Archive of Our Own ^beta

The map of Paris is huge, peppered with highlighted streets and seemingly innocuous buildings circled in red and blue. The table where it lies has been wiped down for good measure; no good getting beer stains on The Map.

Combeferre crowds with the others around the table, peering down at where Gavroche is pointing a calloused, skinny finger. Beneath his blunt fingernail is a tightly packed street on the right bank, straddling the ninth and eighteenth districts.

“Pigalle,” Grantaire muses, and punctuates it with a bark of laughter. “Of course it’s in fucking Pigalle.”

Enjolras’s fingers drum a quick, impatient rhythm on the table, but otherwise he pays Grantaire no mind, brow furrowed as his eyes flit over the map. Grantaire casts a mildly disappointed look into his beer bottle.

“Go on, Gavroche,” Feuilly says from Enjolras’s left.

“Cops are busting it tonight,” Gavroche says, tucking his hands in his pockets. Where exactly the teenager gets his intel was a hot topic of debate among them in the beginning, until they realized that somewhere between Gavroche housing orphaned half-breeds and networking with literal gang members, it was probably best they didn’t know. “Around three-thirty, or so I heard.”

“And they just got wind of it recently?” Feuilly asks, frowning. “That’s a short amount of time to set up a sting.”

“It’s their third in the area in the past month,” Combeferre says. “I’m sure they’re familiar with the procedure.”

“Yeah, and their teeth are probably itching for collateral,” Grantaire sneers, and the group collectively grimaces.

Job loss and time behind bars are not the only consequences of the police shutting down a human brothel. They’ve all witnessed the things that never made the papers, the ugly, bloody messes swept under the rug along with the names of those unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire. Despite Combeferre and Jehan’s diligent book-keeping, none of them know the exact number of people who have died on Joly’s operating table, the blood loss too great for any of them to stand a chance.

“Not if we get there first,” Combeferre says, mentally making it a promise. He'll do whatever it takes to keep that haunted look off Joly's friendly face.

“It doesn’t exactly give us much time, either,” Joly remarks. “How many are there?”

How many are we going to try to save?

“At least a dozen, mixed gender,” Gavroche says. “Pretty small operation, so the chief’s cocky. Expects a ninety percent arrest rate.”

“I assume the other ten percent is accounting for the officers’ appetite for justice,” Jehan says bitterly, and Grantaire claps them on the shoulder in silent solidarity.

“Well, you know what they say about best-laid plans,” Bahorel says, grinning.

“Speaking of plans,” Enjolras says, and everyone’s attention snaps to him. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Gavroche came barreling into the back room of the Musain, demanding The Map and their undivided attention. “Joly’s right—we don’t have much time. So let’s get to it.”

Immediately, the atmosphere in the room shifts to one of determined focus. If there’s one thing Les Amis de l’ABC excel at, it’s strategy.

Combeferre trains his eyes on Enjolras. Les Amis technically don’t have a leader, according to their official guidelines; every member, human or vampire, has a voice, and everyone’s opinion matters. But get any of them alone and ask for a name, and all fingers would unanimously point to Enjolras. Well-bred and beautiful, gifted with a chess player’s mind and speech that could move masses, Enjolras had the privilege of being handed the world on a silver platter, and the audacity to reject it on principle. His ideals are unshakable, his focus singular. He is at once their fearless general, their prophet of equality, and their valued friend. And Enjolras’s friendship is as intense and unwavering as his beliefs. They would all gladly lay down their lives for him, and Combeferre is confident Enjolras would do the same for them.

“If it’s as small an operation as you say, we’ll need no more than two, maybe three, men on the inside,” Enjolras begins, leaning his fists on the table. “It’ll have to be vampires, as well.”

He shoots a challenging look at Grantaire, who, for once, doesn’t scoff, roll his eyes, or otherwise viciously imply that Enjolras’s leadership is inappropriate for a human rights activist group.

“What?” Grantaire says, nonplussed. “I’m not a complete idiot, I know humans can’t just waltz into a brothel for vampires.”

Enjolras doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he accepts the olive branch with grace and carries on.

“Combeferre and I will infiltrate, spread the word as quickly and quietly as we can,” he says. “We’ll have to stagger their exits, preferably not out the front door.”

“There are three secret passages out of the building,” Gavroche interrupts with a proud, gap-toothed smile.

“Makes sense for an illegal organization,” Bossuet says with a wink directed to the group in general.

Naturally, the Musain, their own beloved home base, has no less than five secret exits.

“After that it’s a matter of getting them to safe houses,” Enjolras continues, and points to two circled M’s on The Map. “Bahorel and Feuilly will escort them. Send half to the Pigalle station, half to Blanche. You know what to do from there.”

All around there are nods of comprehension. This isn’t the first time they’ve had to get people underground, and they’ve faced far more complex and delicate situations than evacuating a handful of sex workers who are most likely already off the grid anyway. Fake papers aren’t necessary when you’re not in the system to begin with.

Combeferre takes his tablet out of his bag and begins hammering out the details, running figures and analyzing routes and safe houses. The location is actually pretty ideal, far from their corner of Paris and requiring at least one transfer on the metro no matter which line they take. They have bases that are much closer to the quarter in question than the Musain, and most of them will be sent to those in roundabout, complicated ways. He doubts the police will be very interested in pursuing a handful of nameless strippers for long, but it doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side. Gavroche already sent him a blueprint of the brothel, and Combeferre switches between that and a map of the surrounding streets before creating a loose timetable.

It’s nearing two in the morning when they set out, Combeferre and Enjolras first, with Feuilly and Bahorel a healthy distance behind so as not to attract suspicion. Humans and vampires occupy the same spaces, use the same facilities, and certainly interact on a daily basis; but they do not walk together, and now is the time to be discreet.

Café Musain sits on the corner of Boulevard Saint-Michel and Rue Soufflot, facing the Place Edmond Rostand and, beyond that, the Jardin du Luxembourg. A block away from the Sorbonne University, it is, by all appearances, a popular bar for locals and tourists alike. Students flock to the booths and tables to rendezvous and study for exams, and tourists stop at the bar for a pick-me-up en route from the Jardin du Luxembourg to the Panthéon. With such a particularly liberal clientele, not to mention the owner, Floréal, being a half-breed herself, the Musain is known to serve an eclectic crowd of both vampires and humans impartially.

It’s also notoriously the place to go for fostering clandestine relationships between vampires and humans, a fact the regulars take pride in keeping under wraps. What happens in the Musain, stays in the Musain.

Few people know, however, that the property of Café Musain extends beyond the bar area on the ground floor and encompasses nearly half of the upstairs units on the block. The first floor above the bar is home base for Les Amis, and several of them occupy other units that fall under Floréal’s jurisdiction.

There’s a direct passage that leads out onto Rue Cujas on the north side of the block, and it is from that back entrance that Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel, and Feuilly step out. They walk briskly along the west side of the Sorbonne, past students just getting out of class or going to the library, young-looking enough to blend in with the passerby (as well as Enjolras could blend in anywhere). Right at the museum, up Rue de Cluny, and they reach the metro station in record time. A brief ride on line ten, then they transfer to the twelve at Sèvres-Babylones and take it all the way to Pigalle, receiving text updates from Gavroche on the status of the police bust the entire way. Feuilly and Bahorel ride in a different car, and the four run over the plan and coordination over coded group messages while the train speeds on its wobbly frame.

The club is midway down Rue Frochot, stuck like a Lego between a sex shop and dingy-looking Irish pub. Enjolras actually snorts when he sees the sign, ‘l’Accrocheur’ in elegant, gold script above the entrance.

As a verb, accrocher means to hook or catch onto something. Eye-catching, specifically, when in the adjective form. The name boldly scrawled above the entrance to the establishment, however, is in noun form.

In noun form, the sign literally proclaims “hooker” to the entire street.

“Joly would appreciate that pun,” Combeferre says, begrudgingly impressed.

According to Gavroche’s source, the brothel operates from the back room of the club, with private rooms occupying the first and second floors of the four-story building. To its credit, the club looks completely ordinary, right down to the gaggle of girls waiting at the entrance, clad in dangerously high heels and huddled together for warmth, and the stern-looking bouncer guarding the door. Then again, it’s Pigalle; if Combeferre had to place a bet where there would be an underground red light district, he would guess it would be in the same quarter as the Moulin Rouge.

The bouncer sets his feet more firmly apart and eyes them up and down as they approach, bulky arms crossed over a bulky chest. It’s a little overkill, if Combeferre is being honest.

“There’s a line,” Muscle Man grunts, shoving his thumb at the girls behind the rope barrier, who are giving them annoyed and appreciative looks in equal measure.

“We’re regulars,” Enjolras says smoothly, and he and Combeferre flash the tokens Gavroche gave them.

Copper red and roughly the size of a two-Euro coin, they have an intricate A embossed on one side and a crude set of fanged teeth on the other. The bouncer relaxes when he sees them, nodding wordlessly and unclenching his painfully flexed muscles. He steps aside and holds open the door, and Combeferre and Enjolras glance at one other before crossing the threshold.

The bass-heavy music hits them first, thump-thumping through Combeferre’s bones and stuttering out a buzzing metronome in the back of his skull. Then the wave of heat slaps them full-blast, humid and smelling of sweat and inebriation. Saturday night—or morning—is the time to go clubbing, and the floor is duly filled to capacity; it takes them three songs, each identically head-throbbing beat bleeding into another, to push their way through the thick mass of people and get to the back of the club. Enjolras has no reservations about letting his disdain show, scowling at the sticky floor, the lump of bodies writhing to the beat, the neon backlit bar, and partying in general. Combeferre would laugh if they weren’t on a covert extraction mission.

Another walking protein shake advertisement stands guard at the back, in front of a drawn black curtain. Unlike his friend outside, he takes the time to pat them down and thoroughly examine their tokens before handing them back.

“I wish they’d keep the Eiffel Tower lit up all night,” he says, eyes flickering expectedly between them.

“It makes the stars shine brighter,” Combeferre recites, and the bouncer waves them through, already focused elsewhere.

A dark, narrow hallway leads them to another door, cushioned and lined with shiny, red plastic, like the booth of an American diner. Enjolras walks ahead as usual, pulling his phone out in the process and glancing at the screen. Combeferre follows suit and sees the text from Feuilly notifying them that he and Bahorel have secured the back exits and are in position.

“We have roughly an hour,” Enjolras tells him, hand on the doorknob.

Until the cops show, Combeferre knows. It doesn’t give them a lot of time, but they’ve been on tighter schedules before.

Without another word, he pushes the door open, and they’re greeted with the sight of l’Accrocheur’s best-kept secret.

The room is small and intimate, with a smattering of couches and armchairs glowing under the black light. The furniture is arranged around a raised stage complete with three poles, and a tidy-looking bar sits along the back wall. Men in expensive dinner jackets lean against the bar with cocktails and lounge on the couches, watching scantily clad humans, men and women both, strut around, batting their eyelashes and trailing their fingers along the black collars around their necks. A few of them sit sprawled next to the men on the couches, talking quietly with sultry smiles on their painted lips.

It’s incredibly well insulated, and as soon as the door shuts behind Combeferre, the thrumming bass from the club abruptly cuts off. The music here is slow and seductive, and a few of the humans dance on the stage, undulating their hips and slinking circuits around the poles. Enjolras touches Combeferre’s arm for a brief moment, then leaves to take a seat at the bar, eyes scanning and assessing the room. At least two of the workers’ gazes are instantly drawn to him, and Combeferre doubts Enjolras will have any trouble attracting people willing to listen to their plan.

Adjusting his glasses, Combeferre sets out for the opposite side of the stage, settling into an unoccupied armchair and letting his eyes wander to the humans they’re supposed to be rescuing. He counts six on the floor and three onstage, which means at least three more are… occupied upstairs. Enjolras is already speaking in hushed tones to one at the bar, a pretty girl in a leather corset and a fan of fake eyelashes. He looks like any other client, whispering in her ear while keeping a hand on her elbow. Let no one say Enjolras is incapable of acting the part.

Combeferre turns his attention to the stage, and that’s when he sees him.

Black leather pants painted on shapely legs, dark curls over dark eyes and a sinful mouth set in a mischievous smirk, he dances, shirtless and glowing under the purple and blue stage lights. A chain dangles from his collar (against smooth, tan skin, lithe with a hint of definition in the abdomen) and clips onto his pants. Combeferre watches, mesmerized, as he leans back against a pole and slowly lowers himself onto his haunches, then stands just as slowly, ass-first, dragging his hands up his legs and biting his lip coyly.

Combeferre’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

The man continues canting his hips to the rhythm, idly fondling the chain grazing his stomach, mouthing the words to the song as he sashays across the stage. Another human, a petite girl in booty shorts and combat boots, dances closer to him and says something against his ear, navigating him around with a hand at his waist. The man’s eyes flash to Combeferre’s, and Combeferre feels the wind get knocked out of him.

A roguish smile spreads like molasses across the stranger’s face, and suddenly he’s leaving the stage and sauntering to where Combeferre is sitting, never once breaking eye contact. The room gets about ten degrees warmer.

“Hey, baby,” he purrs, leaning his hands against the arms of Combeferre’s chair and angling forward into his space. “Like what you see?”

His chain dangles forward and clinks against a button on Combeferre’s shirt, and Combeferre feels a sharp urge to pull him forward by it. He clenches his fists and mentally chides himself.

“A little too much,” he admits, and the worker’s face lights up with pleasant surprise. Combeferre’s eyes catch on two perfect dimples framing his smile.

“Don’t hear that often,” he says. His hands leave the armchair to slide up Combeferre’s thighs instead, making him jolt in his seat. The stranger laughs.

“Relax, baby, I won’t bite.” His hands drift up Combeferre’s chest and massage his shoulders lightly. “That’s your job, remember?”

Combeferre searches his face, takes in the dark circles that assert themselves under his smudged eyeliner and the decidedly blank look behind his sultry gaze, and feels vaguely sick.

I wouldn’t do that, he wants to say.

Instead, he asks, “What’s your name?”

The beautiful stranger hums and settles more comfortably on his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“They call me Fey,” he says, tracing one finger along Combeferre’s jawline. “But you can call me whatever you want.”

Combeferre glides his hand up the other man’s arm and sneaks a glance at his watch. Forty-five minutes.

“How much are you charging, love?” he asks.

Fey’s grin widens as he tilts his head to the side, eyes slowly sliding up and down his frame—probably only evaluating how expensive his clothing is, but it still makes Combeferre feel bizarrely self-conscious.

“I’m sure you can afford it,” he says at last, and taps an index finger against Combeferre’s chin. “And since you’re new, I’ll give you a special discount.”

The clock is ticking. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre sees the girl Enjolras has been talking to walk away from the bar, a pinched expression on her face. She climbs onto the stage and dances close to one of her coworkers, whispering in his ear in a way that looks entirely natural. The other dancer’s eyes widen for a brief moment before sliding back into a neutral expression as he nods once and continues to dance.

The word is spreading. If they want a chance of getting everyone out safely, Combeferre needs to speed things up on his end. He snatches Fey’s hand and bends it forward to plant a kiss on the knuckles, watching him blink in surprise and utter a small, charmed laugh.

“Whatever you’re charging, I’ll pay you double.” I’ll give you your freedom. “Do you have a room available now?”

“Impatient, are we?” Fey tosses his head in a practiced move, sending perfectly tousled curls out of his eyes, and gives Combeferre a knowing smirk. “Let’s go, then.”

Without letting go of his hand, he slides off Combeferre’s lap, winding their fingers together and tugging him off the armchair. He leads them toward the back of the room, threading his way between the seats and patrons and giving his friend from earlier—the girl with the combat boots—a small wave. When they pass by the bar, Combeferre makes eye contact with Enjolras, who understands his wordless expression and gives him the slightest of nods before getting up to seek out another worker.

They have less than forty minutes.

Combeferre focuses his attention back to the man holding his hand, taking them through the silky curtains lining the walls and leaving the parlor room behind. He can’t tell where the room ends, if there’s even a solid wall there, but somehow they enter a hallway, dimly lit and lined with rich, red curtains. More fabric than wall, Combeferre thinks, arching an eyebrow. He has to admit it adds to the dreamy, sensual atmosphere the establishment seems keen on cultivating. Between the curtains there are doors, padded like the one at the entrance to the main room and probably just as sound-proof. Each door has a small, red light where the peephole would have been.

Fey’s skin has a soft, pinkish glow from the light reflecting off the fabric. Combeferre sets his jaw and keeps his focus.

Soon, the hallway will be swarming with police. They need to get to the other workers, somehow; the ones earning their keep behind the padded doors he and his escort pass by. At the end of the hall is a staircase leading to more rooms, and Combeferre has the bleak thought that they might have severely underestimated the number of humans that need to be evacuated.

“This should give us some privacy,” Fey says, stopping at one of the doors closer to the stairs, identical to all the others save for the little light, which is turned off.

Combeferre allows himself to be led inside, where a large, canopied bed dominates the space, covered in silky fabrics and innumerable pillows. Like the hallway outside, the theme is red—crimson sheets, a ruffled, layered, red canopy; a thick, luxurious, red rug over the oak floors. White lace detail on the pillows add a little reprieve, but Combeferre still feels his senses a little assaulted.

There isn’t much else in the room, aside from the bed; an oak dresser in the corner, a matching bedside table by the bed. Candles everywhere. He supposes it’s meant to be romantic, and maybe it would have been, in a different setting. Here, it just feels like part of an act. An elaborate, red stage.

No windows. But Combeferre expected that.

Fey closes the door behind them, and, as predicted, all outside noise is cut off. He flicks a switch next to the door which Combeferre assumes turns on the light outside, signaling its occupancy. He tries in vain to remember how many doors they passed in the hallway that had their light switched on. Four? Five? How many more are lit upstairs?

“So,” Fey says, his voice low and enticing. He turns back to Combeferre, one hand idly dragging down the chain clasped to his collar. “How did you want to do this?”

Combeferre sweeps all intruding thoughts from his head and diligently doesn’t let his eyes roam. He needs to act, and quickly. Placing his hands on Fey’s shoulders, he leans in until his lips are brushing against his ear.

“Listen, I need you to stay calm,” he murmurs, running his hands down Fey’s bare arms. He grips them just above the elbow, gently but securely. “The police are shutting this place down tonight.”

He hears Fey catch his breath.

“Are you a cop?” he whispers, utterly still in Combeferre’s hands.

“No,” he assures him. Fey relaxes a fraction but doesn’t move. "I'm... a friend."

Fey inhales sharply. His hands came to rest on Combeferre’s sides, clutching the fabric tightly.

“You’re ABC, aren’t you?” he breathes.

Combeferre isn’t surprised he knows about them. Their activist group has enough resources and influence to be on the national government’s black list; officials, police, the media—they all bury anything related to Les Amis, try to erase all evidence of their existence and pretend any of their successful ventures are streaks of disorganized vigilantism.

Naturally, their efforts have the opposite effect, and just about everyone knows about them, if only the rumors. In many ways, ABC is a bright beacon of hope for the humans and half-breeds of Paris. They are the group that dares to bare its throat to the corrupt vampire state and say, Try to stop me.

“Yes,” he says. “My name is Combeferre. And right now, I need your help.”

Fey draws himself closer, and Combeferre takes that as a positive response. He tries to get a good look around the room from where he’s standing, eyes flying to the light fixtures, the walls, the ceiling.

“Is there surveillance in here?” he asks, lips still pressed against Fey’s ear.

“Video,” Fey replies. “No audio, unless we press that call button by the door.”

Combeferre nods and draws back, trying to look as normal as possible and hoping Fey will play along. He doesn’t know how industrious security is with monitoring the rooms, but they can’t take any chances. He takes Fey’s face in his hands and leans in like he’s going for a kiss, stopping a hair’s breadth away from his lips and closing his eyes.

“The cops will be here within half an hour,” he whispers into the small space between them. “My partner and I, we’re here to get you out before then. We have more men outside to get everyone to safety.”

Combeferre pulls back just far enough to read the other man’s expression. His eyes are two large, glimmering pools of black, and there’s a smile teasing at the corners of his full, red mouth. He looks like something not of this earth, an ethereal figure dripping in candlelight. He is a black hole wrapped in starlight.

Focus.

“Enjolras—the blond man who came in with me—he’ll take care of everyone in the main room,” Combeferre tells him. “One at a time, so as not to draw attention.”

As he speaks, Fey slides his jacket off his shoulders, trailing his fingers over Combeferre's chest and arms, making a convincing show for the cameras. Too convincing, Combeferre thinks nervously, shivering at his touch. Fey walks him backwards until they reached the bed, then pushes him onto the satin sheets.

“We need a way to tell people in this part of the club, though,” he continues, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his growing desire.

He pulls Fey closer by his chain, like he wanted to in the main room, until he’s between Combeferre’s legs. Fey bites his lip in thought while Combeferre unclips the chain from his collar, then his pants, letting it fall with a series of clinks and a muffled thump on the fluffy rug.

“I could go door to door, pretend to be looking for something or delivering a message from the manager,” he says, but he looks uncertain, and Combeferre knows why.

“That would fool the patrons, but not security,” Combeferre surmises, and Fey nods. “How far do you think we’d get before they got suspicious?”

“Two, maybe three people,” he says grimly. “And that’s just getting the word out. As soon as even one human tries to leave, the client would call management.”

That would not do. If management or security gets tipped off about a bust, they would evacuate everyone en masse, and the police would be on them in a heartbeat.

Combeferre needs to think. If they knew about the sting even a night in advance, they would be better prepared… But there’s no time. They need to start getting humans out.

“At this point, we have nothing to lose,” Combeferre says. “If security starts asking questions, Enjolras and I will take care of it. We’ll extract them after getting everyone else out; if we’re quick enough about it, everyone will already be on the way out by the time management catches on.”

Fey nods and steps back, and Combeferre kicks himself for missing the warmth.

“Wait here,” Fey instructs. “It’ll be less suspicious if it’s just me going door to door. At least, for a while.”

He’s already turning for the door when Combeferre’s brain catches up to his words. Of course, logically, it makes sense for Fey to do this part alone, but the thought of sitting idly by while someone he’s supposed to be rescuing throws himself head-first into a dangerous mission does not sit well with him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Fey—on the contrary, something about the human gives him absolute confidence in his ability to be discreet. He’s also certain Fey knows all the secret exits of the club that Gavroche informed them of, and possibly a few more. It always pays to have someone on the inside. But if things are going to go south (and there’s a very high probability they will), Combeferre doesn’t want to be responsible for putting him in harm’s way. Fey is a civilian, and human, which puts him at greater risk than himself, even with his affiliation with an anti-establishment group.

Combeferre quickly stands and pulls Fey back by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“No way, you’re not doing this without me,” he says firmly, ignoring Fey’s squawk of protest. “This is much more dangerous for you than it is for me. I’m here to protect you, and—“

“Protect me?” Fey interrupts with an incredulous laugh. “From what? Vampires?”

He wrenches his arm away from Combeferre’s suddenly numb fingers, his eyes alight in a way that is at odds with his cold smile.

“I’ve been dealing with your kind for a long time, baby.” He traces a finger over the glossy surface of the collar around his throat. “Part of the job, in case you didn’t notice. I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Combeferre says, clenching his hands at his sides. “But if the police catch you, no amount of lap dances or batting your eyelashes will keep them from killing you.”

Color floods Fey’s cheeks. “Listen, you—“

The door bangs open, and Enjolras comes thundering in like a hurricane. He spares Fey a glance before settling his gaze on Combeferre, and his dark expression makes Combeferre’s blood run cold.

“They’re here,” Enjolras bites out.

Combeferre runs a hand through his close-cropped hair. “We were supposed to have another half hour.”

“Well, they’re early,” Enjolras snaps. He whips out his phone and begins rapid-fire texting, presumably to Feuilly. “They got tipped off somehow. We need to get as many people out as we can and then we need to leave.”

“How many have you gotten out so far?” Combeferre asks, afraid of the answer. Enjolras’s tight frown is answer enough, but he replies anyway.

“Three.”

Combeferre swears under his breath.

“They’ll be coming through the main door, assuming they don’t know about the hidden exits,” Enjolras continues, shoving his phone back in his pocket. The cameras in the room briefly enter Combeferre’s mind, but he figures there’s no use putting on an act anymore. The place will be shut down in a matter of minutes. “All the humans out there know about the bust by now. It’ll be chaotic, but there’s no time to try to get them out one-by-one now. I’ll give them the warning signal and hope for the best.”

Before Combeferre can respond, a scream tears through the hallway. Then another rises to meet it, joined by the sound of glass smashing, chairs scraping against the floor—soon, it’s all a jumbled, cacophonous roar, punctuated by what Combeferre hopes to God aren’t gunshots.

“Shit,” Enjolras hisses.

Fey springs into action, bolting out the door before Combeferre or Enjolras can even think to stop him.

“Wait!”

Combeferre runs out after him. Instead of heading toward an exit, Fey stops in the middle of the hall, pulling aside a curtain to reveal a call box on the wall. He grabs the phone off the hook and presses it to his ear, punching a button on the box.

“Police raid!” he barks into the phone.

Combeferre hears the static echo of his words in the private room they just left, door still ajar, and realizes the phone must be connected to the speakers in every room. He notes with a sinking feeling that Enjolras has disappeared, most likely to go straight into the fray. The man has no sense of self-preservation.

“Take the back exits, there’s help outside. Go!”

Doors begin opening on either side of the hall, people spilling out in various states of undress. They move quickly down the hall, away from the main room, sharing distressed looks with one another as the noise behind them grows louder and more panicked. Combeferre knows there’s an exit by the stairs, hidden behind the endless curtains. The other two exits are on the next floor up, leading to a fire escape. He doesn’t see anyone come down the stairs, so he assumes people are using those to get to the alley below.

Enjolras reappears at their side, golden hair disheveled and tie loose around his neck.

“We need to go,” he says. “Now.”

People are pouring past them now, a tidal wave of vampires and humans shouting and pushing at each other. There aren’t that many people in the brothel to begin with, but the hallway is small and cramped and only allows for a few people to go at a time, and they’re quickly becoming bottle-necked. Still, more people come, forced to seek an alternative exit that isn’t barred by the police.

“Eponine,” Fey says suddenly, whirling toward Enjolras. “Did you get her out?”

“Who?”

“Eponine, my friend, Eponine!” Fey shouts over the crowd, growing frantic.

Combeferre remembers the girl in the combat boots.

“Short, dark hair, bangs,” Combeferre quickly summarizes, and Enjolras’s confused expression clears.

“The last time I saw her, she was in the main room,” he says, shaking his head. “We’ll do our best to get her out, but you need to—hey, wait!”

Fey is already gone, shoving against the tide, heading directly toward the mayhem. Combeferre makes to go after him—

An impossibly loud bang sends Combeferre's ears ringing as a bullet whistles past his head.

Everyone throws themselves to the ground, the shouts around them turning into screams of terror. Something wet and warm trickles down Combeferre’s face.

“They’re not even trying to arrest anyone.” Enjolras’s voice is seething. “They’re just shooting randomly, goddamn fucking pigs.”

The police are in the crowd now, and the wave becomes a stampede as people fight to escape. More bullets rip through the air, the acrid smell of sulfur rising in plumes of smoke, and with them the levels of hysteria escalate more and more. Enjolras shoulders his way forward like a bull, Combeferre hanging on to his shirt to stay together. Bodies slam into him from all sides with bruising force, until he feels like a piece of meat being tenderized. He only knows they’re heading in the right direction because everyone else is going the opposite way.

The crowd soon thins out and a police uniform emerges; a grimacing man brandishing a gun at the civilians. Without pausing for a breath, Enjolras grabs his gun and slams a fist into the vampire’s nose, sending him careening backwards into the wall. A bartender, passing by, takes the opportunity to sucker punch the officer in the groin before moving on.

They’re almost at the main room when Fey and Eponine tumble through the curtains, crashing straight into them. Combeferre notices that Eponine has also managed to get her hands on a gun, pointing it steadily behind them while they regain their footing.

“Go, go, go!” Fey yells, spinning Combeferre around and pushing him back down the hallway.

Two police officers burst out after them, sending the curtains billowing up like clouds. Eponine fires wildly and misses, the bullet embedding itself into the pillowed wall. The second shot hits one of the cops in the leg, and he trips his colleague on his way down.

“This way,” Fey calls, pulling Combeferre into one of the abandoned rooms.

Enjolras and Eponine are quick to follow, shutting and bolting the door behind them. Fey immediately crosses the room in quick strides and begins running his hands over the patterned wallpaper, muttering to himself.

“Come on, come on… Yes!” he exclaims, shooting them a victorious grin over his shoulder. “Got it!”

He wedges his fingers into the tiny, imperceptible gap in the wall and begins to pull, leaning all his weight back. After a moment, the space in the wall gets wider, and the sliver of a doorway appears. Once Fey tugs the door free of the wall, it swings back easily, sending him stumbling back.

Beyond the door is a steep set of stairs, which Fey practically flies up, Eponine close on his tail. Enjolras and Combeferre share a look, but wordlessly follow. There’s no way they can go back the way they came.

The hazardous staircase feels like the rickety ascent to an old house's attic, each step creaking and groaning under their feet. It isn’t not musty, though; on the contrary, Combeferre feels a cold breeze cut across his sore cheek. The stairs lead directly to a narrow balcony overlooking a back alley. With the breeze come the sound of sirens, and Combeferre feels his cheek stinging as he grins, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Gavroche didn’t know about this one,” he says to Enjolras, who actually laughs.

“No, he didn’t,” he agrees.

Without wasting any time, they escape into the cool embrace of the night, climbing down the small ladder off the side of the balcony and hopping to the ground below. This close to dawn, the air is crisp and biting, and Combeferre wishes he still had his jacket so he could wrap it around Fey’s exposed shoulders.

The four of them creep along the side of the building, sticking to side streets the entire way to Blanche. The sound of sirens soon fades behind them, but they don’t dare to risk walking out in the open. Gradient by gradient, the sky begins to lighten to the east, a dusty grey-ish blue that sucks the saturation from the city. Soon, the sun will peek out over the horizon; by then, the streets will be mostly empty, save for a human or two, and Paris will sleep.

Bahorel and Feuilly meet them in a narrow alley a block away from the station, staring between them, Eponine and Fey with bewildered expressions. Combeferre belatedly realizes the entire left side of his face is crusted in blood.

Feuilly whistles lowly.

“I know things didn’t go according to plan, but Jesus Christ,” he says mildly. “What the hell?”

“We had some setbacks,” Enjolras says blandly. His hair is an absolute mess. "How many humans did you evacuate?"

"All of them," Bahorel replies, his grin gleaming white against his dark skin. "A few are in bad shape, but nothing Joly can't take care of. They're all in safe houses by now."

"Almost all of them," Feuilly corrects, shifting his attention to the two shivering humans at Enjolras and Combeferre's side. "Hi, friends."

Bahorel quickly pulls his sweatshirt over his head and offers it to Eponine, who puts it on and sighs gratefully at the warmth. Feuilly follows suit and gives Fey his flannel, a kind smile on his freckled face. The entire time Enjolras studies them with a thoughtful look that Combeferre can’t parse out. No doubt the gears are turning in his big, strategic brain.

"They proved to be really helpful," he finally says, and that is a big compliment coming from Enjolras.

“I shot a cop,” Eponine says proudly.

“Nice!” Bahorel high-fives her.

“And Fey saved all our asses,” Combeferre feels obliged to add, nodding at the man beside him. "He knew another secret exit."

“Courfeyrac,” he says while buttoning up Feuilly’s shirt. It’s a size too big and makes him look softer somehow, edges smoothed and sanded down.

He looks straight into Combeferre’s eyes and tosses his hair back, a wide, genuine smile dimpling his cheeks.

“My name is Courfeyrac.”

A suspended quiet settles over Paris with the dawn. The sun is just grazing the horizon when they arrive at the Musain, gleaming gold against the slopes of the mansard roofs and casting an orange blush on the pillars of the Panthéon, making it look like something outside of time—an ancient temple dedicated to the gods of old. The wide, empty streets shimmer as though embedded with diamonds in the light.

Combeferre and Enjolras rely on the long shadows of the early morning to avoid the fingers of sunlight combing through the city. The light never touches their skin, but Combeferre still feels uncomfortably warm, and the impossible brightness makes him squint and his forehead throb. Feuilly, Bahorel, Eponine, and Courfeyrac all walk in the open, impervious to the light; it caresses their skin like a kiss, streaking through their hair and pulling smiles to their lips. The sun is a blanket for them, comforting and nourishing and gentle in its embrace. Combeferre wonders what it’s like to be so loved by a star.

The café is closed for the day. Everyone is still gathered in their headquarters upstairs, sleep drooping their eyelids and sagging their shoulders. Joly looks especially haggard, having treated a handful of injured people that emerged from the police raid. Mission status updates were sent regularly to all members, so there’s no reason for them to wait up for them, really. Yet they’re all there, even Grantaire, with a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a mug of coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“We’re back!” Bahorel announces, bringing a fresh wave of energy to the stagnant room. Bodies stir in response, shuffling out of seats, bleary faces blinking and yawning to life.

“And we brought company,” Feuilly says, although it’s entirely unnecessary. Everyone is already giving Courfeyrac and Eponine appraising looks, curious and mostly inoffensive.

Still, Eponine immediately tenses, and Courfeyrac puts an appeasing hand on her arm. He doesn’t look entirely comfortable, himself.

“Sorry,” Jehan says, spreading their arms in a mollifying gesture. “You must be a little overwhelmed. You’re amongst friends, though.”

“We’ll do introductions later, after everyone gets some rest,” Combeferre says sensibly. “I think we’ve all been through enough for the night.”

“Will you be staying here?” Joly pipes up, somehow still open and cheerful despite looking thoroughly drained. “We have the space.”

Courfeyrac glances at Combeferre and Enjolras, then shares a long look with Eponine, a silent conversation passing between them.

“Would staying here mean joining the, um,” Eponine starts, gesturing toward the gathered group with a sharp wave of her hand. “Vigilante justice thing?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Enjolras says firmly. “We run a highly illegal organization that is at constant risk of discovery. If you don’t want to join ABC, we can set you up in a safe house until you find other accommodations. But we could really use your help here.”

Combeferre silently agrees. As messy as the extraction mission was that night, he is certain it would have gone a lot worse without Courfeyrac and Eponine’s help. On the outside, Enjolras seems impartial on the matter, but Combeferre can tell he hopes they choose to join ABC. They would be valuable assets to the cause.

“I’ll stay,” Courfeyrac says quietly.

Away from the soft, dim lighting of the club, he looks worn, wrung out like a sponge. The shadows under his eyes are prominent, and his hair lacks the shine and buoyancy Combeferre thinks it might be capable of under difference circumstances. When he meets Enjolras’s eyes, though, he looks unshakable.

“I want to help.”

After a heavy pause, Eponine sighs and says, “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay, too.”

A pleased smile graces Enjolras’s face, and the collective breath everyone was holding is released.

“Welcome to Les Amis!” Joly exclaims, and Grantaire raises his coffee cup to them, chiming in with a “Here, here!”

“I’ll show you your rooms,” Combeferre says, hoping to wrap things up so the newcomers can rest. They’re practically swaying on their feet. “We’ll get you some clothes, too.”

“Oh, and you don’t have to keep your necks covered when you’re here,” Feuilly says, eyes flickering to the shiny collars still around their throats.

Courfeyrac starts, his small smile slipping from his face. He looks at Feuilly, who took his scarf off as soon as they entered the building, then switches his gaze to the rest of the room, seeming to pick out the humans. Combeferre watches as realization dawns on his face; Bahorel, Grantaire, Joly, Musichetta—all of them have their necks exposed. Combeferre hazards a guess that Eponine already noticed the discrepancy earlier, because she doesn’t look so much as fazed, her expression carefully blank.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says softly. His hand comes up to hover over his collar.

“Or, you can,” Combeferre adds, not sure what makes him say it. Something to do with the guarded look that has crept back into Courfeyrac’s eyes. “It’s up to you. But you’re not obligated to.”

“You definitely don’t have to wear those things anymore,” Musichetta remarks with a disdainful frown.

You should have seen the chain, Combeferre thinks bleakly.

Something isn’t right. The way Courfeyrac trains his gaze to the floor, fidgeting with the sleeves of Feuilly’s borrowed shirt and suddenly looking like he wants to be anywhere but there. In contrast, Eponine seems to stand up straighter, her eyes becoming hard like flint and her hands clenched at her sides. A delayed question enters Combeferre’s head, and he can’t shake it. The brothel was run from the back of the club, where regular patrons were barred from entering. If their job was to seduce vampires, why keep their necks covered at all? The law hardly mattered in a place like that.

The room falls silent again, sensing the change in the atmosphere. Eponine is the first to reach for her collar, working at the clasp in jerky movements. Courfeyrac closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before following suit. Their collars come undone with a hollow click, and Combeferre has to fight a wave of nausea as the skin beneath is revealed.

Bruises mottle their necks, tiny, red dots in the center of each purplish circle. The theeth marks overlap each other in places, forming a canvas of blue and gray and sickly yellow.

Some of the bites are not as neat as others.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says.

Jehan covers their mouth with their hand and looks away. Feuilly also looks away, his jaw tense. The others stare in a mix of horror and anger, the shock of these strangers’ reality sinking in like an anchor.

Enjolras looks livid.

“Who did this to you?” he asks lowly.

Eponine casts him a morbid smile. She still stands tall, chin up, a challenge in her fierce eyes.

“You want a list?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says seriously.

Courfeyrac is still staring at the ground, something akin to shame furrowing his brows, but he smiles at that.

“We don’t have any of the patrons’ information, ourselves,” he says, finally looking up but still not making eye contact with anyone. “I’m sure half of them are locked up by now, anyway.”

“Yeah, and they’ll be released by sunset,” Eponine says bitterly. “You bet your ass they had money, going to a place like that regularly.”

“We can do better than getting them behind bars,” Enjolras declares.

Combeferre finally tears his gaze away from Courfeyrac’s mangled neck.

“We are not killing anyone, Enjolras,” he says, though he’s sorely tempted.

Now that the horror and nausea has worn off, he’s left with a rage he didn’t think himself capable of. It seeps into his veins and floods his core, white-hot and demanding.

There’s a reason every human in the country is required to donate blood once a month. The blood is processed, refined down and concentrated, and made into capsules, which are distributed to every vampire in the system. One capsule every two days provides the nutrition vampires need and keeps blood lust at bay; they’re tasteless, of course, but entirely worth the alternative.

Combeferre knows there are vampires who prefer the real thing, morals be damned. Elitists who turn their noses up at the safer, more humane method. They preach the ways of the old days, the way their ancestors adhered to the natural order. Predator and prey. Pseudo-science meets conservative, intolerant bullshit.

Illegal human brothels provide a setting for those vampires to indulge their backwards ethics, without potentially putting themselves or their family names in hot water. Consensual feeding is not strictly prohibited by law, but vampire-human relations are, and the two are irrefutably linked.

Knowing about something and seeing it are two very different things. Looking at Courfeyrac and Eponine makes Combeferre never want to touch blood again, even in capsule form.

“No use getting riled up about it now.” Eponine shrugs her thin shoulders, the tightness in her expression betraying her true feelings.

“Can we just…” Courfeyrac’s voice is small and fragile in a way Combeferre can’t stand. “Not talk about it? I’m tired, and I just want…”

He sighs out a harsh breath and clutches the fabric of Feuilly’s shirt tighter to himself.

“Okay,” Combeferre says complacently. “Okay. Let’s get you to your rooms.”

He wants to put a hand on Eponine’s shoulder, or Courfeyrac’s back, as a sign of comfort. He refrains, though, heading to the hallway with a gesture for them to follow. A vampire’s touch is probably the last thing either of them wants at the moment.

“Wait,” Enjolras says, just as they’re exiting the room.

Courfeyrac and Eponine pause at the door, which Combeferre is holding open for them. Enjolras has his leader face on, blue eyes hard like ice and jaw set in unwavering determination, hair no longer just a mess but a wild mane. He is both a mountain and a natural disaster, relentless and unyielding.

“I want you to know,” he says with all the strength of his convictions. “I swear to you, that will never happen to you again. You are safe with us.”

They stare at him, somewhat dumbstruck. It’s the usual reaction Enjolras inspires in people, and Combeferre is no different, even after years of friendship.

Then Bossuet chimes in, with an ingratiating grin, “Yeah, we won’t bite.”

There’s a moment of precarious silence as the newcomers look from Enjolras to Bossuet, an instant in time teetering on the edge of something unknown. Then Courfeyrac utters a small giggle, which turns into a laugh, bubbling out of him like an overflowing pot of boiling water. Eponine’s shoulders relax minutely, and she snorts under her breath. It feels like a release, shedding water to make room for something new.

A fresh start.

Courfeyrac sleeps for twelve hours.

When he finally cracks open his sleep-crusted eyes, the last rays of sunset are spilling through the blinds, striping the bedroom in a vivid orange. The room is sparsely furnished, with nothing but a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, and a plain, wooden chair in the corner. The floors are a honey-toned hardwood, the walls white and blank.

No red. Courfeyrac smiles.

He stretches his arms overhead and yawns widely, then gets up and ambles to the bathroom at the end of the small hallway. It’s clean and brightly lit, and, like the bedroom, a blank canvas. Courfeyrac washes his face, scrubbing off the dirt and dried sweat and eyeliner until his skin tingles.

There’s a mirror above the sink. He does not look in it.

The compact kitchen is devoid of any food, as anticipated, but at least the refrigerator works. Courfeyrac’s stomach growls impatiently, and he wonders how he’ll pay for food. In his room at the brothel, he stashed away his savings inside the mattress; but there’s no accessing that now. All that miserable work, wasted.

Courfeyrac sighs and leans against the kitchen counter, cradling his head in his hands. What now what now what now…

A timid knock at the door startles him out of his spiraling thoughts. He stares at the door, chewing on his lip, until a second knock comes, a little louder.

You’re among friends here.

Courfeyrac lets out a slow breath, then goes to answer the door. A nervous-looking vampire stands in the threshold, a bundle of clothes in his hands and a smile plastered to his face. Sleek, black hair, angled features that seem at odds with his diffident expression. Handsome, in that unsettling way they always are. Pretty Venus flytraps.

“Hi… Courfeyrac, right?” he says.

His smile wavers when he catches sight of Courfeyrac’s neck, and Courfeyrac fights the urge to cover himself, or slam the door in the vampire’s face.

“Enjolras told me we’re around the same size, so…” he holds up the clothes in offering. “I’m Marius.”

He squints against the light coming through the blinds, still smiling uneasily, like he’s at a job interview. It’s oddly disarming. Despite what all his prior experience is telling him, Courfeyrac gets the feeling this particular vampire is completely harmless.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says, taking the clothes from him. “Come in, if you want? I can close the blinds.”

“Oh, no, I just came by to drop those off,” Marius says apologetically, shoving his now-empty hands into his pockets. “And to tell you that, you know, if you need anything, I’m right down the hall. And Grantaire lives upstairs.”

Eponine’s apartment, he knows, is one door to the right. He has no idea who Grantaire is, and he doesn’t bother asking. He’ll probably find out soon enough.

“Does Combeferre live here, too?” Courfeyrac hears himself asking, and immediately wonders why it matters.

“No, he and Enjolras live on the right bank,” Marius says, seeming to find nothing odd about the question. “Fourth district, I think? Anyway, I saw Eponine in the café downstairs. There’s food, if you’re hungry.”

On cue, Courfeyrac’s stomach lets out another displeased rumble, and Marius’s smile becomes a shade less nervous.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says again, kinder this time. “So, you met Eponine? Sorry if she gave you a hard time, she’s a little prickly around new people.”

“Really?” Marius gives him a politely confused look. “She seemed fine to me. A little shy, actually.”

That gives Courfeyrac pause. He wonders if they’re talking about the same person, or if Marius just saw someone who looked like Eponine downstairs. It seems unlikely, but then, so does the possibility of anyone thinking an appropriate adjective for Eponine is shy.

“Anyway, I have to go, but…” Marius sticks his hand out hopefully. “It was really nice to meet you. If you need anything, or want to say hi, or… yeah, anything. I’m here.”

After a beat, Courfeyrac accepts the handshake, not wanting to be rude to this strangely docile vampire who gave him real clothes. Real clothes, and an offer of friendship.

The feel of his skin is all too dreadfully familiar—cold, a little too smooth, with a weight and plasticity behind it that’s just outside of human. Courfeyrac fights down a shudder.

Marius turns to leave, then spins back around on his heel.

“One last thing,” he says, giving Courfeyrac a painfully earnest look. “I’m really sorry, about your neck… That shouldn’t have happened.”

Courfeyrac looks away, self-conscious and hating the pity in Marius’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he manages to utter rigidly. Go away.

Marius leaves, and Courfeyrac vigorously washes his hands in the kitchen sink. With nothing but his empty stomach keeping him company, he changes into the clothes Marius gave him. They’re a good fit, even if the soft, green color of the button-up doesn’t do him any favors. Courfeyrac is just glad there’s no leather. A soft, plain, gray scarf comes with the bundle, the tag still attached. Courfeyrac winds it around his neck and makes for the front door, grabbing the key on the kitchen counter on the way out.

The Musain is just beginning to fill up when he descends the stairs, the smell of freshly ground coffee and warm pastries making his mouth water. He spots Eponine at a table in the back, waving to him. A familiar-looking man sits next to her, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, and it takes Courfeyrac a moment to place his face. The last time he saw him, he was drawing something in a sketchbook, untamed hair curling over his forehead and shadows etching themselves deeply under his sunken eyes. The sketchbook is nowhere in sight now, but his hair is just as wild and his eyes look just as tired. A cigarette is tucked behind one ear. He smiles easily when Courfeyrac arrives at their table.

“Evening,” he greets, raising his cup to Courfeyrac before draining the rest of it. It must be scalding hot, but the man doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac says, sinking into the empty chair next to Eponine. She slides him a latté with a palm leaf design swirled into the foam, and oh, Courfeyrac could kiss her.

“This is Grantaire,” Eponine says while Courfeyrac takes a long sip, downing half the cup in one gulp. “He lives on the floor above us.”

“Marius mentioned that,” Courfeyrac says, setting his coffee down and extending a hand for Grantaire to shake. “Courfeyrac. Nice to meet you.”

“Back at you,” Grantaire says. “Welcome to our illegal little nook of Paris. Well,” he amends, shrugging. “The café part is mostly legal.”

“You met Marius?” Eponine says casually. Suspiciously casually. Courfeyrac decides to file away his questions for another time.

“Yeah, he dropped off a change of clothes for me. Seemed nice.”

“Marius is a good guy,” Grantaire confirms, nodding sagely. “Pretty weird, though. Most human vampire I’ve ever met.”

Courfeyrac notices, for the first time, that Eponine’s clothes are not her own, either. She has on a white tee shirt with the words femme fatale in gold script across the chest, an olive-green jacket, and light-wash jeans tucked into her boots. Her neck is wrapped in a thin, dark, purple kerchief. The look suits her much better than Courfeyrac’s outfit does, in his opinion.

“Whose clothes?” he says with a nod at her outfit.

“Musichetta. She’s pretty cool.” Eponine turns to Grantaire, who has pulled the cigarette out from behind his ear and is fidgeting with it, twirling it between his fingers like a coin. “Does anyone else live in the apartments upstairs?”

“Sometimes Floréal rents one or two out to students,” Grantaire replies. “But not at the moment. They’re mostly kept vacant, for friends who have nowhere else to go.”

He says friends like it's capitalized, and Courfeyrac understands he means members of Les Amis de l’ABC.

“Marius is estranged from his crazy, anti-blood capsule family,” he continues with a dry scoff. “Not a penny to his name. So Floréal put him up.”

“And why did Floréal put you up?” Eponine asks, raising her eyebrows.

Courfeyrac inwardly winces at the incredibly personal question, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind. He leans forward in his seat, making a show of looking around before replying.

“I’m a wanted man,” he says, waggling his eyebrows for effect. Courfeyrac has no idea if he’s joking.

“So, these must be my new tenants.”

Courfeyrac turns in his seat at the new voice. It belongs to a woman who looks to be in her forties, a septum piercing in her nose and her hair gelled in a pixie cut. Something about her seems distinctly off, somehow, and it quickly occurs to Courfeyrac that she’s a half-breed.

“This is Eponine and Courfeyrac,” Grantaire supplies, tucking his cigarette back behind his ear.

Floréal smiles at them and sets down a plate laden with croissants, jam, and butter on the table. At Courfeyrac’s hesitant look she says, “On the house, love.”

Eponine doesn’t have to be told twice. She snatches a croissant off the plate and stuffs it into her mouth like she’s dying.

“Floréal, you are a national treasure,” Grantaire gushes as he reaches for a pastry.

Floréal slaps his hand away without missing a beat.

“Not to you, I’m not,” she says, but she runs a hand through his hair to soften the blow.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says, trying not to stare.

He’s never seen a half-breed before; they’re rare in Paris, driven to live in the country or elsewhere in Europe entirely. Before today, he wasn’t sure he would be able to pick them out from a crowd, but Floréal’s mixed blood is immediately apparent. Her elven features are striking, with an edge to them that is undeniably inhuman. Yet her skin has a warm undertone, a life to it that no vampire possesses, and her eyes and teeth don’t glimmer preternaturally in the artificial light of the café.

Eponine isn’t as fascinated as he is, already finished with one croissant and moving on to the next. Courfeyrac finally takes a bite and shuts his eyes in appreciation. They’re perfect, crisp and golden brown on the outside and light as air on the inside.

“Eat up, cherie, there are plenty more where those came from,” Floréal says, and Grantaire was right. She is a national treasure. “Honestly, what were they feeding you in that awful place?”

“Not this,” Eponine says through a mouthful of butter and puff pastry. Floréal laughs.

“Speaking of which,” Courfeyrac says after another sip of coffee. He’s loathe to bring it up, but… “Eponine and I are out of a job.” He looks into Floréal’s perfectly human eyes. “I don’t know how much rent is, but I don’t think we can—“

Floréal holds up a hand to stop him.

“First month’s rent is free for Friends of the People,” she says with a wink. “And if you can’t find work elsewhere, we’re understaffed here at the café.”

The kindness is a little overwhelming. It forces a lump into his throat that threatens to choke him. He’s done nothing to deserve this stranger’s hospitality, and he knows it.

Across the table, Eponine’s eyebrows furrow together, and Courfeyrac can tell she’s having similar thoughts. Eponine has never taken kindly to charity, too proud of her hard-earned independence to view it as anything but an insult.

“We don’t want to hurt your business,” Courfeyrac says quickly, before Eponine can protest in a less delicate way.

Floréal laughs incredulously.

“Sweetheart, those apartments are empty most of the time. The only thing I would dream of charging you for is water and electricity, and a month’s coverage certainly wouldn’t be a financial burden. Trust me.”

Courfeyrac is surprised before the truth of the statement sinks in, and then he marvels that he hasn’t thought about the incongruity before. The Musain sits in a prime location in Paris, just blocks away from the Sorbonne and the Jardin du Luxembourg. Logistically, there’s just no way Floréal can pay rent for half the building’s rooms on a café’s earnings, no matter how successful it is. He has to wonder where her funds are coming from.

“You won’t find a better deal in Paris,” Grantaire tells them. “Or anywhere, actually.”

Eponine still looks dubious, like it’s all a trick to get them to accept a hand-out. Even if it is, she and Courfeyrac are not in the position to refuse.

“We really appreciate it,” Courfeyrac says sincerely. “This is very generous of you.”

“Too generous,” Eponine agrees.

Courfeyrac kicks her under the table.

“Thank you,” she adds, glowering at him.

“Don’t mention it,” Floréal says, and with a final, affectionate tug at a lock of Grantaire’s hair, she leaves their table.

Courfeyrac waits until she’s out of earshot to reprimand Eponine.

“You could pretend to be grateful,” he says in exasperation. “We’re really lucky to be here.”

“I am grateful,” Eponine retorts, viciously tearing off a piece of her croissant. “But don’t you think it’s weird? How can she afford not to charge rent?”

“It’s none of our business,” Courfeyrac says firmly, even though he silently agrees.

“I don’t know all the details,” Grantaire cuts in, tapping his knuckles pensively on the table. “But I know Enjolras’s little band of freedom fighters has some wealthy benefactors. The guy who owns this building is a big supporter of the cause.”

“You talk like you’re not one of those ‘freedom fighters,’” Eponine says pointedly. “Don’t you believe in the cause?”

Grantaire gives her a wry smile.

“I don’t believe in much,” he says.

They finish their breakfast in amiable silence, and when the plate is clear Courfeyrac’s thoughts return to the question of finances.

“We can’t just keep comping free meals here every day,” he says with a worried frown. “And we need clothes, and basic household things, like soap…”

“Dude, chill,” Grantaire says. He’s doodling on a napkin with a pen he borrowed from the barista. “Trust me, you’re covered.”

“Covered how?”

“Why don’t you ask Combeferre, since he’s here?” Grantaire suggests, nodding behind him.

Courfeyrac swivels in his chair, and sure enough, Combeferre’s tall frame stands in the doorway. He really does cut a stunning figure, cheekbones cut like ice into dark, perfect skin, eyes deep and lovely behind thick-framed glasses, a graceful intelligence about him that makes Courfeyrac sit up straighter in his chair. He waves cordially at Floréal before scanning the room. When his eyes land on their table, a warm smile lights up his handsome face.

“Hey, ‘Ferre,” Grantaire says, getting out of his seat. “Great timing, I was just going to get some fresh air. I think these two have some questions for you.”

He takes the cigarette out from behind his ear again and sticks it between his lips, nods at Courfeyrac and Eponine, then makes for the exit.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac says. Eponine snorts behind him.

“Hi,” Combeferre echoes, taking Grantaire’s vacated seat. Courfeyrac feels far too pleased that Combeferre’s eyes stay mostly on him after giving Eponine a cursory smile.

“Yes, hi, hello, everyone’s greeted everyone,” Eponine says. “How are we going to buy things?”

“Oh, um, that’s actually what I came here to talk to you about,” Combeferre says.

He pulls two white envelopes from his coat and sets them on the table before them.

“This should cover you for a while, until you get settled.”

Courfeyrac picks up his envelope and peers at the colorful fan of bills inside. Eponine clears her throat, but doesn’t say anything as she stares at the cash, clutching the envelope close to her chest. Very slowly, Courfeyrac tucks the envelope in his pocket.

“Can I ask… where did this money come from?”

Combeferre studies him, eyes like honey, warmer than any vampire’s eyes had the right to be.

“ABC has friends in high places,” is all he says.

Wealthy benefactors. Of course. Courfeyrac folds his hands on the table and wonders which vampire politicians secretly have a humanitarian side.

“I don’t want your friends’ charity,” Eponine bites out, but Courfeyrac can see her resolve is shaky. She’s still clasping the envelope in a white-knuckled grip, like the money could evaporate at any moment.

“Believe me, it’s not charity,” Combeferre says calmly. “You two are members now. That means you have access to ABC’s funds. And we have no shortage in that department.”

“What are you, like, the treasurer?” Eponine asks sardonically.

“No, that’s Feuilly. But seriously, all our resources are yours, too, now.” Combeferre nods at the envelope in her hands. “You can’t be completely reliant on them forever, but for now, consider all your expenses covered.”

Members, resources, benefactors. It all sounds very familiar. Courfeyrac feels like he’s been thrust out of one bear trap and into another, cut loose just to be tangled up in something else. There’s nothing free about these funds, just as there was nothing free about his room and board at l’Accrocheur.

It's all very claustrophobic. But Courfeyrac made his decision, and he doesn’t regret it. He would much sooner give his body to a cause he believes in, at the side of people who value and respect him, than to another nameless stranger between red, satin sheets.

“Jehan is working on getting your new paperwork processed,” Combeferre continues. “For IDs, credit cards, that sort of thing. It’ll take a week or two, though.”

Eponine shrugs and tucks her own envelope away. She reached the same conclusion Courfeyrac has.

“Not like we have any plans.” She stands then, kissing Courfeyrac’s cheeks and giving Combeferre a rare smile.

“I think I’m going to go shopping,” she says breezily, and with a parting wave, she briskly walks off.

Combeferre stares after her, taken aback by the abrupt departure.

“She means ‘thank you,’” Courfeyrac says, bringing the vampire’s attention back to him. He’ll get used to Eponine, in time. “Really, I… this means a lot. So. Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble,” Combeferre says, mirroring Courfeyrac’s pose and folding his hands on the table. “This is all pretty standard procedure, even for non-members. We give people a stipend, ask them to stay put for a few weeks while we get them in the system, then they leave when they’re ready. Sometimes they don’t stay put, though.” Combeferre frowns. “They don’t trust us to keep them safe and would rather risk it on their own. That’s how we lose people.”

“Eponine won’t disappear,” Courfeyrac says, sensing that’s where Combeferre’s mind has turned. “She’s pretty hard-headed, but she’s not stupid.”

Combeferre regards him silently, concern lining his face.

“…Neither will I,” Courfeyrac says quietly.

At that, Combeferre’s lips quirk up seemingly without his approval, and something like fondness blossoms in Courfeyrac’s chest.

“So, what were your plans for the night?” Combeferre asks.

Courfeyrac doesn’t comment on the topic change, ready to part with heavy conversations for a while. His mind wanders to his new apartment, bare and devoid of any personality.

“I was thinking of decorating.”

“Your new place?”

Courfeyrac nods and swallows the last drops of his latté. The caffeine has sufficiently roused him from his stupor, giving him the energy to face this new life with gusto.

“What did you have in mind?” Combeferre asks.

The foam in the bottom of his coffee cup slowly fizzles out, leaving a tiny, cold puddle of caramel-colored liquid behind. Courfeyrac thinks about fresh starts, and the temporary nature of coffee foam.

“I was thinking cool colors. A desk, some pictures to hang up.” He smiles at Combeferre. “No curtains.”

Combeferre laughs. The sound seeps into his bones like the drawn-out note of an acoustic guitar.

“No curtains,” Combeferre agrees. “Do you want company? It’s my day off at the lab.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t surprised, but it’s still fascinating to find that, at the moment, there is nothing Courfeyrac wants more.

“Sure.”

Hours later, after they shoved everything into Courfeyrac’s apartment and he confirmed that, yes, he could most definitely take it from there, Combeferre grips his hand in parting and leaves him standing, smiling like an idiot, in the middle of his living room, shopping bags and newly acquired furniture scattered all around him.

Courfeyrac surveys his hoard as he loosens the scarf around his neck. It will take the rest of the night to get everything in its place, and at least two more trips to the store to buy the things he and Combeferre inevitably forgot.

It’s not until halfway through hanging up his new clothes that Courfeyrac realizes he felt no discomfort in shaking Combeferre’s hand. His touch did not inspire an urge to scrub the feeling from his skin, nor did it spark tremors of anxiety to shiver through his lungs. He did not think of the brothel—hands branding themselves to his skin and burning their marks into his bones, so many that he lost track of all their lustful sighs, their fingernail indents on his thighs, their teeth splitting his veins open.

Courfeyrac stares at his hand, mapping the lines and wrinkles cutting across his skin. The thin ridges of his fingertips, the dip in the center of his palm.

When he thinks of Combeferre’s hand pressed to his, all he feels is an immense hope.