Chapter Text
Enjolras does not want to wake up. His head is throbbing and his throat is dry and fuck, he’s hung over, he has a hangover. He groans but that’s loud and he reaches over for Grantaire, who is gone, and he whines about that too because Grantaire could save him. Grantaire isn’t there, and that’s reasonable because when Enjolras dares to open his eyes it’s already nearing noon, fuck.
There’s a glass of water and a pill of something or other waiting for him next to the clock on the bedside table, and a note in Grantaire’s distinctive handwriting. Even feeling like a truck slammed into him last night can’t keep him from smiling a little at it. Grantaire absentmindedly writes in an elegantly sweeping cursive that rivals calligraphy.
Out painting x
R
It’s disappointing, but for all Enjolras knows he might have been truly horrible to Grantaire at the fundraiser last night. He doesn’t think he was, but even sober after just over two years together he ends up doing that unintentionally.
He sits up and manages to drink the water Grantaire left out for him, swallowing the pill between mouthfuls of water. It takes a while, but after another few swallows of water he feels vaguely ready to stand up. Because Grantaire is an amazingly beautiful human being, all of the blinds are closed.
Enjolras is standing in the kitchen and staring at the pantry and their cereal collection – all three boxes – when someone knocks on the door. It hurts his head a lot less than he’d expected, which is a good sign. Enjolras is incapable of walking around the apartment naked (alone), so thank god he doesn’t have to struggle his way into clothing again.
“Come in,” Enjolras calls out very quietly, even if it sounds deafening to his own ears.
They knock again, and Enjolras takes a not-quite-desperate drink of his third glass of water before heading over to the door. He’s a shuffling barefoot mess, but he manages to open the door before a third knock comes.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac are both standing in front of Enjolras, looking very…something. Fuck, Enjolras is so hung over. They might be too, even if they weren’t at the fundraiser, since there’s something red about their eyes. Red and tired and looking so sad and sympathetic and fuck, what did Enjolras do this time?
“Let’s sit down,” Combeferre says quietly. There’s a shaking to his voice. Enjolras doesn’t like it. Combeferre is unshakeable.
There is something very wrong.
“What happened?” Enjolras asks, but Courfeyrac takes his arm and leads him over to the couch while Combeferre closes and locks the door. This is not good. This is not good at all. He can hear his own frantic heartbeat pulsing through his head. “What’s gone wrong?”
Courfeyrac sits next to Enjolras, and Combeferre hesitates for a moment before sitting on the coffee table to look Enjolras in the eye.
“Just tell me,” Enjolras says, clenching his hands against his knees. “What’s-”
“Grantaire died,” Combeferre says.
Enjolras frowns. “What? I misheard-”
“He died,” Combeferre says, and his voice is cracking and Courfeyrac is dragging Enjolras into a hug and Enjolras has no idea what’s going on. “There was a fire-”
“Wait, what are you,” Enjolras says, and has to stop, because his brain isn’t working. “What do you mean he died?”
“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre says, and he looks like he’s going to start crying and this is all so wrong, it’s wrong, it can’t possibly be true because he can’t be dead, that’s just ridiculous. This makes absolutely no sense. Combeferre would never lie to him, but this can’t be true, and he doesn’t like how those two conflict because it’s not logical and Combeferre would never lie but this can’t be true. It’s cruel. And Combeferre would never lie to him, and Combeferre is never cruel, but maybe he doesn’t know? Bad information? But Combeferre never has bad information.
“No, he’s just out painting,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre is hugging him right along with Courfeyrac and suddenly Enjolras can’t breathe, can’t find air, because oh god, oh fuck, if they’re doing this it might be true. If they think it’s true, it probably is. “He left a note, he’s not – he left water out.”
“I am so, so sorry,” Combeferre says, and he’s choking the words out, and Courfeyrac is crying too, and Courfeyrac doesn’t cry, he can shake but he never cries and Combeferre is crying too and oh fuck, oh fuck, Enjolras has no idea what to do because it can’t be true, it can’t, it can’t, Grantaire would never leave him like that, nothing could kill him, he’s Grantaire. The only thing that’s ever gotten close to killing Grantaire is Grantaire himself, Enjolras would have let the entire world burn just to keep him from being dead for those few seconds in the senate and oh fuck
“No,” Enjolras says, and it’s weak and croaking and Courfeyrac’s grip on him tightens and he’s whispering we’re here for you, Enjolras, it’s okay and it is not okay it will never be okay and Enjolras can’t just sit here, he moves and stands and they let him stand and he nearly trips over the fucking coffee table and Combeferre is there keeping him steady and Enjolras almost punches him but catches himself because it’s Combeferre, it’s Combeferre who is telling him this. Enjolras stumbles back and he’s crying and he crumples to the floor and Combeferre is there right along with him trying to hold him and he doesn’t want that. He tries to push Combeferre away but he can’t breathe and he’s sobbing, Combeferre is there again and holding him tightly and Enjolras clings because he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there and Grantaire isn’t coming back and it’s so wrong he can’t even imagine it and he wasn’t there he is always there fuck fuck what did he do
“You didn’t do anything,” Courfeyrac says, and it’s supposed to be soothing but Enjolras didn’t do anything.
“But I bring him back, I’ll bring him back,” Enjolras says because that’s how it works Grantaire always comes back Enjolras always brings him back but Enjolras wasn’t there oh fuck
“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre says, and he’s rocking Enjolras back and forth and whispering it over and over and says, “He’s gone,” and so is Enjolras. He cries himself unconscious on the floor.
---
Enjolras wakes up on the couch (Grantaire practically lived on the couch, it’s where he crashed and lounged and smoked and smiled) and Combeferre is sitting next to him. Enjolras wants to think it was all a dream but one look at Combeferre’s face and he can’t lie to himself. He feels completely dead inside.
“Do you want to know how it happened?” Combeferre asks carefully.
Courfeyrac walks in, and looks between them for a moment before quietly saying, “I think I got everything.” And Combeferre nods, attention still fixed on Enjolras. Enjolras watches Courfeyrac sit down in one of the armchairs, looking exhausted.
Enjolras doesn’t know if he wants to know, but then he nods, and suddenly he has to know. “As much detail as possible,” Enjolras manages to say, even if he barely recognizes his own voice and fuck he’s starting to cry again but neither of them move to comfort him and thank god for that. They’d draped a blanket over him and Enjolras grabs it and presses it to his face and tries to ignore the fact there’s a gaping hole in his soul.
Combeferre swallows before he speaks. “There was a fire at the museum. According to a security guard, he went back in for a missing child-”
“Wait,” Enjolras says, shouts it out, gaping at Combeferre. “The museum?” Combeferre nods. “His museum?” Again, Combeferre nods, starting to look more than a little worried, and it’s like the sun finally slips out from a fucking hurricane, relief so deep and painful that he has to clutch at the couch because he’s not dead.
He must say it aloud, because Courfeyrac says, “Fuck.”
And Combeferre is holding his hands – and Enjolras immediately snatches his hands back, violently so, because that is not for Combeferre. Combeferre curses, which is rare, but he grabs onto Enjolras’ shoulders. “Enjolras. He’s dead. He’s not-”
“No, he’s not,” Enjolras says firmly, and it all makes sense now. It’s why he didn’t know. He would know if Grantaire was really dead, but Combeferre doesn’t understand, and he’s starting to look scared when Enjolras grins. “You don’t – he would never go there, Combeferre. I almost have to physically drag him there.”
Combeferre is starting to cry again, just tears. “Oh, Enjolras,” he says, and then gets a hold of himself and says, “Enjolras, there’s security footage. There’s-”
“Let me see it, then,” Enjolras says firmly, and stands. His legs are shaky, but they hold.
“Enjolras,” Combeferre says.
Enjolras glares at him. “You said there’s footage. So show me it,” he snaps.
“It’s at the museum,” Combeferre says after a moment, and that’s enough for Enjolras. He pulls out his phone, but Combeferre puts a hand on his arm before he can a call a taxi, which is fine. Courfeyrac is on the phone anyway. “Enjolras, it’s proof. You understand that, right? The footage hasn’t changed. He’s.” Combeferre stops, looking intently into Enjolras’ eyes. “Enjolras, Grantaire is dead.”
“Prove it,” Enjolras says, and unlocks the front door, striding out while Combeferre calls out about coats and shoes and wallets, but that doesn’t matter.
When he gets downstairs and into ABC’s unofficially private room, it’s quiet and somber and the minute he walks in, what little conversation there was dies immediately. Enjolras is frozen in the doorway, seeing the grieving faces of his friends, feels like he should make a speech or reassure them or explain the situation, but instead he says, “I’m going to clear this up. He’s – this is all a misunderstanding. Or something.”
Joly steps forward to put a careful hand on his shoulder and quietly say, “Maybe you should sit down.”
“No, I don’t have time,” Enjolras says, shaking his head and removing Joly’s hand as politely as possible. “I have to. I have to go sort this out.”
“Enjolras, put on your shoes at least,” Combeferre says, and he sounds like he’s breaking apart but Enjolras feels like Grantaire is pushing him forward, like he couldn’t stop if he wanted. The taxi is already waiting for him, and Enjolras slides in smoothly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac only steps behind him. They leave him squished in the middle seat, and Combeferre looks completely exhausted when he hands Enjolras socks and his shoes. “Please.”
Courfeyrac tells the driver their destination and Enjolras puts his shoes on because it might calm Combeferre down a little. He keeps trying to convince Enjolras that Grantaire is dead, but he’s not.
The museum’s still getting water sprayed all over it, even though probably only half of it was actually completely burned down and collapsed. It’s another point in Grantaire’s favor. The police have a perimeter set up around the building and people are swarming around the yellow tape to look, so the taxi has to stop fairly far away. Enjolras steps out after Combeferre opens the door while Courfeyrac pays the driver and stares at the crowd.
The crowd stares right back.
Enjolras expects to have to push his way through, but instead everyone is quiet, only hushed whispers following Enjolras as the crowd parts for him like he’s an icebreaker in the arctic ocean, and the police lift up the tape for him without a word, and everyone looks so sympathetic that Enjolras wonders if he’s going to have to give a press conference or something when the news of Grantaire’s survival has to be shared. Enjolras thinks that can wait. He’s going to curl up in bed with Grantaire for a few months first.
The police are obviously expecting him. One of the higher-ups is waiting next to an emergency vehicle, looking nervous and sympathetic and Enjolras curses himself for coming unarmed. Still, the man shakes his hand and greets him politely and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Show me the footage,” Enjolras says, and that’s all it takes. There’s a van full of people rewinding their way through the security footage, and they all go completely silent when Enjolras slides into the already-cramped quarters. A raised eyebrow gets the other people out, excluding the woman in charge of showing him the appropriate clips. Combeferre and Courfeyrac stand at the open van doors, talking quietly and shooting him worried look after worried look.
“Where do you want to start?” the woman asks, obviously trying to sound professional, but there’s that same what-a-tragedy twinge beneath the words.
“The minute he arrives,” Enjolras says immediately, and the woman wordlessly shifts the screen, until it’s undeniably showing Grantaire walking in the main entrance. When Enjolras slows the video, he recognizes Grantaire’s going-into-battle expression. When he watches Grantaire walk in, there’s the almost imperceptible shifts beneath his coat that Enjolras immediately recognizes. He’s fully armed and knows he’s walking into a fight.
Out painting, Grantaire’s note had said. A blatant lie, but why? He was completely up front (albeit scream-inducingly vague) when he was meeting an Interpol agent. “Who were you meeting?” Enjolras wonders aloud.
“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks.
Enjolras waves him into the van, and Courfeyrac hesitates, but clambers in as well. “He’s armed to the teeth,” he says, and they all politely ignore how the woman looks like she’s about to have a fight or flight reaction.
The video keeps rolling, and Grantaire sneaks his way past any and all employees who might want to talk to him – normal behavior; he likes Sirine at the small gallery, but can’t stand the museum people (“Not everyone enjoys being the center of attention,” he’d grimaced, not quite hiding behind Enjolras at yet another R exhibition). He stops in front of the very first painting, the one with the blood on it. There’s a bench in the room, and there’s already another hat-wearing man sitting on it. Grantaire tenses, and sits next to him.
“Who is that?” Enjolras asks, pointing at the man.
“I don’t know,” the woman says. “But we can find out for you, please-”
“Just keep going,” Enjolras says, and she does.
The camera sees only their backs, and they speak for a while, with Grantaire twitching towards his knives twice in the duration, but never actually drawing. After a while, Grantaire stands and walks out, leaving the other man staring at the painting.
“This is when the fire starts,” the woman says quietly, and the camera shakes, video jerking for a moment.
“It shouldn’t do that,” Combeferre says immediately, and Enjolras turns to look at him. Combeferre is frowning intently at the video. “A fire, it wouldn’t.” He stops, eyes shifting to stare at Enjolras. “The video feed was tampered with.”
“Show me the next part with Grantaire,” he says, barely able to breathe, and the woman obeys. He’s walking alone in another room in the museum, practically prowling, and fuck, Enjolras knows this. Enjolras knows this lazy vicious walk, knows this set to his shoulders, and knows this is not right, it doesn’t belong. He stares at the screen. “This is from a job. He only ever does that when we’re working.”
Combeferre has his phone out, and Courfeyrac quickly hops out of the van to do something, and Enjolras tells the woman to zoom in. It’s horrible resolution, but Enjolras spends a truly ridiculous amount of time staring at Grantaire, so it’s enough. “His hair’s too long, wrong pair of shoes, we had to get rid of those-” Enjolras blinks, and looks up at Combeferre with wide eyes. “This is from the job in Dusseldorf. That was over three years ago.”
“Go back to Grantaire’s first painting,” Combeferre says, and the woman obliges. The man is gone, and everything in the room is still and untouched, despite the fact that on other nearby screens people are rushing through rooms, security guards checking places repeatedly. “Do you have any angles that look into the room?”
They do, and son of a bitch, the man Grantaire had been talking to is fucking stealing the painting. There’s not even much stealing involved - he just pulls it off the wall. He handles art like Enjolras does. He might be stealing the painting, but it’s not precious or breakable to him.
As the video goes on, Grantaire leaves out of a fire exit, only to immediately race back in, which is just more footage from Dusseldorf. People underestimate how similar buildings look, and with a bit of video editing, Enjolras would almost believe it if not for the fact it’s not Grantaire. Not the Grantaire of now, at least. The cameras short out soon after, from the fire – which Combeferre doesn’t object to, so Enjolras assumes that at least is a real thing – and it’s the end. The only footage of Grantaire is from three years ago, and in what real footage is left, he’s just fine. Tense, and armed, and very alive.
Grantaire is alive.
The flood of relief is so powerful that his legs give out, loose and exhausted and ready to collapse because fuck, it might be okay now. It could be okay. Combeferre immediately jerks forward and catches him, maneuvering him into one of the small folding chairs next to the woman and her equipment. “Alright, you stay here for a moment while we investigate. Ma’am, will you be okay babysitting him for a moment? He’ll probably just keep staring at nothing.”
“I can keep an eye on him,” the woman says, smiling hesitantly, and Enjolras watches Combeferre leave the van and head somewhere that is undoubtedly important. Combeferre is always doing something important.
It occurs to him probably seven seconds after Combeferre leaves that there’s much more to look at here. His limbs feel loose and heavy, but he manages to lean over to see the screens again. “Show me the other man’s entrance,” he says.
It takes the woman a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, but she rewinds and shifts to the main entrance. Enjolras can’t tell how much time passed between Grantaire’s entrance and the entrance of whoever met him and stole the painting. There still isn’t a good view of him, but he walks in with a group he immediately slips away from, keeping his hatted down and walking straight to the painting.
Enjolras watches his entrance again, looks at how a few other people break from the pack when they’re through the doors, and asks, “Do you have a view of the exterior?”
She does.
They have to go back nearly twenty minutes to see the hatted man do anything other than wait patiently. A second man sits with him, this one young and wearing sunglasses even when the sky is overcast. Enjolras can’t see whether or not they speak, but body language makes him think that they’re meeting intentionally.
“Follow him,” Enjolras says, but barely needs to. The woman has already fast forwarded, watching the young man wander aimlessly around the museum, not even looking at the art. He does look at the cameras, though – Enjolras has the woman print out one of the clearest images as they keep scrolling through the video.
When the hitch in the video comes, when the fire starts, the man disappears entirely.
He’d been standing in the room that fake-Grantaire walked through to reach the exit, and Enjolras has no idea where he went after that. There’s only two doors, and both have been tampered with. But it’s a better lead than the hatted man. Enjolras has a face for this. And he also has a very good resource for putting a name to a face.
Enjolras sits down in his chair again, still feeling a sense of unbalance that he is not happy about, but if it gets Grantaire back sooner, Enjolras doesn’t care. Thankfully, either Combeferre or Courfeyrac stuffed his phone into his coat pockets earlier. He scrolls quickly through his contacts, hoping he won’t just go to voicemail like normally. The only person Enjolras knows that Gavroche immediately picks up for is Grantaire.
It barely takes one ring for Gavroche to pick up and quickly ask, “He’s alive, right?”
“But missing,” Enjolras says. “I need you to tell me if you recognize-”
“If they’re crooked, I know them,” Gavroche says simply. “I’ll be there in two minutes. You still in the van?”
Enjolras has no idea how Gavroche is doing this, but he eventually just gave up on arguing with Gavroche about his impossible supernatural Paris powers. Being a teenager has just made everything about Gavroche twenty times more impossible in every way, and Enjolras can barely sit up straight right now, so he just says, “Yes.”
“Okay,” Gavroche says, and hangs up.
It leaves Enjolras in the van with the awkward woman, who is watching Enjolras like there’s a tiger instead of a man relieved to the point of almost falling over. Enjolras doesn’t know if he should try to keep ignoring her, or try out small talk, or something.
He doesn’t have to worry about it for long, though, since Gavroche is true to his word, hopping into the van with absolutely no warning. Enjolras will never, ever understand Gavroche. He knows Grantaire has some sort of agreement with him, some sort of camaraderie that manages to be protective but respectful, and he’s never understood that either. But it means that Gavroche is just as dedicated to figuring out what’s happened to him. Enjolras assumes that same drive is what leads Gavroche to just immediately try to grab the picture out of Enjolras’ hands.
“Give it,” Gavroche says.
“What do you know about what’s happened here?” Enjolras asks. If he has to fill Gavroche in on this, maybe give him some context-
“Oh, this is Montparnasse,” Gavroche says, and he’s holding the picture. Enjolras’ hands are empty.
That kind of thievery just isn’t normal.
Gavroche frowns at the picture, and then Enjolras. “Thought you got out of this stuff,” he says, and tilts the image to the side for some reason.
“Out of what stuff?” Enjolras asks.
“The murder-for-hire business,” Gavroche says with a shrug, and the woman in the van makes a noise that isn’t quite a whimper.
“I’ll give you some space,” she says carefully, and presses her way past Gavroche to step out of the van. Interestingly, she closes the doors behind her.
“So he’s an assassin,” Enjolras says.
“He’s an anything that pays,” Gavroche says, and hands the picture back. “Montparnasse isn’t someone to just walk up to and start demanding answers.” He thinks for a moment, and then says, “Maybe if you walked up with a gun. Maybe.”
It sounds like a pretty good plan to Enjolras. He nods, and after a moment remembers to point at the recording, specifically at the clearest picture of the hatted man. “Do you know this person?”
“Nope,” Gavroche says, and pulls a pen from the desk that has the monitors on it. He plucks the picture back out of Enjolras’ hands and writes an address on the back. “Should be there right now. What do you want him for, anyway?”
“He’s probably in contact with the man who took Grantaire,” Enjolras says.
Gavroche raises his eyebrows. “Took Grantaire,” he says, obviously thinking Enjolras has lost his mind.
But he does have a point, and Enjolras always ends up snapping down to Gavroche’s age when they talk, which he hates. It doesn’t keep him from rolling his eyes like he’s fourteen again and says, “Fine, maybe it was more encouraging to leave than actually taking him.”
“So he left on his own,” Gavroche says. “Huh. You sure he wants to be found?”
Enjolras frowns. “What?”
“He’s left you before,” Gavroche points out. “Maybe you fucked up again.”
It’s the same thought Enjolras had woken to, the same fear that he’s fucked up again, that he’s destroyed the impossible good life they’ve made with each other. They are so stupidly happy, so wonderfully tangled in each other in so many ways. Enjolras can’t think of a single thing he could’ve fucked up so badly that Grantaire would leave him. His days are more than a little tame compared to the last time Grantaire walked out on him.
And he needs to stop thinking of it like that – Grantaire did the smart thing. Grantaire did the ethical thing. Grantaire did what needed to be done, and that’s all. Grantaire walking armed into a museum he hates and meeting a stranger who then steals his painting after lighting the building on fire isn’t something Grantaire would do. He might hate his own work, but he would’ve been in physical pain to see the rest go up in flames.
“I’m not why he left,” Enjolras says, and it’s true. It has to be.
“All I’m saying is there’s a reason for it,” Gavroche says. “Maybe leaving him alone’s the best thing to do.”
“Says the boy who thinks stopping suicide attempts is selfish of me,” Enjolras says.
Gavroche just shrugs, unrepentant and just so completely unfathomable that Enjolras has to grit his teeth.
“Oh yeah, Montparnasse is kind of,” Gavroche says, and makes a gesture that Enjolras has no way of understanding. It’s a flat hand wiggling back and forth, like a rocking lifeboat. “So watch out for that.”
Enjolras frowns. He has no idea what to say, so he settles for, “Thank you?”
“Sure,” Gavroche says, and just leaves, opens the doors and hops out of the van and then vanishes into the emergency services chaos outside of this small video-filled sanctuary.
There’s no point in just waiting, not when Grantaire is gone, so Enjolras decides to follow Gavroche’s lead. He has an address, and it’s not too far away. In fact, it’s the perfect distance away from the museum, actually – far enough away to not run the chance of being interviewed, close enough that you could hustle back before the authorities closed down the area. It means he’s a professional, or at least has experience with unquiet crime.
His legs are still shaky and the world somehow seems narrower, focused entirely on getting to the third floor room that Gavroche claims this Montparnasse man is in.
---
Combeferre was wrong. He was wrong, and it bites into his skin, and he tries to remain calm. He isn’t going to explode or be bitter about this. No, Combeferre is going to fix it.
He’s aware that there are other uses of his time. There are almost always other uses of his time. However, the image of Enjolras crying on the floor because of Combeferre’s misinformation drives him forward to the insurance agents already muttering about what a mess their paperwork will be. The museum’s owner looks just as heartbroken as Enjolras had, but he doesn’t have the luxury of friends ready to support him (or the slim hope that it isn’t true), so Combeferre bypasses him in his search for information.
More often than not, Combeferre makes a point of looking presentable, respectable and using the ingrained attention a tie brings out. It makes people much more likely to listen and take him seriously. At the moment, he looks more like an overly pretentious hipster, but that’s what happens when you throw clothing on at 6 in the morning after a night with Courfeyrac. Still, the insurance company’s agents listen when he approaches and asks, “Do you have the ticket sales records for this morning?”
It’s a busy time for everyone, and it means that the police are lax in keeping things from the insurance agents, and the insurance agents don’t exactly know who is with them and who is with another group, so Combeferre isn’t surprised when one of the agents nods her head and points to a salvaged desktop computer. “We’re sending it down to the lab first thing tomorrow-”
“No need. I was hoping to look at it right now, actually,” Combeferre says, giving her a small smile. It’s returned with gratitude, relief that someone’s actually getting something done in this mess. “Would you get in trouble if I took it, or-”
“Oh no, by all means,” she says. “If you can get information off of that thing, please, do it.”
And Combeferre does.
There isn’t a single protest when he picks up the desktop’s tower and carries it off, meeting Courfeyrac on the way. He’s dealing with press on the other side of the police line, and on the phone with someone (Joly, it sounds like), and he sounds like a frazzled blend of elation and stress.
“We don’t know anything, we’re just trying to – okay, really, are you actually surprised that he came here? Really? And don’t get me – no, the investigation is ongoing, I can’t – argh, why can’t you just wait for a statement? It’s not like you’re getting different information,” Courfeyrac is saying, words tossed between two people and the phone, and Combeferre has no idea what’s directed towards who. When Courfeyrac spots Combeferre, he immediately drops the reporters and hustles over. “Please tell me you know what’s happening.”
Combeferre frowns, and shifts so that any particularly interested reporters can’t read their lips. “Enjolras is mostly collapsed in the van from relief, I’ve commandeered the museum’s sales records in order to figure out who tricked me, and-”
“Tricked you?” Courfeyrac echoes, which Combeferre knows isn’t a reflection on Combeferre being tricked. Of course it isn’t.
“Tricked us,” Combeferre amends, which elicits an amused noise from Courfeyrac. Still, Combeferre puts a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm, making sure he’s paying attention. “But the fact remains that someone did manage to fool us, Courfeyrac. Whoever this is, he’s good.”
“Not that good, though,” Courfeyrac says. “It still only took one look at the tape.”
Combeferre knows it’s more than that. Whoever was behind this managed to obtain rare footage that Combeferre thought he’d wiped three years ago, managed to manipulate Grantaire into coming into the museum, and infinitely more concerning, managed to manipulate him into leaving Enjolras. Not even the senate incident managed to do that. Their opponent is either dangerously competent, or has been planning this for years. Or, as Combeferre is beginning to suspect with a brick-in-the-ocean feeling pulling at his heart, a very dedicated combination of the two.
But the enemy managed to make Combeferre hurt Enjolras, and that isn’t something he can push away. He doesn’t have a temper and he is not upset. He is very calm and reasonable and collected.
“Okay, listen to me,” Courfeyrac says, and it shows how much concern he has for the reporters that he turns Combeferre by the shoulders, twists him so they’re facing each other directly. “It’s going to be fine. Grantaire can more than take care of himself, right? Fuck knows he could take us apart in a fight. And we’re old pros at taking care of Enjolras, so we don’t have to worry about that.”
It’s always nice to have an optimist around.
“We can do this. I’ve got everyone seeing if they have contacts who might know anything,” Courfeyrac says, and does that thing of his where he grins and gently bops Combeferre up beneath his chin, making his teeth lightly clack together, saying, “Chin up, Combeferre!”
It might not always be nice to have an optimist around.
“I hope you’re right,” Combeferre says, and shifts his grip on the computer. “I’m going to head back home after checking on Enjolras. Maybe I can get a look at whatever information is on here about whoever planned this.” It’s a better use of his time than anything else he can think of here. Enjolras just needs to sit for a while. He sighs. “But for the love of god, do not let Enjolras in front of a camera after I leave. He’d never forgive himself later.”
Courfeyrac nods, smiling. “Consider it done,” he says, and cheerily walks back over to the mass of humanity on the other side of the yellow tape.
Combeferre looks down at the computer and barely restrains a sigh at the idea of carrying this up all of the stairs that stand between the street and Combeferre’s apartment. He’s been lax on exercising, ever since they stopped their (more) criminal activities, and he should’ve known he would pay for it.
He should’ve kept up with more than just the physical aspects. He’s slipping. He’s losing his edge, and Combeferre refuses to slip any further. He feels like there’s something bigger and more dangerous than thievery and manipulation going on here. Even worse, he feels like he should already be able to tell what it is. Combeferre feels like he’s come into a board game five moves behind. He’s five moves behind, and he made Enjolras so needlessly upset that it makes him burn with shame and hatred towards whoever did this. Whoever beat him.
When he gets to the van, the doors are closed, which is unusual, but not particularly concerning. Combeferre places the tower on the pavement below and carefully opens one of the doors to see the video technician, and videos, and equipment, and an empty chair that should definitely have an Enjolras in it.
He sighs, resigned, because he really shouldn’t have expected this to go easily. At least the woman looks embarrassed and only slightly worried that Combeferre is going to kill her. “Any idea where he went?” Combeferre asks.
“A young man came in and they spoke and then I gave them some space and when I came back they were gone, I’m sorry,” she says quickly.
Combeferre nods. It only takes a few more questions to figure out it was Gavroche, which spells absolutely nothing good. There are very few people who can safely deal with Gavroche, and Enjolras is not one of them. He always means well, but Gavroche’s definition of meaning well is a mystery that only Grantaire and Eponine seem remotely capable of solving.
“The video was paused on the man who stole the painting, though,” she adds. “If that’s any help.”
It doesn’t, but he still says, “Thank you for all of your help.” She smiles hesitantly at him, and Combeferre is more than happy to shut her in.
He leans his head against the closed doors, and wishes he’d installed a subdermal tracking device in Enjolras when he had the chance all those years ago.
---
Enjolras knows this is a really terrible idea. He knows that he’s unarmed and still more than a little bit scatterbrained and he hasn’t done a single shred of research on whoever the fuck Montparnasse is, doesn’t know the floorplan of the building, let alone the apartment, doesn’t know much of what he looks like beyond a thin face and dark hair and the fact Gavroche recognized him instantly means something. And so did that hand-wiggle, probably, but the point is that Enjolras is in front of the door and he knows he shouldn’t be but fuck it. He wants Grantaire.
He doesn’t have a gun and probably wouldn’t be able to break down the ominously heavy wooden door when he’s in this state. Opening doors was almost always Grantaire’s department, but he does remember the very first trick he learned accidentally for breaking and entering.
Enjolras turns the doorknob, and it opens easily, smooth and barely even clicking when he pushes the door open.
This probably isn’t a good sign. If a door is left unlocked, it’s usually because people think there’s nothing that needs protecting inside.
He swings the big wooden door open anyway. Heavy as it is, the hinges swing wide and smooth, and Enjolras is looking into a small studio apartment with horrible dark brown walls. He can hear the shower running, but if Gavroche is to be believed, that doesn’t mean much. Enjolras looks around – at the mussed bed against the wall, the unused Paris-sized kitchen, the rust-colored suitcases against the hideous wall.
It’s a beginner’s mistake – it’s a fucking stupid mistake is what it is – when he takes one more step into the apartment and his feet are kicked out from under him by the man who had been waiting patiently on the other side of the door. Enjolras twists, steps wide to catch himself and see who it is he has to hurt, but it doesn’t work. The man takes him down embarrassingly fast, heel swiping one foot out from him as his arms wrap around Enjolras, hands pressing Enjolras’ tight against his back, and Enjolras braces himself to hit the hardwood beneath them.
Instead, a drawling low-class voice says, “Well, hello there.”
It takes Enjolras a moment to realize he’s more or less being forcibly dipped by his opponent. He’s dark-haired and pretty in a way Enjolras can’t remember seeing out of his own gene pool. He’s also definitely the man that Gavroche identified for him, so Enjolras gets control of the urge to grimace and says, “You’re Montparnasse.”
“Gonna try and kill me if I let you go?” he asks.
“No,” Enjolras answers. “I need you alive.”
For some reason, that makes Montparnasse grin. It’s a wide, unsettling thing. “Knew I’d like you,” he says, and shifts his grip and Enjolras has nothing but a moment to think I already fucking hate you before Montparnasse steps back and Enjolras hits the floor. “So. Enjolras. What do you want?”
He didn’t fall very far, but having his hands trapped beneath his back didn’t do him any favors. Enjolras glares at Montparnasse from the floor, and pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Tell me about your part in the museum fire,” Enjolras says.
Montparnasse shrugs. “Did what the boss told me to,” he says. “Got paid. Moved on. And don’t ask for a name, because I don’t have one. Just a first name that’s probably a fake.”
“So you’re useless to me,” Enjolras says, biting the words out and pulling himself back onto his feet.
Montparnasse’s ugly grin vanishes. “I’ll be all kinds of useful for the right price,” he says, and obviously means it.
What the kind of useful is on the table here, Enjolras can’t even guess, so he decides to just go with the answer he wants. “I want every shred of information you have on the man who hired you,” Enjolras says. “I want to know what he looked like. I want to know what he sounded like. I want to know exactly what he had you do, I want to know every single word out of his mouth about what he was doing and why, and I want you to be very, very fast about saying it.”
Montparnasse looks him over, green eyes curious. “You’re hunting him, then,” Montparnasse says, and leans against the closest wall. “You’re going to go out and catch and kill him.”
That isn’t exactly Enjolras’ main goal here, what with how his hands itch and his heart feels cold and he can’t smell cigarette smoke loyally following him forever, but Montparnasse doesn’t need to know that. “I’m going to kill him,” Enjolras agrees.
And he will.
Montparnasse nods. “Here’s a deal then,” he says. “You take me with you, full expenses paid for the hunt, and I tell you everything you want for free. You can kill him, that’s fine, but I want to rough him up a bit. Cut him, make him bleed. You can finish him off, though.”
Enjolras wants to bite out I already have a partner, or walk out, or laugh in Montparnasse’s face because whatever this is, whatever reason is driving Montparnasse to ask for this, it’s ridiculous. Ridiculous, and foolish. He ends up smirking at the other man. It probably doesn’t look very nice. “You want me to pay you for tagging along while I do all the work.”
“Think of me as a treasure map. I’ll get you there, but you’ve got to bring me along on the trip,” Montparnasse says, completely unbothered by the idea. He shrugs. “You could use a hand anyway, with how rusty you are. You’ve been out of the business far too long.”
It doesn’t help that when he was in the business, he had Grantaire. In the end, Enjolras rarely even worried about it – he attacked, Grantaire defended, they moved on.
The idea of travelling and working and existing in the same close quarters with someone who isn’t Grantaire is shudder-inducing, makes Enjolras grimace just looking at Montparnasse. Enjolras would be hesitant to do this with anyone, let alone whatever the fuck Montparnasse is.
Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “I follow contracts,” he says. “If there’s an agreement, I do my part of it.”
“And the hatted man didn’t,” Enjolras says, which makes sense. Mostly.
“There’s some outstanding bits, yeah,” Montparnasse says. “I have a reputation. I’d like to keep it.”
Enjolras knows it’s a horrible idea, but it’s the best one he has right now. Montparnasse is his only lead to finding out what happened and where Grantaire is and who twisted all of this together. He loathes it and doesn’t exactly care for Montparnasse, with his slick smiles and – are his pants silver? Jesus fuck, the man’s wearing silver pants.
With a sinking suspicion, he looks back at the four large suitcases against the wall. “I travel light,” Enjolras states.
“Me too,” Montparnasse says, and moves forward to slide a hand over Enjolras’ shoulder, which is not remotely acceptable. Enjolras grabs his wrist before it gets any further along and ducks behind Montparnasse, kicking the backs of his calves. It sends Montparnasse to his knees, shoulder wrenched back and gritting his teeth as he bites down on only God knows what. Profanity is likely. Threats are even more likely.
“You don’t touch me, hit on me, or look at me as anything other than a colleague. You remember I’m married and looking for my husband. I have goals and priorities and you don’t feature on any list I have ever made in my entire fucking life, Montparnasse. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” Montparnasse says, not even a little bit penitent, but it’s about as much as Enjolras expected from his kind.
During his (their) darker days, he’d acclimatized to dealing with the broken minotaurs of the underworld. Enjolras takes a deep breath, adjusting his grip on Montparnasse so that he’s not in actual pain, and tries to remember how to deal with this. Now, it’s a twist of disdain and pity and the warring urge to both fix what causes people like Montparnasse’s downfall, and the urge to permanently remove Montparnasse for the good of everyone else in society.
Enjolras can respect people like Grantaire, or gang members. He can respect criminals with loyalty and codes. True mercenaries like Montparnasse, he has a difficult time not disregarding entirely.
But he needs Montparnasse, for now. “Tell me what name he gave you,” he says.
“That mean we have a deal?” Montparnasse asks. Enjolras responds by pulling tightly on Montparnasse’s shoulder hard enough that he knows it has to hurt, knows that other people would be shouting. Montparnasse doesn’t make a sound at the motion, a sharper inhale the only sign of pain. “He called himself Reichard.”
“Reichard,” Enjolras repeats to himself, carving the name into his mind. He lets Montparnasse go, and the other man still doesn’t gasp or shout. He simply falls forward, takes a moment, and then stands back up. Enjolras doesn’t wait to see what else he does, choosing instead to head out again. “You can bring two suitcases of equipment. Be at the Musain in three hours.”
“But-” Montparnasse objects, and Enjolras really doesn’t care. He walks out the door and lets the heavy wood slam shut behind him.
He has things to do.