Archive of Our Own ^beta

The postcard is waiting on Grantaire's doorstep when he gets back from the gym. He slides the duffle bag off his shoulder and bends down to pick it up, looking at the picture on the front. Today, it comes from Budapest. 

The postcards come from all over the world, mostly Europe but with the occasional North American or South East Asian or Australian one thrown in. Whatever or whoever Grantaire works for, they're obviously pretty global. Not that Grantaire gets much time to admire the postcards. He takes them, gets the information he needs, then shreds them or burns them or disposes of them some other way. 

Anyway. 

He sits down, pulling his laptop towards him, and pulls up the website he uses to access his contracts. From there, he turns the postcard over so it’s picture-side down, and types the long barcode in the top right corner into the website’s search bar. 

Then he sits back and watches as the profile loads. 

The target’s name is Carl Lehmann. German, 54 years old, 5’9. He’s the owner of a string of businesses which, according to the profile, has been connected to drug trafficking, mostly cocaine and heroin, around the German-Polish border. 

Grantaire supposes this is why someone wants him dead. He figures it’s as good a reason as any. 

According to the profile, Carl Lehmann will be in Paris for a week, staying in a five star hotel near the Opera Garnier, with his private jet due to fly him back to Berlin in time for his Monday morning meeting.

Unfortunately for Monsieur Lehmann, he’s not going to make it that far. He clicks the box which accepts the contract. 

***

Grantaire has absolutely no idea who he works for. 

He’s never been told, never even been given a hint as to the organisation’s name, and he figures this is for the best.

He was nineteen, drunk in a seedy, backstreet bar, having just been kicked out of his parent’s house that very afternoon. No money, no prospects, no place to go. They must have known that, on some level. 

He was approached by the woman who he would come to know as his handler, although to this day he knows absolutely nothing about her, not even her name. She refers to herself only as E. She approached him, asked if he wanted to make a lot of money, and then, when he obviously said yes, asked if he had any athletic ability. His job involves a lot of running. 

He’s twenty-five now, and he kills people for a living, with a six-figure paycheck and a spacious, two bedroom apartment in central Paris to sweeten the deal. He has no friends, but that's okay because he doesn't need friends. He hasn't spoken to his family in years, but that's okay because he doesn't particularly want to. 

For now, he has an apartment big enough for his art studio, a paycheck large enough to buy himself nice, expensive wine and some decent paints and brushes. And all he has to do is commit murder once or twice a week. 

Things are normal. Things are fine.

***

After signing the contract, Grantaire spends the rest of the day reading through the information in the file provided, which lays out his target’s schedule for the next few days. Obviously, he has until the night Lehmann is due to fly home to get the job done, but this job has made him surprisingly efficient. The sooner he finishes this hit, the sooner another one will be assigned, the sooner he won’t have to sit in his apartment, bored and wishing something new would happen. 

He looks up pictures of the hotel, flicking through image after image on review sites and marketing sites and tourism forums, until he eventually comes across a clear image of the hotel’s housekeeping uniform. He has something similar in his wardrobe and dons it, throwing a hoodie over the top and his pistol in his backpack. He pauses at the wardrobe, wondering if he should put on a wig to hide his dark curls, or put in coloured contacts to change his grey eyes to brown, but decides against it, simply because wigs and coloured contacts are an annoying and unnecessary effort. It’s approaching 10pm, and Grantaire figures this is as good a time as any. 

He leaves, takes the metro from his apartment near the Champ de Mars to the stop nearest the hotel, careful to play the part of the bored commuter and not let everyone know that his body is already thrumming with adrenaline. He can’t help it, it happens every time, even though the act of killing strangers is now so routine that it’s become mundane, of all things. Grantaire wonders, vaguely, what life would be like if he had a job that was actually mundane. He thinks about working in something like insurance, or real estate, and snorts quietly to himself. 

When he arrives at the hotel, he sneaks in a door marked ‘STAFF’ at the side, pacing through corridors and acts like he knows where he’s going, even nodding and smiling at some of the staff who pass him. That’s half the trick with these hits- Pretending  know what you’re doing, pretend you’ve always belonged. 

He locates the front desk, where the receptionist is standing with a strained looking smile. God, having to work in a place that would require smiling all day would kill Grantaire. 

“Hey,” he says casually, “Is the boss out back? I need to speak to him.” 

The girl gives him a confused look, probably trying to work out why she doesn’t recognise him as one of her colleagues. But then she nods and disappears into the room behind her. The second she does, Grantaire glances around, and then leans over and steals the masterkey she’s left lying on the desk, before running to where he knows the stairs to the rooms are. 

Now for the easy part. 

Carl Lehmann is staying in a suite on the third floor. When Grantaire bursts into the suite, gun drawn, he finds that for this case, there’s something different. Something new. 

Carl Lehmann is in the suite, exactly like he’s supposed to be. Standard. Normal. Grantaire expected that. 

However, what is different is the fact that Carl Lehmann is currently lying eagle-spread on the floor, breathing but unconscious, with blood oozing from a large cut on his forehead. 

What’s also different is the extremely attractive stranger standing over his body, clutching, of all things, an ornate lamp, the base of which he’d obviously used to knock his target unconscious. Somehow, the lamp is still on, creating a soft glow on golden-brown skin and long blond curls and wide, dark eyes that have Grantaire itching for a paintbrush. 

Holy shit, he’s stunning. 

Wow, okay, Grantaire. Focus. 

The stranger is dressed all in black; black sweatshirt, (tight) black jeans, black combat boots and even a pair of black leather gloves, which Grantaire supposes are to prevent leaving fingerprints everywhere. 

(Grantaire resists the urge to roll his eyes- He gave up on the gimmick of wearing all black years ago. Now he wears whatever will help him blend into a crowd.)

When he sees Grantaire, the stranger’s entire body twitches, as if he’s going to drop the lamp and try to make a run for it, but he seems to think better of it and stands stock still instead, wide eyes ( brown, or maybe hazel- Grantaire is standing too far away to tell) boring into Grantaire’s. Smart boy. Grantaire would definitely have shot him if he tried that.  

As much as he would like to stand where he is and stare at this beautiful blond stranger all night, time is of the essence here. He points his gun directly at the blond’s head, and is impressed when he flinches only the slightest bit. 

“Who sent you?” Grantaire hisses. 

“No one sent me!” He snaps back, and to his credit, he seems remarkably undisturbed for someone with a gun to his head. 

Grantaire turns the safety off, the click sounding impossibly loud in the near silent room. 

“Woah, seriously.” The stranger holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ gesture, even though he’s still holding the lamp in one hand, “I don’t know who you are, but I’m not here for you.” He glances down at Carl Lehmann’s unconscious body. “I’m just here for his laptop, that’s all.” 

Grantaire frowns. “His laptop? Are you a burglar?” 

The stranger glares, looking more offended by this than he does by the gun pointed in his face. “No, I’m not.” 

Grantaire begrudgingly lowers his gun the slightest bit. “Then why are you stealing his laptop?” 

“I believe that there are some documents and correspondence on Monsieur Lehmann’s laptop that could leave him in a very...Compromising position.” The blond says calmly. 

Yeah, and I believe that the bullet I’m going to put in his head in five minutes will also leave him in a compromising position. 

Grantaire lowers his gun fully. His initial fear and shock have given away to a kind of morbid curiosity, and honestly, providing he keeps his mouth shut, Grantaire sees no real reason to kill the blond (Plus, it’s not in Grantaire’s nature to destroy beautiful things without reason, and this stranger is very, very beautiful). He sees his shoulders relax slightly; so he was nervous, just very good at hiding it. 

Grantaire smirks, nodding at the lamp still clutched in the blond’s hands. “I’ve lowered my weapon, I would appreciate it if you could do the same.” 

The blond glares, but he looks faintly embarrassed when he sets the lamp down on the table beside him. 

“I had to improvise, I wasn’t expecting him to be here. My colleague told me he was at a party or something tonight.” 

Grantaire smirks. “Your colleague got their dates mixed up; The party’s tomorrow night.” 

His eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer, and asks instead, “How did you even get in here? I didn’t see you on my way up.” 

“Oh,” The blond tilts his head in the direction of the large, traditionally Parisian window. “I climbed in the window.”

They’re three floors up. Grantaire laughs. “Okay, very funny. But seriously.” 

He glares. “I am serious. There’s a drainpipe attached to the wall. It wasn’t difficult.”

Where the fuck did this guy come from? “Who do you work for?” Grantaire asks suspiciously. 

“I run an organisation called Les Amis de l’ABC with a few friends.” Apparently deciding he’s safe enough for now, the blond walks across the suite, opens the wardrobe and starts rooting around in it. 

Grantaire folds his arms across his chest. “Les Amis de l’ABC? Never heard of you.” 

The stranger pauses in his searching, and looks over his shoulder at Grantaire with one eyebrow raised. “Isn’t that sort of the point?” 

Despite himself, Grantaire huffs a laugh. “Touché.” When he doesn’t offer anything else by way of conversation, Grantaire asks, “So what does Les Amis de l’ABC do?” 

“We’re focused on exposing and ultimately abolishing people, organisations, and corporations who use corrupt means to seize power, money or reap other benefits. We want this knowledge to be made available to the general population, so that they can take the correct actions against them and ensure they can’t maintain a position of power that they came by at the expense of normal, hard-working, good citizens.”

Grantaire snorts, because that’s ridiculous. “What, are you going to overthrow the government too?” 

“It’s in the five year plan.” The blond says mildly, attention clearly elsewhere. Grantaire has no idea if he’s joking or not. He pulls a laptop bag out of the wardrobe with a triumphant smile, unzipping it to check the contents before slinging it over his shoulder. 

“That thing will be encrypted to all hell, you know.” Grantaire says, nodding at the laptop bag. 

He shrugs. “There’s a few hackers among us. At least one of us should be able to deal with it.”

“Okay, fine.” Grantaire says. “I think you should know, what you are doing right now is completely pointless.” 

The blond rolls his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, in the grand scheme of things, you’re never going to dismantle every corrupt person, government or organisation. Every time one gets exposed, there’s one hundred more cropping up in the background. If you want to stop it, you’re about five hundred years late to that particular party.” Grantaire pauses. “On a more immediate level, in less than ten minutes Carl Lehmann is going to be dead, and you won’t have anybody to expose.”

He leaves the words hanging in the air, watches as their meaning sinks in. The blond’s eyes flick from Grantaire’s face, to the gun in his hand, to the unconscious body between them, and Grantaire sees the moment understanding dawns on that gorgeous face.

The blond worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and then says slowly, “I see.” 

Grantaire sighs, looking down at his gun, making sure the silencer is on. “I suggest you get out of here.” 

“Yes, that sounds like a plan.” The blond says, and then, after a pause. “I don’t think either of us were here tonight.”

“I agree.” 

Grantaire hears the window open. He doesn’t hear it shut again though, and looks up to it to see him straddling the window sill, one fine hand curled around the side. 

“Who do you work for?” he asks. 

Grantaire smiles. “I have absolutely no idea.”

***

Just over a week later, Grantaire is at Paris-Dauphine University, looking for a Professor Edmond Duval. He’s been following him for about three days, and knows that between 5pm and 6.30pm, he is alone in his office on the second floor of the secondary faculty building. 

He’s almost grateful for the distraction Professor Duval has offered him, because the more time spent thinking about him, the less spent on thinking about a beautiful blond stranger in a pair of leather gloves. He knows he’s never going to see him again, but, to his chagrin, he hasn’t quite been able to shake the blond from his mind, or been able to stop fantasising about him (in bed, and in the shower, and basically anywhere else). 

No matter. Grantaire imagines he’ll forget all about him soon. 

He’s slightly late for Professor Duval, so at 6.33pm Grantaire opens the door to his office and strides in, and, before the man has even looked up properly, kills him with one clean shot to the forehead. Job done. 

Behind him, there’s a sharp intake of air. 

Grantaire whips round. 

It’s him. The beautiful blond from the Lehmann hit. Just standing there, looking like a vision Grantaire has conjured up by himself, not dressed in all black and combat boots and leather gloves, but skinny jeans with fashionable tears in the knee and a hoodie and red Converse. 

The blond seems frozen. His eyes flick from Grantaire, to the body, and back again. He opens his mouth. 

Quick as a flash, Grantaire is on him, slamming the office door shut and pushing him flush against it, one hand on his wrist and the other covering his mouth. He tries not to think about how he would be enjoying this in literally any other context, because the only thing that could possibly make this situation worse is an inappropriately-timed boner. 

Grantaire has to stand on his toes to reach the blond’s ear. God, he’s tall. 

“Scream, and I’ll snap your neck.” he hisses. 

Believe it or not, the blond actually tries to speak. 

“Hmpgfthmpter.” 

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “What?” he snaps, then realises how stupid that is. 

“Hmpgfthmpter ”

He takes his hand off blond’s mouth. “What?” 

“You need to get out of here.” he hisses, shoving Grantaire towards the only other door in the room, which he’d assumed led to a stationary cupboard or something. Instead it opens to another office. The blond leads him through that office, and into another office, and so on, until they’re at an emergency exit at the far-left side of the building. 

“He doesn’t have a class for another half hour, so he won’t be discovered for ages.” he mutters as he leads Grantaire out the emergency exit and round the side of the campus buildings. “We should both have time to get far enough away.” 

“How do you know all this?” Grantaire asks. God knows he’d looked for information on Professor Duval’s classes, but there’d been nothing online that Grantaire could see, and he’d figured the man’s class schedule was only available to students or something. It hadn't been crucial for the job to work, so Grantaire had forgotten about it. 

The blond doesn’t answer. They walk in silence for a while, heading in the direction of Place du Trocadero, where they can get lost amongst the tourists gawking at the Eiffel Tower and disappear easily enough. 

“What were you doing there anyway?” Grantaire asks, even though his walking companion had ignored his previous question. “Can’t imagine there were many skeletons hiding in a university professor’s closet. Nothing big enough for you and your merry band of justice warriors to expose, I would have thought.” 

The blond buries his hands in his pockets, mumbles something incoherent under his breath. 

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Grantaire says cheerfully. 

“I wasn’t there for Les Amis.” he says quietly. 

Grantaire frowns. “What for then?” 

More incoherent mumbling. 

“Seriously, you need to speak up dude. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I was there to try and talk him into changing my grade!” The blond bursts out, turning to glare at Grantaire. 

But wait.

That would mean…

Grantaire grabs his wrist for the second time today, and spins them both into a nearby alley. He also takes the opportunity to swipe the blond’s wallet out of his back pocket, for good measure. 

He pushes the blond against the alley wall, and asks incredulously “Are you a fucking student ?” 

He yanks his arm out of Grantaire’s grasp, other hand coming up to rub at his wrist. “Yeah, so?” he snaps, rather petulantly in Grantaire’s opinion. 

Grantaire sputters incoherently for a minute, because out of all the things he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Eventually, he asks, “So, what, Les Amis is running on a part-time basis? Do you all meet up in your parent’s basement?” 

If looks could kill, Grantaire would be dead ten times over. “No.” The blond snaps. “We rent a house together near Porte de Clichy. And not all of us are students.” 

“You know, that’s enough information for me to track you down and kill you.” Grantaire says conversationally. Without taking his eyes off the blond, he flips open the wallet and slides out an ID card and a driver’s license

“You wouldn’t though. There’s nothing in that for you. You’re an assassin, not a serial killer.” 

Grantaire privately thinks there’s not much of a difference, but that’s a different debate for a different day. 

“Be that as it may, Monsieur Enjolras.” Grantaire says, holding up the blond’s- who now has a name, Enjolras- driver’s license, “It’s not wise to go around blurting out your deepest, darkest secrets to any old assassin you meet in the street.” 

Enjolras makes an indignant noise and attempts to snatch the ID out of Grantaire’s hand, but he just pushes a hand against his chest and stretches his arm further away. 

“Aw, look how young and cute you were.” Grantaire notes with interest that Enjolras is twenty-two. He looks younger, looks barely older than the eighteen years he must have been when the photo was taken. 

Enjolras scowls and holds out his hand. “Give me back my wallet.” 

“You’re no fun.” He hands back the wallet, and Enjolras just scowls harder, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. Grantaire suddenly has the bizarre urge to smooth it out with his thumb. He figures that, if he tried, Enjolras would make a solid attempt to kill him with his own gun. So he doesn’t. 

After a second, Enjolras’ scowl softens into a frown. “What did he do?” 

“Who?”

“Duval. Like you said, there weren’t any red flags making him suspect. Not to us, anyway.” Enjolras says quietly. 

Grantaire chuckles darkly. “Oh, it’s not all political and for the greater good and whatever else you’re thinking. Sometimes people really are just that petty.” When Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just shoots him a confused look, Grantaire rolls his eyes and says, “He was having an affair. His wife found out.” 

Enjolras’ nose wrinkles. “Really? That’s all it took?” 

Grantaire laughs, and they start walking again. “I know right? God forbid they sit down and have an honest conversation.” He gets a weird thrill inside his chest when Enjolras huffs a small laugh too. 

They’ve reached the metro station, and Grantaire turns and gives Enjolras a jaunty salute, which is weird, because he’s literally never done that to anyone before in his life. 

“Well, Enjolras, I’ll let you get back to saving the world, one encrypted laptop at a time.” Grantaire turns and starts walking in the direction of the Champ de Mars, but halts when he hears Enjolras say “Wait!” 

He turns. “Yes?” 

Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, head tilted to the left as he observes Grantaire. “I never got your name.” 

Grantaire raises one eyebrow. “And why on earth would I tell you my name?” 

Enjolras glares. It feels like something that could become a regular occurrence, but won’t, because chances are their paths will never cross again. “You know my name. Quid pro quo.” he smiles sweetly. “And, if I end up in prison, my friends will want to know the name of the guy who ratted me out.” 

Grantaire smirks. “Your friends sound very scary.” 

“I know you’re making fun of me.” Enjolras says calmly. “But you probably shouldn’t underestimate them.”

A group of schoolboys playing vigilante justice? Grantaire highly doubts that he has anything to worry about. They probably get all their information off Facebook. 

“Well?” Enjolras’ voice breaks him out of his thoughts. 

“Well, what?” 

“Your name.” he prompts, one eyebrow raised. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and then steps as close to Enjolras as he dares, stretching up to whisper in his ear. “You can call me R.” 

He hears Enjolras make a noise of frustration. “R? That’s not a name.”

Grantaire reluctantly steps away again, patting Enjolras twice on the arm. “Unfortunately, if I told you any more than that, I’d have to kill you.” And then he walks away, leaving Enjolras alone on the street. 

***

The first time, it was just luck. The second, coincidence. 

But, when it happens for a third time, it’s just plain weird. 

Grantaire slowly opens the door to his target’s apartment, where he lives alone, with the spare key under the welcome mat (Seriously, sometimes his targets make his job too damn easy). He walks slowly down the dark hall, gun drawn, but pauses and frowns when he hears commotion coming from the room at the bottom left, the noise of something smashing and a panicked voice yelling a mix of threats and swear words. 

Seeing no reason to draw out whatever it is that’s waiting for him, and maybe relying a bit on the element of surprise, he strides forward and kicks open the door to the living room, which swings back forcefully and smashes off the wall behind it. 

His target is inside the room, standing in a defensive position clutching what looks like a fire poker. There’s a broken bottle of whiskey on the ground next to an overturned chair and coffee table, the air reeking with the smell. And standing opposite him, blood flowing from a nasty-looking cut above his eyebrow down his face-

Enjolras turns sharply when Grantaire enters, and his eyes widen in shock. Grantaire imagines his own expression is similar. 

"You again? ” They say in unison. 

And then they just stare at each other, and Grantaire feels completely frozen, because how is it even possible that he’s seeing him for a third time in as many weeks? Stuff like that doesn’t happen, not to Grantaire. 

While they’re both distracted, the target launches himself at Enjolras with the fire poker. Grantaire, quick as anything, shoots him in the head. 

Blood goes all over the apartment wall, and Enjolras gets covered in quite a good bit of it too. 

He turns to Grantaire, eyes blazing, and to Grantaire’s shock, he actually looks angry. A small part of Grantaire had maybe been hoping for gratitude. 

“What the hell, R?!” He snarls, wiping blood off his cheeks. “Why the fuck did you do that?” 

Grantaire reels back in surprise. “Uhm, because he was about to cave your head in with a fire poker?” 

“I would have been fine!” Enjolras snaps dismissively, “I was trying to get a taped confession out of him!” And yes, now that he looks, Grantaire can see the small recording device clutched in his right hand. 

Despite himself, Grantaire laughs. “Ah, yes. I can see how I might have fucked that one up for you.”

Enjolras scowls, mouth twisting in disgust. “It’s not funny. You’ve just completely wasted my time.” 

Grantaire snorts at that, because Enjolras has literally just witnessed him killing a man, and therefore the fact that he’s arguing with him means he is either very brave or very stupid. Maybe both. “Well, I do sincerely apologise for wasting your precious time, and also for stopping him from giving you a concussion at the very least and brain damage at worst.” 

“He was a police commissioner!” Enjolras snaps, sounding outraged. “Do you know what the police were doing in St Denis last week?” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “The police are always doing something in St. Denis.”

“Well, I needed him to tell me that.” Enjolras says, turning to glare at the body lying on the ground. He reaches up and wipes the back of his hand across his right eye, where blood is still pouring thickly from the cut on his head. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, exasperated. “He’s dead, it doesn’t matter anymore. And besides, he probably wouldn’t have given it to you anyway.” 

Enjolras whips round, eyes fierce. “Of course it still matters!” he yells. The apartment is quiet for a few seconds, apart from their laboured breathing, and then he repeats quietly. “Of course it still matters.” 

Grantaire sighs deeply, taking a step towards him. “Let me see the cut on your head.” 

Enjolras takes a step towards the window, a hand automatically coming up to cover the wound. “No.” 

“Enjolras-” 

Quick as a flash, Enjolras is out the window, disappearing from Grantaire’s view. He could call after him, he supposes, but instead he sighs again and turns to face the now empty apartment, already dreading trying to scrub the blood off the walls. 

Before he starts, he walks over to the window, and looks out properly, just in time to see a flash of blonde hair disappear around the corner. 

***

It was a last minute contract, sent to Grantaire at 11.30pm the previous night when he was already a bottle of wine deep. He’d looked it all over quickly, and it seemed pretty standard, so Grantaire had figured he’d be fine, and signed. 

Now, as he looks down at the body of his latest target, and smells the blood in the air, he is deeply regretting that decision. 

So, when he hears the sound of the window opening behind him, and the quiet “Oh.” that follows it, he feels more relieved than he has any right to be. 

He turns to face Enjolras, who has one leg swung through the window, toe of his black boot just grazing the floor, and a gloved hand holding the window wide. 

“Believe it or not, Enjolras, I’m actually glad to see you for once.” he says. 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Really?”

“Yes. But first, I have a present for you.” Grantaire reaches into his pocket and pulls out a USB pen, throwing it at Enjolras, who just about catches it. 

“I know a guy, he was able to break through the police force’s main security system. I think there’s some information on that USB which you and the rest of Les Amis will find very useful.”

(Montparnasse had owed him that favour for a good few months, and although he had raised his eyebrows when Grantaire had said what he wanted, he had done it without comment, and for that he was grateful. He’d been carrying the USB around in his pocket ever since- Just in case.)

“Consider it an apology for the last time we met.” Grantaire says.   

“Oh, I-” Enjolras’ voice is soft, and he’s looking at the USB instead of Grantaire. “Thank you, R. That’s very nice of you.” 

Grantaire grins. “I don’t know if nice is the word.” he says, and is immediately elated when Enjolras actually quirks a smile. 

“You might be right about that.” 

“Okay,” Grantaire claps his hands together, so he doesn’t do something stupid, like walk across the room and beg Enjolras to kiss him. “Now, I need your help.” 

Instantly, Enjolras is on guard again. “You need my help?” 

“Yes.” Grantaire motions to the body, the blood pooled on the floor, the table and chairs that had gotten thrown around the room in the brief struggle. “I am so fucking hungover. How are you at cleaning?”

Enjolras’ mouth drops open, the expression on his face so disgusted it’s almost comical. “You want me to help you dispose of a body ?” 

Grantaire smirks. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you do any of the gross parts. It’s just, as you can see, there’s quite a lot of blood on the floor, and it’s a little bit too reminiscent of the two bottles of red wine I had last night for me to want to do it.”

Enjolras looks him up and down, as though sizing him up. He looks at the pool of blood on the floor, and his nose wrinkles in a way that's almost cute. 

"I think you and I have a different definition of what 'gross' entails." he says faintly. 

Grantaire shrugs. "Probably." 

Enjolras glances down once more at the USB in his hand, before sliding it into his jacket pocket. Then, to Grantaire’s great relief, he swings his other leg into the room and stands up, reaching round his wrist before tying his curls up in a loose ponytail. “Okay, fine.” 

Grantaire breathes out. “Oh my god, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Just don’t be getting used to it. I’m not your maid.” 

Grantaire grins. Even when he’s so hungover he just wants to get the job done so he can go home and crawl into bed, he can’t resist teasing Enjolras the slightest bit. “That’s a shame. You would suit the outfit.” 

Enjolras scowls at him in response, and then he disappears into the hallway in search of cleaning supplies. 

In the weeks that follow, Enjolras and Grantaire's paths cross several more times, and it doesn’t take long for Grantaire to work out the pattern. 

Enjolras doesn’t show up at the hits rooted in pettiness or personal agendas. He’s not there for the estranged family members, the ex-lovers, the broken friendships, the couples having affairs. 

But anything political, anything corrupt, anything that affects the general population, and he’s there, breaking and entering and wearing his stupid fucking leather gloves. 

(If Grantaire sends his handler a message requesting hits of a more political nature where possible- Well, no one needs to know).

***

His next job takes Grantaire out of the country for a few days, which is uncommon but not unheard of in his time with whoever he works for. He’d been hoping for somewhere hot and luxurious, perhaps the Costa del Sol or Amalfi coast. Somewhere he can drink cocktails on the beach after his hit. 

He ends up in a rural, rainy corner of Belgium. Such is life. 

It’s when he’s sitting at a cafe, reading a newspaper to hide his face as he waits for his target to leave and head back to his lonely apartment, that he sees the report. 

North American-based multinational corporation exposed for major data protection violation… Offices in central Paris broken into....Laptops and information stolen and evidence sent to all major news outlets and the ICO...No suspects, no claims of responsibility, no evidence…

Grantaire smiles. Fucking Enjolras. 

***

It was inevitable, really. That something was going to go wrong at some point. 

It happens when Grantaire breaks into a large country estate about a 40 minute drive outside of Paris (Grantaire had gotten a bus to the closest town, and then walked the rest of the way). The estate belongs to a pretty powerful crime boss named Le Cabuc who operates mostly in the impoverished areas on the outskirts of Paris, praying on vulnerable young men and boys, who do most of his dirty work but reap absolutely none of the benefit. 

Grantaire is normally careful to stay more or less uninterested in the cases he gets assigned- But this one makes his blood boil. Because it so easily could have happened to him, if murder-for-hire incorporated hadn’t gotten there first. 

It feels personal, somehow. 

Grantaire knows from the information in the profile he’d been sent that Le Cabuc lives alone, and spends hours in his main office on the second floor of the building. He jogs up the main staircase and throws open the door to the office.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Enjolras is already there. He whips around when the door slams open, and then sighs loudly, looking to the ceiling as though begging it to give him strength. “Oh for god’s sake.” 

Grantaire steps fully into the room, eyes landing on his target, who is cowering against the opposite wall next to his desk. 

“We really must stop meeting like this.” Grantaire tells Enjolras, coming over to stand beside him. And then- “Did you injure him?” 

Enjolras smirks. “No, he’s just not so brave without all his men behind him.” The incident with the fire poker has left him with a thin scar above his right eyebrow, standing out stark white and angry against the soft brown of his skin. Grantaire hopes it will fade, with time. 

Grantaire doesn’t realise he’s staring at the scar, until Enjolras says “What are you looking at?” 

“You really shouldn’t come to these things by yourself, you know.” Grantaire replies instead of answering his question, “For all you knew, he could have had some of his gang here tonight, and then you would have been in trouble.” 

“You’re here by yourself.” Enjolras accuses. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I have a gun . And I’ve been doing this for long enough to know what I’m doing.” 

Enjolras scowls. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” he says curtly, “And I can handle myself, I don’t need you to- To give me advice or whatever.” 

“Excuse me for trying to stop you from getting yourself killed.” Anger twists in Grantaire’s gut, and he hates it, because he doesn’t know why he cares so much about this stupid man he barely knows. Before Enjolras, he hadn’t cared about anyone in years . “You don’t have a fucking clue the kind of shit you’re getting yourself mixed up in here. And why is it just you? Why aren’t the rest of Les Amis climbing in windows and getting beat round the head with pokers?” 

“Because I won’t let them put themselves in danger like that!” Enjolras snaps. 

Grantaire gives a cold laugh. It’s not a happy sound. “Oh, so it’s okay for you to do it? That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? And it’s all well and good until someone decides Les Amis is causing too much trouble and you’re the one who ends up with a bullet between the eyes.” 

Something in Enjolras’ face goes dark, and he takes a step forward so that suddenly they’re practically pressed together, chest to chest. 

“Are you threatening me?” he whispers darkly. 

Grantaire gives a strangled half-scream of frustration. “No, you idiot! I’m trying to protect you!” 

“Why ?!” Enjolras shouts back. 

Grantaire opens his mouth to spit out a reply, and that’s when he hears it. The undeniable sound of a gun being cocked. Not by him, and not by Enjolras.

They’ve forgotten all about the target. They two of them were so busy tearing at each other’s throats, they’d gotten distracted from the real and very immediate danger in the room. They’ve fucked up. 

Grantaire doesn’t even think, just reaches forward and shoves Enjolras to the ground as hard as he can. There’s a bang, and then-

And then a horrible, firey pain in his left side. He feels his legs crumble underneath him as the world spins, and hears the sound of one more gunshot before everything goes dark for one blissful second. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers that second shot, and forces his eyes open again. To his intense relief, it’s Enjolras looking down at him, face drained of colour and eyes wide and dark and-Scared? He doesn’t think he’s seen Enjolras scared before. 

“Oh my god, oh shit.” he’s saying, “R. You’ve been shot, oh my god.” 

Grantaire glares at him as he sits up weakly, hissing as the pain in his side worsens. “I am well aware of that, thank you.” He jolts slightly when he feels Enjolras’ hands, still clad in the fucking leather gloves, press over the wound in his side. 

“Those gloves are hot.” Grantaire hears himself say, nonsensically. He looks up at Enjolras’ face, which looks horrified. “You’re hot.” It’s possible the pain is making him feel a bit loopy. 

“Oh my god.” Enjolras says again, and his voice is a couple octaves higher than usual. “How much blood have you lost? Are you going to die on me?” 

Grantaire shrugs. “Unsure.” 

“Oh god, right okay.” He feels Enjolras’ arm curl around his waist, and he lifts Grantaire’s arm and wraps it around his shoulders. “I’m going to take you to my friends. But I need you to stand up for me. Can you do that?” 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, too busy trying to push the waves of pain to the back of his mind, so he can actually fix the stupid fucking situation he’s gotten himself into. 

“R!” There’s the sound of fingers clicking next to his ears. 

“Grantaire.” he hisses, and the clicking stops. 

“What?” Enjolras sounds confused now, which is better than him sounding scared. Grantaire doesn’t want him to feel scared. 

Grantaire looks at him. “My name is Grantaire,” he says slowly, focusing on Enjolras’ face so the room doesn’t start spinning again, “You might as well call me that.” 

Enjolras blinks, and then nods. “Grantaire. Okay. Do you think you can stand up for me?” His lips quirk into a smile, somewhere between embarrassed and panicked. “I would carry you, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to get you the whole way.” 

Grantaire considers, and then rises to his feet slowly, hissing as the pain in his side seems to twist. Enjolras’ arm tightens on his waist, avoiding his wound. 

It’s the closest he’s ever been to Enjolras. He smells like cinnamon.

“You smell nice.” Grantaire mumbles as they stumble out of the room, and he feels gratified when he sees a little bit of colour return to Enjolras’ cheeks. 

“Be quiet, save your energy.” he mutters, eyes searching every which way as they walk slowly down the mansion’s staircase. That’s when Grantaire remembers-

“Wait,” he stops suddenly, wincing when Enjolras takes an extra step forward and pulls on his side. “What about the target?”

“I took care of it, now come on. ” 

“Wait,” Grantaire frowns, trying to work out what that means. And then he remembers the second gunshot, he realises-

“Enjolras, did you kill him?” he asks quietly. 

Enjolras looks at him, and there’s something incomprehensible in his dark eyes. 

“We don’t have time, Grantaire, come on.”

Eventually, they make it out of the front doors of the mansion, and Enjolras lowers Grantaire slowly onto the first stone step, and drags a hand through his hair. When it pulls away, there’s streaks of red left in its wake. Apparently, Grantaire is bleeding a lot more than he thought. 

“I’m going to get my car. I’m parked about half a mile away,” he says. “I’ll be as fast as I can. Just- Wait here.” Then he turns and runs towards the mansion’s main gates. 

“Yeah, I don’t really have a choice there.” Grantaire calls after Enjolras’ retreating figure, and then he leans back and looks at the night sky dotted with stars and wonders vaguely if he’s actually going to die. That would suck, he supposes. Saying that, the pain in his side has lessened to a dull throbbing, and he doesn’t feel like any of his vital organs are shutting down, so that’s positive. 

Christ, he’s literally taken a bullet for Enjolras. If that isn’t wearing your heart on your sleeve, Grantaire doesn’t know what is. How embarrassing. 

He sits on the steps for around three or four minutes, shivering, and then Enjolras pulls up in a fucking Prius, of all things. 

“Seriously, Enjolras?” Grantaire says sarcastically as he helps him stand and walk to the car. “You’re going to make me die in the back of a Prius? How cruel.”

“You’re not going to die, Grantaire. Shut up.” Enjolras says fiercely, but there’s a hint of something, Grantaire doesn’t know what, in his voice. He helps Grantaire lie down in the back seat, and tells him, “Just try and relax. But don’t pass out on me.” Grantaire wonders if he realises how contradictory that sounds. 

Enjolras gets into the driver’s seat, and then proceeds to floor the accelerator. 

It doesn’t take Grantaire long to work out that if the bullet wound in his side isn’t going to kill him, Enjolras’ driving is. 

“Can you slow down? You’re kind of making me feel car sick.” Grantaire snaps after several minutes of breakneck speed. 

Enjolras gives what sounds like a slightly hysterical laugh. “You’re already bleeding all over the seats, I don’t think you being sick is going to make much of a difference at this stage. Also, you bleeding all over the seats is the exact reason why I can’t slow down.” 

“Where are you taking me?” Grantaire lets his head fall back as they go over a pothole and the pain in his side twinges horribly. 

“To my friend, Joly.” Enjolras says as he speeds through a traffic light just before it turns red. “He’s in his third year of medical school, and-” 

“You’re taking me to some quack medical student?! Will he even have supplies?” Grantaire tries to sit up to glare at Enjolras, but finds he can’t quite manage it. 

“He’s not a quack.” Enjolras snaps, “He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s fucking good at it. And we have plenty of supplies. He’s been stealing them in case Les Amis needs them for about six months now. Besides,” he momentarily cranes his head round to glare at Grantaire. “Would you rather I took you to a hospital?” 

They both know that’s not an option. 

“Eyes on the road, please.” Grantaire says sulkily, and closes his eyes. 

***

“Grantaire, hey. Are you still with me?” Grantaire feels someone shaking his shoulder gently, and gives a low groan before cracking his eyes open. 

Enjolras has the back door of the car open, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Grantaire smiles up at him from where he’s still lying in the backseat, because Enjolras is just standing there, all lit up in gold by the streetlights and he’s just...Really, really pretty. “Hey.” 

Enjolras gives him a tight-lipped, worried smile back, but it’s a nice smile all the same. “Hey. We’re here. Let me help you up.” 

Enjolras helps him out of the car, wrapping his arm around his waist again, and leads him up some steps to the front door of a large townhouse. Grantaire glances back at the car, and laughs out loud despite the pain in his side, because the Prius is parked almost horizontally across three spaces.

“Christ, that’s some shoddy parking. You’re going to get your tyres slashed.” he says, and realises that his speech is slurring slightly. When did forming words become so difficult? 

Enjolras ignores him in favour of pressing the house’s doorbell around one hundred times. The door is opened by a tall, dark haired man wearing a sweater vest and glasses. His eyes widen comically when he sees the two of them standing there like the world’s most depressing door-to-door salesmen. 

“Hello.” Enjolras says. 

“Enjolras,” The man says slowly, “What have you done?” 

“This is Grantaire. We keep bumping into each other. Grantaire, Combeferre." Enjolras says, pushing his way past the man and into a wide hallway, Grantaire still pressed to his side. “Can you get Joly for me, please?” 

Combeferre stares at them, dumbfounded, for a second, then he closes the door and walks past them and up the stairs. “Yeah, sure. Take him to the kitchen.” 

Enjolras leads him into the house’s kitchen and hesitates, before leaning Grantaire against the counter and letting go of his side so he can clear the table of a mountain of books, laptops, and coffee mugs. 

“Lie down.” he says, and Grantaire does, his legs dangling off the table’s edge. 

Combeferre comes into the kitchen, followed by another, shorter man who Grantaire assumes is Joly, who is holding a cane in one hand and carrying a large medical bag in the other. He sets the bag on the kitchen counter and opens it, but only produces a pair of gloves, which he slips on. 

“You have some explaining to do.” Joly says to Enjolras, who actually looks a little sheepish. And then, “So, Grantaire, is it? Let’s see the damage. Can you take your shirt off?” 

“I have to sit up again? Why are you doing this to me?” Grantaire moans, because honestly he’s just ready to pass out or die or something at this stage. 

He hears Enjolras sigh, and when he looks at him he’s pulling a knife from his back pocket. Before Grantaire can say anything he’s grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and running the knife through the centre to the collar, effectively cutting it open so Joly can access his abdomen. 

Enjolras’ eyes widen when he sees Grantaire’s exposed abs, and his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck as he clears his throat. Combeferre is standing beside him, and when Enjolras clears his throat he looks at him with one eyebrow raised. 

Grantaire tries to look down at his abdomen, because it must look bad to get that kind of a reaction from Enjolras. But Joly tuts and pushes his head back gently.  

“I’ve never treated a bullet wound by myself before.” Joly says, peering at Grantaire’s side and sounding almost excited. “This should be fun.” 

Grantaire looks at the plain white plaster of the kitchen ceiling.

“I’m going to fucking die.” he says out loud. 

“Don’t be dramatic, I know what I’m doing. You’re going to be fine.” Joly says cheerfully. “Now,” he steps away, rooting around in his medical bag. “I’m going to give you a general anesthetic, and then I’m going to get that bullet out and stitch you up, and then you’re going to owe me a beer.” 

Grantaire manages a feeble laugh at that. “Yeah, that sounds like a fair deal.” He feels a pin prick of pain in his arm, and focuses on staring at the ceiling, watching with satisfaction as his world starts to blur around the edges. 

“Enjolras?” he slurs, his right hand searching blindly across the table top. 

“Yeah?” He hears Enjolras say quietly, and then there’s a warm hand in his, a thumb running small circles over his knuckles. “I’m right here.” 

“Good.” Grantaire knows he’s grinning at the ceiling like an idiot, but right now he feels okay with that. “Did you get hurt?” 

He hears Enjolras give a shaky sounding laugh. “No, I’m okay. I’m not injured. You made sure of that.” 

Grantaire lets his eyes close. “Worth it.” 

He’s not sure, but he thinks he can hear Joly laughing before he sinks into the blissful silence. 

***

Grantaire wakes up in a warm, comfortable bed with a beam of sunlight streaming into his face, and when he opens his eyes he’s in a room he doesn’t recognise, lying on a bed he doesn’t recognise. The sunlight is coming in from a large bay window which looks out onto the street. 

He moans as he sits up, feeling pain flare up and down his left side, and that’s the moment when he remembers that Oh yeah, I got shot last night. 

Grantaire looks around the room slowly, through heavy-lidded eyes because he’s always been terrible at waking up in the mornings. At least today, he can blame it on the minor surgery from less than twelve hours ago. 

The room is plain, white, completely ordinary and a little bit messy. There’s a desk on the far side, opposite the bed, and it’s stacked high with textbooks, a laptop open in the centre. The chair in front of the desk has a red jacket thrown over the back of it. He’s squinting at the desk, trying to read the titles of the books, when there’s a soft knock at the door. 

It opens, and Grantaire, thankfully, recognises the man who pokes his head round the side of the door. 

“Good morning,” Combeferre says, “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I got shot last night.” Grantaire replies. And then, when Combeferre doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow, he mutters. “I’m fine.” 

“Good.” Combeferre says, opening the door wider. “Enjolras has been very worried about you. Are you in any pain?” 

“He has?” Grantaire asks before he can stop himself. He sees Combeferre start to crack a smile, and hastily covers his slip up with “Yeah, a bit I guess.” 

If Combeferre notices his awkward attempt to segue, he doesn’t comment. He holds out a hand for Grantaire to take, and helps him to his feet. “Joly managed to get you some pretty strong painkillers, but you need to eat first. Jehan is making pancakes for everyone downstairs. You’re more than welcome to join us.” 

So Grantaire hobbles downstairs after Combeferre, because apart from anything else he’s never been able to resist homemade pancakes. When he enters the kitchen, several new faces turn to look at him. He recognises Enjolras, obviously, but no one else. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras is walking over to him instantly. He actually looks like he might be going in for a hug, but stops at the last second, and instead a hand comes up to wrap around the upper arm of his right side. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” Grantaire says, feeling a bit dazed from having every eye in the room scrutinizing him.

Enjolras must notice him looking, because he turns to stand beside Grantaire and says, “Grantaire, these are Les Amis. Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bossuet, and Bahorel. Feuilly’s at work, and Joly had to go to the hospital early this morning.” He bites his bottom lip. “But, uh, you met him last night anyway. And Combeferre, of course.” 

“Nice to meet you all.” Grantaire says awkwardly. “Uhm. Sorry for, uh, bleeding all over your kitchen table. It was sort of an emergency.” 

The one Enjolras had pointed out as Bahorel gives a loud booming laugh, and the one beside the stove, Jehan, turns and gives Grantaire a sunny smile. 

“That’s quite alright. We’re going to eat in the living room until Joly has time to disinfect the table. So, Grantaire, what do you like with your pancakes?”

***

“So,” The one who had introduced himself as Courfeyrac says, as he slathers a frankly sinful amount of maple syrup on his pancakes. “Enjolras tells us you’re an assassin.” 

Grantaire whips his head round to glare at Enjolras, who raises an eyebrow. 

“Well, I couldn’t exactly tell them you’re an accountant or something, could I?” he says drily. Grantaire supposes he has a point. 

“To be honest, I’m less upset about the assassin thing,” Courfeyrac says, turning his head to Enjolras with a mischievous expression on his face, “And more upset that Enjolras has been meeting a muscly, handsome, mysterious stranger on a regular basis and hasn’t told me about it.” 

“There’s nothing to tell.” Enjolras mutters, not looking up from his plate. “We just seem to end up in the same place at the same time a lot.” He sits back, rolls his shoulders and winces when there’s an audible crack from his spine. “God, that sofa is horrible. I’m never sleeping on it again.” 

“Why were you on the sofa?” Grantaire asks curiously.

Enjolras blinks at him. “Because you were in my bed.” he replies, like it’s obvious. 

Oh. Grantaire hadn’t realised that part. 

“Honestly, Enj, I thought by now you’d be used to bending yourself into weird positions.” Bahorel says with a grin from behind a mountain of pancakes. Grantaire had chosen this moment to take a glug of orange juice, and immediately chokes.  

“That’s not how it sounds.” Enjolras immediately says to him, whilst Bossuet pats him on the back, looking concerned. 

“Enjolras used to be a gymnast.” Courfeyrac says, with a massive grin on his face. “He competed in the Youth Olympics!” 

“Hey, Courfeyrac, shut the fuck up.” Enjolras says through gritted teeth, looking very much as though he wishes to exit the conversation as quickly as possible. 

“Really? ” Grantaire says, wiping the tears from his eyes and feeling exceedingly curious. “Did you win anything?” 

“He got the bronze medal.” Combeferre says from his armchair in the corner. Enjolras glares at him and mutters ‘Traitor’ under his breath. 

“Huh,” Grantaire turns to Enjolras. “That’s how you’re able to climb up drainpipes and through third floor windows and stuff all the time. Honestly, I’d just started to assume you were part cat.”

Enjolras turns his glare to him as the rest of Les Amis laugh, but Grantaire thinks he sees the corner of his lips twitch briefly into a reluctant smile. 

Grantaire grins, and starts to reach for the sugar bowl, but winces and stops when he accidentally stretches his wound. “Shit.” 

“Oh, here. Let me.” Instantly, Enjolras is reaching over and handing him the sugar bowl. Their fingers brush when he passes it over, and Grantaire meets his eyes. He’s got a soft smile on his face, his hair up in a haphazard bun. There’s a smudge of jam on his upper lip. He’s completely different around his friends, compared to the other times Grantaire has seen him; he seems softer, more relaxed. More human. 

That’s the moment, right there. The moment when Grantaire thinks, Oh, shit. I’m in love with you. 

He decides that’s a problem for later on. 

***

Grantaire is bending over, trying to tie his shoelaces without aggravating the pain in his side, and not really succeeding, when he hears Enjolras’ bedroom door open, and looks up. 

“Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Enjolras says, edging his way into the room. “I was just going to grab my jacket.” 

Grantaire waves a hand. “Go right ahead.” 

Enjolras does, pulling on the red jacket Grantaire had noticed earlier, and when he turns around he raises an eyebrow at Grantaire. 

“Do you need some help?” he asks, nodding his head to where Grantaire is doubled over his left foot. 

Grantaire doesn’t dignify that with a response, just finishes tying his shoe and stands. 

Enjolras worries at his bottom lip, looking concerned, of all things. “Seriously though, are you sure you’re okay? It seems pretty risky to send you away so soon to recover by yourself.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, because he has weathered much, much worse. “I’ll be fine, Enjolras. Don’t worry yourself too much.”

Enjolras nods, and turns to leave. Before he can think further on it, Grantaire blurts out “Are you okay?”

He pauses, turns to face Grantaire again with a bemused expression. “Yeah, I’m fine. I told you, I wasn’t injured.” 

“No,” Grantaire says, “But you did kill a man last night.”

Something in Enjolras’ expression goes shuttered, and Grantaire sees the sleeves of his jacket crease as he folds his arms across his chest, his hands curling into fists. 

“I’m fine.” he mutters. It’s not convincing in the slightest. 

He doesn’t offer anything else, so Grantaire says quietly, “I felt awful about it, my first time.” His first time, nineteen years old and staring down at a corpse. He’d gotten very drunk that night, both as a celebration of his first kill, and commiseration that this really had become his life. 

“Plus, you had to do it.” he says, taking a step towards Enjolras, “He would have killed both of us. You did what you had to do. I’m just saying, it’s okay to be freaked out or guilty or whatever.” 

Enjolras huffs a small laugh. “I’m just trying not to think about it, to be honest.” 

“Ah, yes. A perfectly healthy coping mechanism.” Grantaire says snarkily. Enjolras looks up and glares, and, well, that’s certainly more familiar. 

“Well, what would you recommend I do?” he snaps. “This isn’t the kind of thing I can take to a therapist.”

Grantaire looks around the room, running his tongue thoughtfully along the inside of his bottom lip. He has an idea in mind, and it’s the opposite of everything he learned during his training, and probably a complete violation of every rule in the assassin handbook (if there is such a thing). It’s an incredibly foolish idea. 

And yet...

He walks over to Enjolras’ desk, pulling a page loose from one of the notebooks and writing the address on it. When he turns, Enjolras still has his arms folded, looking extremely confused. Grantaire holds one of his hands out pointedly, and after hesitating briefly, Enjolras does the same, palm facing up. 

Grantaire presses the paper into Enjolras’ hand, and, in a moment of complete self-indulgence, folds Enjolras’ fingers over the top, and rests his hand there. 

“That’s my home address.” he says softly, “I’m there most of the time, unless I’m working. If you ever want to talk. About this. Or- Or about anything.”

“Oh.” Enjolras says quietly, looking down at the folded paper. “I- Thanks, Grantaire.”

Grantaire nods. “No problem. Now I’m going to go home.”

“I’ll drive you.” Enjolras offers, “I have class soon anyway.”

So Enjolras drives Grantaire home, and Grantaire sits in the passenger seat and tries not to stare, and tries not to think about the fact that he’s in love. 

***

Grantaire takes three weeks off after the shooting incident. He tells his handler that he was shot, removed the bullet and stitched himself up, and his handler doesn’t question this. Grantaire imagines she doesn’t care as long as nothing gets traced back to her by the police, Interpol or anyone else. 

So he takes three weeks off, and spends those three weeks watching shitty TV, smoking too much, but not drinking, because of the painkillers, and painting someone he can never have.

He doesn’t hear from Enjolras the entire time. 

And why would he, Grantaire thinks bitterly as he slathers red and black and golden brown on canvas. It’s not as if they ever plan to meet each other or spend time together. It’s not as if it’s ever anything other than good timing and coincidence. It never means anything. Like Enjolras said, there’s nothing to tell. 

So his three weeks pass, and Grantaire gets the postcard through his letterbox, as expected. He sighs and picks it up, turns it picture side up. Sofia, this time. 

He ignores the postcard for the time being, starting up his coffee machine and leaning against the counter. As he waits for the coffee, he pulls up his t-shirt and examines the small, diagonal scar across his side. It’s less red and angry looking now, and Grantaire finds himself thankful that Enjolras had taken him to Les Amis’ house, where Joly had given him...Somewhat proper treatment and a large supply of the good painkillers. He doesn’t know if he would have survived this one, if he’d been alone. 

Of course, if you’d been alone, you wouldn’t have got yourself into such a stupid situation, a small, treacherous part of his brain reminds him, But you would never let anything happen to him, would you? Because you love him.

Grantaire groans and yanks his t-shirt down again, filling a mug with coffee and slumping heavily into his chair, pulling his laptop and the postcard close. He takes a sip of coffee as he types the code in, wondering which poor bastard he’s going to be murdering this week. 

The page loads, and Grantaire’s blood runs cold. 

No.

Oh no. 

It’s undeniable- That’s Enjolras’ photo, and Enjolras’ information. All of his information. Full name, date of birth, height, address, blood type, city of birth, university, medical history, hobbies, interests, daily habits. Everything you could ever need to know, if you were planning on tracking someone down and murdering them for money. He checks the part of the profile which sometimes notes the reasons why the client wants their target disposed of. 

Causing increasingly large problems for me and my people. Needs dealt with quickly and efficiently. 

Grantaire wipes both his hands across his face, feeling the sweat that’s broken out on his forehead and the back of his neck, and, against his better judgement, starts scrolling through the photos of Enjolras. 

The first is that same ID photo Grantaire had made fun of a few short months ago, Enjolras staring straight at the camera, unsmiling and a little bit haughty but still so beautiful. The second is taken across the platform of a metro station, Enjolras leaning against a pillar, headphones on and reading a book. Another, outside a bar with Bahorel and someone too blurry to identify- Jehan, maybe? Another, leaving a lecture hall, fingers flicking through a thick binder of notes, black-framed reading glasses perched on his nose. Of course, there's the money shot which had probably led to this moment- a blurry but still identifiable CCTV photo of Enjolras running through the gates at Le Cabuc's estate, on his way to get the car for Grantaire, and then another of him behind the wheel of the car. Of course, Grantaire isn’t visible in the photo, because he was lying down in the backseat. 

Perhaps most disturbing of all is the photo taken from a height- Maybe a balcony or something- looking through the large bay window into Enjolras, asleep in his bed in the Les Amis house, that same bed Grantaire had slept in three weeks ago. 

When he reaches that photo, Grantaire scrapes his chair back and starts pacing around the room, pulling shaky hands through his hair. Paces, and tries to take deep breaths which sound more like moans than anything, and paces, and panics. Someone wants Enjolras dead- This isn’t surprising, Grantaire supposes. Really, it’s to be expected, the things he and Les Amis have been getting themselves mixed up in. Had Grantaire not said it himself, a few weeks ago, that if Enjolras kept getting involved in this stuff he’d end up with a bullet between the eyes?

It’s just, well-

Grantaire hadn’t considered the possibility that he’d be the one pulling the trigger. 

Grantaire stops pacing, stills his hands where they’re tangled in his dark curls.

God, Enjolras has been so stupid. From those photos, it’s clear someone has been tracking him for weeks. How had he not noticed? God knows that Enjolras doesn’t have the best self-preservation skills at the best of times, but Grantaire thought he’d at least be careful, or at least acknowledge his surroundings, if he was going to insist on this stupid fucking venture. 

Grantaire exhales shakily, forces himself to look over the profile once more. Then, he gives a decisive nod, and leaves. 

He has a job to do. 

***

When he knocks the door, it’s Joly who answers. He’s wearing a pair of flannel pyjamas of all things, and gives a small ‘Oh’ of surprise when he sees that it’s Grantaire standing on the doorstep. 

“Grantaire, hello.” he says, opening the door wider. “How’s your wound? Healing okay?”

“It’s fine.” Grantaire says tersely, craning over Joly’s shoulder to try and see into the house. “Is Enjolras here?” 

“Of course.” Joly steps back to let Grantaire in, and really, as soon as this is over Grantaire is giving every single one of them a lecture about being too trusting. “He’s in the living room. We’re watching The Great British Bake Off. ” Grantaire doesn’t know what that is. 

Sure enough, when he steps into the living room most of Les Amis are sitting on sofas, armchairs or the floor. Enjolras is perched on the arm of the chair Courfeyrac sits on, and he too is wearing a pair of flannel pyjama pants and a faded t-shirt with his hair tied up in a messy bun. There’s some baking show playing quietly on the TV. 

The scene would be domestic, except there’s various illegal activities happening everywhere Grantaire looks. Combeferre and Jehan and someone else whom he doesn’t know, but assumes is Feuilly, are huddled over an old laptop and what looks like a set of blueprints, Bossuet is in the corner listening to what sounds like a live police report, and Courfeyrac and Enjolras are both searching through manila folders marked CONFIDENTIAL as Courfeyrac remarks to him-

“If Susan tries to put on her chocolate ganache now, she has absolutely fucked it. It’s too hot to- Oh hello, Grantaire.” 

Every face in the room immediately turns to Grantaire, and he notices Enjolras’ lips part slightly, but he stays sitting on the arm of the chair. 

“Grantaire? What are you doing here?” he asks, looking him up and down. 

Grantaire swallows. “There’s something you need to know.”

Enjolras stands then, setting his file down on the coffee table. “What’s wrong?” 

Grantaire opens his mouth, tries to speak and feels his voice crack. He clears his throat to try again, and says in a rush “There’s a hit out on you.” 

Enjolras’ eyebrows knit together as he frowns. “What?”

Grantaire forces himself to take a deep breath in, and then out. “Someone’s put a hit out on you.” he repeats, slower this time. 

The room is completely silent. 

Enjolras’ eyebrows raise, and he tilts his head to the left, folding his arms across his chest. “Huh.” he says faintly. He doesn’t sound frightened. He sounds and looks vaguely amused more than anything.

Combeferre rises up to stand beside Enjolras. “How do you know about this?” 

Grantaire rubs his hand across his mouth. “I’m the hitman.” he says, “They want me to kill you.” 

The reaction is instantaneous. Before Grantaire can blink, he feels his legs knocked out from under him as someone grabs his arms from behind, forcing him to his knees, and a hand in his hair yanks his head back. 

Enjolras barely reacts to the news that Grantaire is here to kill him, except to scoff and say “Bahorel, let him go, he’s not going to hurt me.” Grantaire hadn’t even realised that Bahorel was in the room. Either he’s losing his touch or Les Amis are quicker than he’s given them credit for. 

The hand leaves his hair, and Grantaire tries to rub feeling into his skull again as Bahorel says “Sorry man, can’t be too careful.” Grantaire starts to stare up at Enjolras, then realises how undignified that is and scrambles to his feet. 

“How do you know I’m not going to hurt you?” he snaps accusingly. 

Enjolras shrugs, a soft smile rising on his face. “Call it intuition.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to hurt me?” 

“No.” Grantaire replies, and is instantly annoyed when the smile becomes the slightest bit smug. “I’m here to help you.” 

“Help me? Help me how?” he asks. 

“I know a guy, he owes me a favour.” He remembers then, that Montparnasse has already paid back his favour. Fuck it, Grantaire will work something out. “I can get you a passport, a couple thousand euros cash. That should keep you going for a few weeks while we sort out the identity stuff and get you set up somewhere else.” 

Enjolras’ eyes narrow. “Why would I need any of that?” 

“Because-” Grantaire sputters, exasperated. “Because I- You- You need to get out of here .” 

Enjolras actually laughs at this. “Grantaire, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Grantaire barely knows how to respond to this, so he strides forward and grips Enjolras’ shoulders, shaking him slightly and ignoring the warning noises and protests of Les Amis. 

“Enjolras, are you not-Are you not listening to me?” he says desperately, feeling coils of white-hot panic twist and untwist in his stomach. “Someone wants you dead. I’ve been sent here to kill you. And you’re right, I’m not going to hurt you. But it’s not going to take long for them to realise that. And they’ll send someone else, and whoever they send will kill you, they won’t even think twice about it.” 

“Grantaire.” Grantaire feels Enjolras shift, and then delicate hands, for once not dressed in leather, are covering his own. “Grantaire, please calm down. I need you to breathe.” 

Grantaire wants to snap that he knows how to breathe, thanks very much, but then he realises that, actually, yeah, he’s kind of not , right now. He feels Enjolras steer him onto the sofa and sit beside him, still holding his hands. The rest of the group is silent. 

“Come on, Grantaire, deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it.” Enjolras says quietly. 

Eventually, after some time, Grantaire’s breaths steady themselves, and he mutters a shuddery “Shit, sorry.”

Enjolras smiles. “It’s okay. Joly’s getting you a glass of water.” Then, he puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all going to be okay, Grantaire. We can work it out.” It’s absolutely ridiculous that Enjolras is the one comforting Grantaire, when Enjolras is the one who has days to live, if he’s lucky.

“No, it is not going to be okay.” Grantaire snaps, because that’s better than dropping to his knees and sobbing. “Jesus Christ, you’re so stupid and idealistic and wonderful and you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Enjolras frowns then, doesn’t say anything. 

Eventually, the silence is broken by Joly, who hands Grantaire a glass of water and asks, “So what’s the plan?” 

Combeferre steps in then. “Grantaire, how did you find out about the hit?” 

“I-” It’s hard to think about the postcard sitting on his kitchen table right now. He feels like about five years has passed since then, but it hasn’t even been five hours. “I get a postcard delivered to my address. The barcode on it directs me to an online profile, all the information is on there. And then I just accept the terms and...They pretty much leave me to my own devices after that.” 

“Interesting.” Combeferre says thoughtfully. “And how does the transaction, so to speak, work? Has the money already been paid?” 

“I don’t get the money straight away.” Grantaire says, confused as to where exactly Combeferre is going with all this. “And I don’t see all the money. I work for an organisation, they get me the jobs. And then after the job is done, the money is paid. They take a cut and I get the rest.”

Combeferre’s hand comes up, starts stroking his chin slowly. Grantaire can practically see the cogs turning in his head. 

“Okay,” he says, “Okay. And let’s say the source of the hit, and the money being used to pay for it, was to be cut off. Would the hit still go ahead?” 

Beside him, Enjolras stiffens, but doesn’t say anything. 

Grantaire pauses, thinking. After a minute, he says, “I mean, I don’t see why it would. What’s the point of carrying out a hit when there’s not going to be a pay out?” 

“Combeferre, I don’t know if there’s any need-” Enjolras starts slowly. 

“Oh yes there is.” Courfeyrac says suddenly, moving to stand beside Combeferre. “This isn’t going to just go away. We need to deal with it. Permanently.” 

Enjolras bites his lip, head tilting to the left. Combeferre simply raises his eyebrows, and Courfeyrac folds his arms across his chest. 

Enjolras, to Grantaire’s surprise, makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat. “We don’t have to do this. We could find out who it is, try to get them to-” 

“No, Enjolras.” Combeferre presses his fingertips to his temples. “Whoever this is, they’re paying a lot of money to have you killed. We wouldn’t even have known about it until it was too late if Grantaire hadn’t come to us. The time for negotiation is long gone. Believe me,” he looks up, meets Enjolras’ eyes. “I don’t like it either.”

“But what about-” Enjolras starts to say. 

“Oh, I think he’d be more than willing.” Courfeyrac interrupts, and Enjolras’ eyes narrow.

Grantaire has absolutely no idea what is going on. 

“What is happening?” he asks the room at large. 

“They do this all the time.” Bossuet says with an eye roll. “You get used to it.”

There’s a few more minutes of everyone simply watching Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras have a mostly silent conversation, and then Enjolras sighs heavily and says “Fine.”  

“Great.” Courfeyrac says. Then, he turns to Grantaire. “Grantaire, I’m going to drive you back to your apartment. We’re going to need to see that laptop.” 

Feuilly stands up. “I’ll call Gav.” he says, before disappearing into the hallway. 

Grantaire has no idea who Gav is. He looks between Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. All three of them are staring at him very intently. 

“What’s your plan?” he asks. 

“We’re thinking,” Combeferre says, “That we can maybe try and trace the source of the request. Try and see who exactly put the hit out on Enjolras.” 

“We’re thinking that once we find out who it is, we can, uh-” Courfeyrac clears his throat. “Hit them before they hit us, so to speak.” 

Grantaire stares at them, wondering if that can possibly mean what he thinks it does. 

Enjolras takes a step forward. 

“Grantaire,” he says quietly, “How much would it cost to hire you to do this?” The simple question has him looking more uncomfortable than he did when he found out about the price on his head. 

Grantaire runs his hands through his hair. “Jesus, Enjolras, I-” 

“Whatever it is, we’ll pay it.” Combeferre says. When Enjolras shoots him a look, he repeats “ Whatever it is.” 

“No, it’s not that- I mean-” Grantaire sputters. They can’t afford it. He doesn’t know how much money Les Amis have, but they can’t afford it. 

Eventually, he manages to spit out. “You guys don’t have to pay me. I’ll do it.” 

Enjolras blinks. After a pause he says, “We can’t ask you to do that for free.” 

“And you’re not. I’m offering.” Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are looking at him like he’s grown a second head, so Grantaire rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh. “It’s fine. Consider it- Consider it fucking...Friends and family discount, or whatever.” 

Enjolras still looks hesitant. “Are you sure?” 

Grantaire meets Enjolras’ eyes. “ Yes, I’m sure.” 

Enjolras just continues to look at him in silence. After a few beats, he nods slowly. 

Courfeyrac claps his hands together, and everyone jumps slightly. “Fabulous! Grantaire, let’s go get your laptop.” 

***

When Courfeyrac and Grantaire return to Les Amis’ house, Grantaire’s laptop and a duffle bag full of clothes in tow (“You may as well stay over for a few days; we don’t know how long this is going to take” Courfeyrac had said), they walk into the kitchen to see the rest of Les Amis sitting around the table with a young boy, who is wearing a baseball cap backwards and drinking out of a Diet Coke can. 

“Gav!” Courfeyrac is over straight away, holding his hand out for his boy to fist-bump, which he does with a wide smile. 

“I can’t believe you only have Diet Coke. For people who break the law everyday, you guys are fucking boring.” The boy’s eyes travel over to Grantaire. “Who’s this?”

“Gavroche, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, Gavroche.” Combeferre says. 

“Show him the profile you were talking about.” Enjolras says.

Grantaire narrows his eyes at him, but dutifully sets the laptop down in front of the boy, pulling up Enjolras’ profile. Once again, he has no idea what’s going on. It seems to be happening with alarming regularity, lately. 

Gavroche frowns as he scans the page, and then, to Grantaire’s shock, he bursts out laughing. 

He turns to Enjolras. “Oh my god! Holy shit, who have you pissed off? ” 

“Kind of what we’re trying to work out, Gav.” Enjolras says drily. 

Gavroche pulls the laptop closer and cracks his knuckles. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here.” His eyes scan the page again, and then he starts typing and clicking rapidly. 

“What is he doing?” Grantaire asks. 

“Trying to trace the source of the request.” Feuilly stands so he can watch over Gavroche’s shoulder. “I’m pretty good, but I figured for something like this we should bring in the expert.” 

Grantaire wonders vaguely if he’s gone crazy, or if he actually heard that right. 

“I’m sorry, your expert on hacking is a twelve year old? ” he asks incredulously. 

The typing stops. When Grantaire looks, Gavroche is pinning him with a steely glare that is almost as intimidating as Enjolras’. 

“I’m fourteen.” he snaps. “And I know more than you do.” Without breaking eye contact, he takes a sip of Diet Coke, then sets it down and says, “So shut the fuck up.” He starts typing again. 

Courfeyrac makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. 

Grantaire presses his fingers to his temples and rubs, trying to stave off the migraine he can feel developing. “Look, kid, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re very smart-”

“Where the hell did you find this guy?” Gavroche asks Enjolras, lifting one hand to jab a thumb in Grantaire’s direction without looking up from the screen. 

Enjolras gives a very long-suffering sounding sigh. “I really don’t think we have time to get into that right now.” 

Grantaire decides to ignore the interruption. “Listen to me. There’s no fucking way you’ll be able to get through the security on that site. Especially to see who’s requesting hits. Even the best hackers in the world, it would take them days-”

“I’m in.” Gavroche says, sitting back and leaning his elbow on the back of the chair. "You're looking for a guy called Alain Morel."

Grantaire pointedly ignores the look Enjolras is giving him. 

Combeferre turns in his chair to better face Jehan. “Do we know a Morel?” 

“Give me a second.” They have the laptop from earlier in front of them, and immediately flip it open and start typing. 

“Do you guys want anything else?” Gavroche asks, and Bahorel stands. 

“Nah, dude. Time to get you home.” 

Apparently, Gavroche being fourteen and not twelve does not mean he is above pouting. “Aw, can’t I hang out and see what happens?” 

“No dice, bud. It’s a school night.” Bahorel replies. Then he grins and says, “If you want though, I can take you on the motorbike?” 

“Fuck yeah!” Gavroche stands, directs a scowl at Grantaire and gives the rest of Les Amis fist-bumps. When he reaches Enjolras, he says, “Try not to get killed, yeah?” 

Enjolras snorts. “I’ll try my best.” 

Grantaire watches them leave and, over Joly’s yell of “Both of you wear a helmet!”, wonders what exactly his life has become. Yesterday, he was a professional assassin. Today, he’s being bullied by fourteen year old expert hackers. 

“No record of an Alain Morel on any of our files.” Jehan says, twisting one of their braids around their fingers. “So I resorted to the internet. There’s an Alain Morel living just outside of Paris in an ancestral family home. Seems like he comes from money. His entire family is in politics. But he owns a jewelry store near the Louvre.” 

“A jewelry store?” Courfeyrac repeats disbelievingly. 

“A jewelry store.” Jehan confirms. 

“What would a guy who runs a jewelry store want with Les Amis? Or with Enjolras?” Joly asks. 

Grantaire speaks then. “The profile says Enjolras is causing problems for him and his people. Whoever you have been targeting for the past few months, Morel obviously has a connection to at least one of them.” 

Enjolras nods slowly. “Whatever it is, we’ve missed it before now.” he says quietly, as though talking to himself. 

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac’s voice jolts Grantaire out of where he’d been watching Enjolras. When Grantaire looks at him, he asks, “How long do we have before whoever you’re working for gets suspicious about the fact that Enjolras isn’t dead yet?” 

Grantaire thinks about his average rate of work, the information in the file. After a minute, he says, “Probably around three days.” 

“And what happens after that time?” 

Grantaire swallows, clears his throat where it’s gone dry. “They’ll send someone else.” 

“But that would only be the case if Morel was still in a position where he can make a payment?” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire nods in confirmation. 

Enjolras nods decisively, stands. “Three days is enough time. We’ll have to see what we can dig up on Morel. We need to make sure he isn’t operating as part of a larger unit, or that the hit isn’t going to be requested by someone else when he dies. Bossuet, maybe head round to that jewelry store tomorrow, see if there’s anything of note.” 

“Yes.” Combeferre says, standing too and placing a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. “But tomorrow. For now, we should all try and get some sleep. It’s nearly one in the morning.” 

Grantaire hadn’t even realised how fast the time had passed. The stress of the day has finally caught up with him, and he realises he feels tired down to his very bones. Some sleep sounds amazing right now. 

That night, he lies awake on the sofa bed in Les Amis’ living room, and wonders what the hell he’s going to do after the hit. 

***

After two days, Grantaire feels like his nerves are going to shake him apart. Despite the best efforts of Jehan, Feuilly and Gavroche, when he’s around, finding any information on Grantaire’s newest target is proving near impossible. On Day One, Jehan had tracked down the address of Morel’s house outside of Paris, but when Grantaire and Bossuet went there and broke in through a downstairs window, it was to find the house empty, all the furniture covered in a thick layer of dust. Since then, the man had been virtually untraceable.

Plus, Bossuet had fallen out the window on their way out and sprained his wrist, so that...Wasn’t ideal. 

And in the meantime, Grantaire has simply been milling around the Les Amis house, eating their food, waiting for instruction and trying not to panic any time Enjolras was out of his sight (Combeferre and Courfeyrac had suggested, on the first day, that Enjolras stay in the house for his own safety- That had gone about as well as expected). 

Finally, finally, at about 7pm on the second day, Feuilly bursts into the kitchen triumphantly and says “I’ve found it. I’ve fucking found it. ” 

Combeferre and Enjolras look up from where they’ve been slumped over Combeferre’s laptop, thinly-veiled exhaustion on their faces. “Found what?” Combeferre asks. 

“Where Morel is right now.” Feuilly says, sliding his own laptop onto the table. “He has a second home, inherited from his uncle, who only died three months ago. It’s about thirty miles outside Rennes. And it’s still in his uncle’s name. That’s why we’ve haven’t been able to trace it before now.” 

Immediately, all heads turn to Grantaire. 

“Can you do it tonight?” Combeferre asks seriously. 

“Yes.” Rennes is a fair distance away from Paris, but Grantaire doesn’t think he can take the tension of the past few days any longer. Right now, he’s so desperate for this to end that he would drive to Barcelona if he had to. He stands, and blinks when Enjolras stands too. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m coming with you.” Enjolras says, like it’s obvious. 

Grantaire snorts. “No you are not.” 

His eyes narrow. “Yes I am. You can’t drive three and a half hours there and back again, you’ll pass out at the wheel. And it’s not safe for you to go there by yourself.” 

“Enjolras, it’s literally my day job. ” 

“I don’t care!” Enjolras snaps. 

“Look,” Grantaire argues. “I’m going to be pretty fucking busy while I’m there. I can’t afford to be looking after you as well.” 

Enjolras makes an indignant noise, crossing his arms. “What makes you think you’ll be looking after me?” 

Grantaire snorts. “Well, for one, you were literally just followed for weeks and didn’t notice a damn thing-” 

“Oh, you think we didn’t notice?” Enjolras interrupts. “That’s cute.” 

Grantaire...Doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“We noticed.” Enjolras snaps. “We had plans in place to confront the person doing it. And then you showed up at our door that night and it wasn’t exactly necessary after that. Listen,” Enjolras brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You got injured a few weeks ago because I wasn’t being careful enough. I’m not letting that happen again.” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and while you’re so busy worrying about me, Morel can sneak up behind you and stab you in the-”

“Be quiet, both of you.” Combeferre says, and his voice is so authoritative that both Enjolras and Grantaire snap their mouths shut. “We don’t have time for a debate right now. Make a decision.”

Grantaire glares at Enjolras. “You’re not coming. That’s final.”

***

“I’m going to pull over here.” Enjolras says three and a half hours later, pulling into a barely visible lay-by on the country road they’ve been driving on. Grantaire had given him the silent treatment for the first hour and a half of the drive, determined to keep it up the whole night. But that had gotten boring pretty quickly, and Grantaire had figured communication was going to be key for the next few hours anyway. 

They’re waiting until just after midnight, to see if Les Amis call with any more information about what exactly they’ll be walking into when they arrive at Morel’s estate. If Les Amis don’t call, they’ll be going into the situation blind, which makes Grantaire’s stomach swirl unpleasantly. He’s never, ever been this unprepared for a hit before, and the thought makes him shudder. 

In the meantime, all they can do is wait in the small, nondescript rental car they had hired for 60 euros before leaving Paris. 

“So,” Grantaire says to break the tense silence in the car. “How’s law school going?” Enjolras looks over at him with a raised eyebrow, and he adds, “Courfeyrac told me that’s what you both study.” 

Enjolras snorts. “It’s fine, I guess. I finish next month. I don’t know, I’m kind of over it at this stage. I just want to get it finished so I can focus on Les Amis full-time. But it keeps my parents off my back, at least.” 

“Hm.” Grantaire says noncommittally, “Don’t know how you managed to balance them both up to now.” 

Enjolras frowns. “What do you mean? Les Amis has only been operating for about five months.”

This gives Grantaire pause. “Really? ” 

Grantaire had assumed that Les Amis was something that had been started by a bunch of eighteen year olds as a vague social justice after-school club, which had slowly built into something real over time. If, in reality, the group has only been running for a short period, they’re working incredibly fast, and extremely efficiently. 

When Grantaire finishes pondering this, he looks over at Enjolras, who is giving him a wry smile. “You’ve been underestimating us.” 

Grantaire nods. “I won’t deny it.” 

“That time we met, in the hotel room?” Enjolras continues, still smiling faintly. “That was the first time I’d ever done-” Here he pauses, gestures vaguely as though he doesn’t know how to sum up the event. “-That. As first times go, it was a fucking disaster.” 

Well, Grantaire isn’t going to ignore the innuendo there. “Aw, babe, don’t say that. The first time is never perfect. We’ve had some good times since then.” 

“Grow up.” Enjolras says, but Grantaire can see him biting back a smile, and he can’t help but smile in return. 

A few minutes pass in silence, and then Grantaire breaks it with, “I have a question. And it’s not about law school, as thrilling as I’m sure that is.” 

Enjolras snorts. “It’s really, really not. But what’s your question?” 

“Gavroche.” Grantaire asks. “Where did he come from?” 

Enjolras sighs heavily, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. “I- I don’t really know the full story, to be honest. Courfeyrac bumped into him near Gare du Nord one day, he was trying to pickpocket him. He said Le Cabuc had his eye on him, and we were worried. So Courfeyrac insisted on taking him under our wing.” He opens his eyes, looking at Grantaire. “We make sure he goes to school and eats a proper meal several times a week, but we’re not his parents. We don’t know where they are. But he likes what we do, and it keeps him out of trouble, so.” He shrugs. 

Grantaire grins. “Well, it gets him into a different kind of trouble.” he says, and Enjolras laughs. 

“But that’s-” he hesitates. “That’s good. That you’re looking out for him.”

“He’s a good kid.” Enjolras says faintly. 

“He is. It would have been bad, if Le Cabuc had gotten to him. Take it from someone who could have been there.” Grantaire says quietly. He realises, in that moment, that he’s never said it out loud before, never acknowledged what his life could have been. 

“Really?” Enjolras is looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. 

Grantaire shrugs. “I got kicked out of my home when I was nineteen. I didn’t have anywhere to go, or a job, or any money. If he had approached me, I would have said yes.” He chuckles drily. “Lucky for me, my current handler got there first.” 

When he looks at Enjolras, he looks angry, but his voice is quiet when he says, “They must have been watching you, to know you were in a position where you couldn’t say no. They took advantage of you when you were vulnerable. That’s awful.” 

Grantaire shrugs. “I mean, I guess. But hey,” he tries to smile at Enjolras, but manages only a vague twitch of the lips. “It worked out okay in the end, didn’t it?”

“Do you ever want to get out?" Enjolras sounds genuinely curious. "Do something else?" 

Grantaire laughs. "Of course. But I don't know what else I would do. This is my life. It's all I've known for six years."

Enjolras doesn’t say anything then, but a furrow appears between his eyebrows as he frowns, as though he’s thinking hard about something. 

“And hey, it’s not all bad.” Grantaire says, managing a more genuine smile this time. “I mean, I got to meet you and Les Amis, right?”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “I’m surprised you don’t regret that, given our current predicament.”

He shakes his head. “I would never.” It comes out sounding more sincere that he means to- He had been going for jokey bravado. He realises that subconsciously, he’s turned his whole body to face Enjolras. 

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow. “What, you don’t even regret getting shot ?” 

Grantaire huffs a small laugh, but he can’t quite look away from Enjolras’ wide eyes. “Especially not that.” 

“Not even the 15,000 euros you’re missing out on by keeping me alive?” Enjolras continues. At Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs and says, “Obviously I checked the file. I wanted to know how much I was worth; it’s good for my ego.” 

Grantaire smiles. “No, I don’t regret losing that. I’d rather you were alive.” 

Enjolras frowns, and his eyes flick away, staring out the windshield. “Why did you decide not to kill me?” he asks faintly, almost as if he’s speaking to himself instead of Grantaire. 

Because you’re too young to die. Because you’re a good person. Because I’m in love with you. 

Grantaire looks away. He considers thinking of some snarky reply that will make Enjolras roll his eyes, but instead finds himself whispering, “I guess I just like you.” 

When he looks back, Enjolras has turned his face towards him again. His eyes are very wide, very bright, in the darkness. 

“I like you too.” Grantaire’s not certain, but he thinks Enjolras’ eyes flick down to his lips, then back. 

The car suddenly feels tiny, like there’s not enough room to move, not enough room to breathe. Grantaire, in that moment, feels like they’re on a precipice, like they’re about to push each other off into a rocky unknown. 

“I’ve killed so many people, Enjolras.” he says quietly. He doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be a warning, or something else. 

“I know.” Enjolras whispers. 

“Does that not scare you?” Grantaire asks, but even as he says it, he’s leaning in, leaning closer, inches away from those bright eyes and that warm skin and those full lips. 

“No.” Enjolras breathes, and he’s leaning in too, and they’re so close, they’re centimetres away, he can see every freckle on the bridge of Enjolras' nose, and Grantaire reaches out to touch, sees Enjolras’ eyes flicker shut, and-

And Enjolras’ phone rings loud in the silence, and the two of them leap apart with gasps of fright. 

For a second, they simply stare at each other, breathing fast and audible even over the blaring ringtone. Enjolras shakes his head as though to clear it, and fumbles in the glovebox for his phone. Grantaire pretends not to notice the way his hands are trembling the slightest bit. 

“Jehan, hi.” he says, pressing the button for the phone’s loudspeaker and running a hand through his hair. 

“Enjolras? Everything okay?” Jehan asks. 

He frowns, bites his lower lip. “Everything’s fine, why?”

“You sound weird. And it took you a while to answer.” 

Enjolras blinks. He hesitates for a second, then says again, “Everything’s fine. Grantaire and I are in the car. We’re parked about two miles from Morel’s estate.” 

“Okay, so, big update.” Grantaire wishes he was Jehan, blissfully unaware of the tension in the car. “We managed to get into Morel’s accounts. You’re not going to believe this, but he’s planning to run for office in a few years.”

Grantaire and Enjolras exchange a shocked look. 

“And,” Jehan continues. “it appears his little jewelry store venture could be a front for quite a significant amount of illegal activity- I’m talking money laundering, drugs and weapon smuggling, maybe even human trafficking. And, you’ll never guess who made quite a significant investment in his little jewelry shop about five months ago.” 

“Who?” Enjolras says. 

“Le Cabuc.” Jehan says, and Grantaire sees Enjolras’ eyes widen with understanding. “It seems like, if we’d done any digging into Le Cabuc’s connections, we were on the verge of discovering something pretty big. Something that would make a political career, or any career for that matter, pretty out of reach if it was exposed.” 

Grantaire nods, and clears his throat before speaking, because he’s still kind of reeling from his almost-kiss with Enjolras. “That makes...Quite a lot of sense.” 

“Yes.” Jehan agrees. “Luckily for us, Enjolras, from his correspondence with Grantaire’s organisation, he seems to be under the assumption that you’re working alone, rather than as part of a larger group. So there’s probably no more hitmen out for the rest of us. And it seems that he’s doing the same- The thing with Le Cabuc has freaked him out, he’s paranoid now. No one’s seen him in person in weeks- He even fired all his housekeeping and security staff. But he hasn’t hired anyone new yet.” 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire. “So the house is completely empty apart from him?” 

“Yes.”

“Which means-”

“Tonight could be the best opportunity we’re going to get.” Jehan confirms. “So don’t fuck it up.” 

“I won’t.” Grantaire says, because he won’t. He never has before tonight, and knowing what they’re walking into eases the tension in his spine a bit. 

“Okay, good.” Jehan says. They pause, and then ask, “Are you sure you two are okay?” 

“Yes!” They shout in unison, too loud and too fast to be genuine. 

Jehan sighs in a way which implies that they know they’re lying. “Fine. Call us when you’re on your way back to Paris.” 

“Thanks Jehan.” Enjolras ends the call, and then runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip again. He turns to face Grantaire, “Are we going to tal-”

“Nope.” Grantaire says quickly, opening his door and stepping out before he can hear the end of Enjolras’ sentence. 

He hears Enjolras make a noise of frustration as he steps out of the car too. “Grantaire-” 

“No.” Grantaire snaps, turning and glaring at Enjolras over the roof of the car. “Priorities, please. I have a job to do now, and I agreed to let you come on the condition that you didn’t get in my way. So stop fucking distracting me.” 

Enjolras opens his mouth as though to argue, and then seems to think better of it, choosing instead to roll his eyes. Grantaire turns and starts striding in the vague direction of Morel’s estate, and Enjolras follows in sulky silence.  

They make it to the estate just as Grantaire’s watch ticks past twelve thirty. The large house is shrouded in darkness, with several nice looking sports cars parked out front. 

“He lives alone.” Enjolras mutters furiously to himself, “Why does he need three cars?” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and tries to hide his grin. Incorrigible.

They scale the steel gates which lead to the driveway, and Grantaire draws his gun as they approach the house, looking around for signs of anything suspicious, like security cameras or like, a sniper hiding in a tree or something. Luckily, there’s nothing, and they run round to the back of the house. 

Once there, Grantaire kneels on the ground and pulls out the lock picking kit he’s had since he was twenty, and gets to work. 

“What’s that?” Enjolras whispers, looking over his shoulder. 

“Lock picking kit.” Grantaire replies, not looking up, “We can’t all do a triple-double backflip pike somersault into an open window.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Oh fuck you. I’m going to kill Courfeyrac for telling you that.” 

Grantaire shushes him. 

The door unlocks, and then they’re in a large, traditional-looking kitchen, the only light coming from the moonlight through the window. Grantaire turns to Enjolras, takes the throwing knife he’d brought from his belt loop, and presses it into his hand. He doubts Enjolras has any skill at actually throwing it, but it would serve him well enough if he was to be attacked close range. And Grantaire needs his gun. 

“Listen to me,” he whispers, very aware that they don’t have a lot of time, “If something goes wrong here, I want you to run. Leave me behind. I’ll work it out. Just- Promise me you’ll get out of here.” 

Enjolras gives him a flat stare. “I’m not going to do that, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire would scream in frustration, if being quiet wasn’t sort of imperative to their situation right now. “Enjolras-” 

“I’m not going to promise that, so don’t ask me again. I'm not leaving you behind.” Enjolras whispers calmly. And then- “Maybe, if you wanted to debate about it, you should have brought it up in the car, and not waited until we were standing in his kitchen.” 

He has a point. 

Grantaire sighs, and motions for Enjolras to follow him. 

The house is silent apart from the sound of their quiet breathing. They walk slowly out of the kitchen into a massive foyer with a large staircase in the middle. Grantaire wonders vaguely how many bedrooms this place has, and hopes he can find his target before he hears them. 

He looks up to the upstairs landing, counts eight doors, and another hallway no doubt leading to more, and then turns to Enjolras. 

“I’ll start on the right, you start on the left.” he whispers. “If you find him, tell me. Do not try and take him on by yourself or anything ridiculous like that, or I will kill you after all.” Enjolras just rolls his eyes and starts creeping up the stairs, Grantaire following. 

The first door he opens is a bedroom, but it’s empty. The second, an office of some kind. He’s about to open the third door on his side, when he hears Enjolras whisper “Grantaire”. 

He looks across to the opposite landing, where Enjolras is standing silently in front of the third room down, the door of which is cracked open slightly, his hand still on the handle. When Grantaire meets his eyes, he gives a small nod. Grantaire beckons him over to his side of the landing. 

“The second door down is some kind of office.” Grantaire says, when Enjolras is close enough that he’ll hear his whisper. “See if there’s anything useful for Les Amis.” 

Enjolras’ eyes flick between his face and the door across the landing, but then he nods again and moves down the hall to the door Grantaire was talking about. Grantaire watches him slip inside before he walks over and enters the bedroom.  

Grantaire walks slowly into the dark bedroom, safety already turned off, heading towards the lump in the bed, walking around the side until he has confirmation that yes, this is definitely the man he’s looking for. He readies his gun, and is struck for a moment by how easy it all is. He wonders, vaguely, if it’s too easy. If he should be disturbed and sickened by how easy he finds it. 

Probably. 

He points the gun at his target’s head. Fires. And then it’s over. 

He walks out of the bedroom slowly, and leans against the wall, putting his head in his hands. He realises, then, that he’s crying. He hasn’t ever cried after a hit, not even when he was nineteen, and as he breathes harshly into his hands, he can’t decide if it’s from fear, or from adrenaline, or the absence of fear, or the sheer, bone-crushing relief. 

“Grantaire?” He hears Enjolras whisper, and then he’s in front of him, wrapping slim, gloved hands around his wrists and pulling his hands away from his face. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, Grantaire, what’s going on?” 

Grantaire gulps. “I-I don’t know.” he says with a watery laugh. “It’s done. Everything’s okay. I just- I need to leave, I need to get out of here.” 

Enjolras steps back, and Grantaire sees he has a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, stuffed fit to burst with manila folders and files and loose papers, because some things never change. He gives Grantaire a hesitant smile, and holds out his hand, and Grantaire remembers, then, why he agreed to do this. 

“Take my hand. Let’s go.” Enjolras says, and Grantaire does. 

***

They get back to Paris just before 5am, and Grantaire parks the car and insists on walking Enjolras to his door. He looks exhausted, eyes heavy and movements slow, but when he stops in front of the door, key in hand, the smile he gives Grantaire is genuine. 

“Grantaire, thank you so much.” He reaches out as though to put a hand on Grantaire’s cheek, but freezes at the last second before resting it on his shoulder instead. “For everything.” 

Grantaire swallows. “Any time, Enjolras. Anything.” He doesn’t even care how horribly earnest he sounds. They’re well past that by now. 

“This is yours.” When Grantaire looks down, Enjolras is holding the handle of the throwing knife out to him. He takes it, and their fingers brush. 

Enjolras is looking at him, as though he expects Grantaire to say something, but then he sighs heavily and turns, putting his key in the lock, and without thinking, Grantaire reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Enjolras.” 

He turns again slowly, the expression on his face almost...Hopeful. 

Grantaire swallows, thinks of all the things he could say, and all the things he won’t. “Please be careful.” he settles on, letting go of his wrist. 

Something flickers across Enjolras’ face...Annoyance? Disappointment? But then he nods, gives Grantaire another small smile, and disappears into the dark house. 

Grantaire doesn’t go home after that. He takes the car back to the rental place, and starts walking. 

He spends the night pacing the city, going round in circles and crossing bridges and heading down dark alleys, safe in the knowledge that if anyone tries to mug him or worse, he can probably handle them.

He walks, and watches the sun rise over the Seine, and thinks of Enjolras, of their nearly-kiss in the car, of his warm hand in his, of his hopeful expression on his doorstep, and of what the hell is going to happen now. 

***

Grantaire returns to his apartment well after the sun has risen, sharing the previously silent streets with commuters and school children and tourists as he walks closer and closer to his home. His feet are aching horribly, and all he’s thinking about is crawling into his bed. 

He unlocks his front door, walking down the hallway and into his kitchen, yawning into the back of his hand. 

There’s someone sitting on his kitchen counter. 

Without thinking, he rips the throwing knife from earlier out of his belt loop and launches it as hard as he can. But he’s out of practice with knives and surprised and exhausted, so it misses its target by a foot or so, embedding itself in the wall and yeah, Grantaire’s never getting his security deposit back now. 

He’s kind of glad it went long though, because it’s Enjolras sitting on his kitchen counter, long legs swinging and drinking from Grantaire’s favourite coffee mug. 

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras!” Grantaire yells, “I could have killed you!” 

Enjolras looks at him coolly, and then at the knife embedded in the wall, handle still quivering from impact, and then back. 

“With that shot?” he asks, amusement evident in his voice. 

“Fuck off.” He ignores Enjolras in favour of walking over and getting the orange juice from the fridge. 

“Have you even been home yet?” Enjolras asks incredulously. He looks like he’s had a couple hours sleep and a shower at least, having swapped his standard all-black attire for jeans and a t-shirt. He looks more relaxed and better rested than Grantaire has seen him in days. Grantaire imagines he himself looks the opposite. 

Grantaire ignores his question in favour of asking “How did you even get in here?” 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just glances at the open living room window. 

“Enjolras, we’re five floors up.” 

“I know.” he says, and grins. “I borrowed the spare key from your neighbour.” 

Grantaire really needs to have a word with Madame Laurence about giving his key out to beautiful blond strangers. 

“Since when are you a comedian?” he mumbles to himself, and Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just slides further down the counter so he can reach the sink, and sets his empty mug in it. 

“I have two propositions for you.” he says, all business. 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, leaning against the fridge door and crossing his arms. “Oh? Do tell.”

“First,” Enjolras’ voice is calm. “Join Les Amis?” 

Grantaire blinks. “What?” 

“You know how to track, you’re good at breaking and entering, you never leave any evidence behind.” Enjolras says quietly, fingers curled over the countertop, ankles crossed. “And honestly, even with our knowledge, you know more about the criminal underworld than the rest of us combined. We’ve all discussed it, and we all want you there. I want you there.” He bites his lower lip. “I know it’s not a perfect arrangement...We can’t give you thousands of euros a week or a nice apartment. But you’d be more than welcome in the Clichy house. Or you can stay here, of course.” He shrugs. “The offer’s there. If-If you want it.” 

“I-” Grantaire thinks about the offer. On one hand, he still thinks what Les Amis are doing is totally ridiculous and ultimately completely futile. There’s never going to be a perfect solution, and they’re always going to be fighting against a never-ending tide of corruption and evil people and bullshit, and Enjolras will always be putting himself in danger. 

On the other…

He’s being offered a way out of the depressingly monotonous existence he’s fallen into somewhere in the last six years. The chance to do something new, something different, something which will ultimately be a much greater challenge, fills him with a new kind of thrill, the kind he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

Plus, he likes Les Amis. They’re good people. God, someday, they might even be his friends. 

He swallows. “Can I think about it?” 

Enjolras smiles brightly. “Of course. Take as much time as you want.” He doesn’t say anything else, head turning to look out the window, and Grantaire takes a moment to admire the way the morning sun lights up his face, golden skin glowing. 

Just a moment, though. 

“And your second one?” Grantaire asks into the silence. 

Enjolras frowns, turning to Grantaire again. “What, sorry?” 

“Your second proposition? What was it?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Enjolras licks his lips, and for a second he looks- Embarrassed, almost. But god knows Enjolras isn’t one to back down from a challenge, or from anything really, so he straightens his spine and says calmly;

“I think that you should kiss me.”

Grantaire’s brain grinds to a halt at that. 

“I’m sorry, what ?” 

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “I know you heard me, Grantaire.”

Grantaire just looks at him. “Please tell me this isn’t some sort of payment, for the hit.” he says slowly. 

“You’re an idiot.” Enjolras says, and god, he sounds fond. “It’s not payment. I’m asking you to kiss me because I want you to kiss me. I wanted you to kiss me outside the house, and in the car, and in Le Cabuc’s house, and pretty much every other time we’ve seen each other. I really, really want you to kiss me.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks, because he seriously, really, refuses to believe this is actually happening to him. 

Enjolras shrugs. “I guess I just like you.” he says softly, his mouth quirking into a smile again. 

Grantaire strides across the room, grabbing Enjolras’ hips to pull him off the counter- he’ll never reach him otherwise- and kisses him. 

Enjolras makes a little noise of surprise into his mouth, probably from being dislodged from the counter, but then he melts, tilting his head to better slot their mouths together and tangling both his hands in Grantaire’s hair, tugging a bit and moaning into Grantaire’s mouth. 

Grantaire has the feeling they’ve both wanted to do this for a really, really long time. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, tangled together. Grantaire finds he doesn’t care, that he will happily stay standing in his kitchen forever if it means getting to kiss Enjolras, if it means getting to grip his hips so hard it’s probably going to bruise, if it means getting to break away from his lips to trail kisses up his jaw and down his neck, and then move back up and kiss him all over again. 

Eventually, they break apart, both panting slightly. Enjolras leans his head back, laughing breathlessly. 

“What?” Grantaire asks, but he’s kind of laughing too, because Enjolras has broken into his apartment and offered him a place with Les Amis and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe and is laughing in Grantaire’s arms, and it might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Enjolras is still chuckling slightly as he looks down at Grantaire. 

“Have you wanted to do that for as long as I have?” he asks, eyes bright and shining and lovely. 

Rather than answering straight away, Grantaire reaches up, puts a hand on his cheek and pulls him in for another soft, sweet, glorious kiss. When they break apart, Grantaire smiles wider than he ever has in his life, and rests his forehead on Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“If I told you that,” he whispers into the smooth skin of Enjolras’ collarbone, “Then I’d have to kill you.”