anymore. So you simply must have the wrong barricade."
YES... the not-voice says, seeming skeptical. THEN IT SEEMS I MUST BE GOING.
Combeferre straightens his glasses. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
There is a pause. THAT IS NOT A REACTION I AM ACCUSTOMED TO RECEIVING.
He cannot help but smile. "No. I imagine not." He looks up, meeting blue eyes like distant stars deep beneath the black hood. "I'm sure we'll meet again," Combeferre says, his voice steady.
OH YES, the not-voice says, and there is a faint, rattling chuckle somewhere in the not-sound. I CAN PROMISE YOU THAT.