A/N- This was inspired by the classic question—Who would win in a fight? And written, appropriately, considering the main character, during Politics class.
Enjolras leaned wearily against the door, watching the passersby beneath heavy lids. He had been on his feet all afternoon, and the prospect of the walk home was uncomfortable. He considered hailing a fiacre, but could see none in the street. In the meantime, he decided, he would wait here. And if no fiacre appeared by the time he counted to… to thirty, he would walk. Very well, then.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven… his mind was wandering from the numbers. He thought he saw a shadow flickering in the corner of his eye, but, on turning his head, assured himself that it was an effect of fatigue.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve… he was sure he had heard something now. Perhaps an old dog was nosing through the garbage in the alley at his left. Never mind it.
He had lost count. Certainly he'd already passed ten… fifteen, then.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Eighteen… that was no dog in the darkened alley, unless it was wearing boots. Forget the fiacre; Enjolras was going to walk. He felt a knot of irrational fear burning in the base of his stomach. There was someone in the alley behind him—it didn't matter. He wasn't in any sort of danger. But his mind went ahead without his consent, forging into childish nightmares, and Enjolras had to fight against his own will before he succumbed to panic. His steps quickened.
A fiacre rolled by in the traffic, and Enjolras spun around, intending to stop it. A young man was already seated inside, lolling back in his seat, legs crossed. Enjolras swore under his breath.
He had turned away again when a pair of strong hands seized his shoulders and, pulling him to the ground, dragged him back into the obscurity of the alley. When the hands released him, Enjolras lay still for a moment, mentally prodding at the scrapes he could feel along his lower back and legs.
Well, that settled it. His stalker wasn't a dog.
Enjolras knew that the streets weren't safe at night. He had always heard stories about robberies and murders, but somehow he had assumed that things like this only happened to those who looked terribly rich or were particularly unscrupulous. He did not think of himself as either of these.
Hardly daring to move, Enjolras rolled his eyes upward in an attempt to see his attacker.
A quite young man stood over him, dark hair perfectly arranged but for a few locks that had come undone and fallen into his gleaming black eyes. As Enjolras had expected to see a grizzled old veteran thief, the sight of this slender, dark gentleman surprised him.
Enjolras was very displeased to note that the gentleman thief was not looking at his victim, but at a malicious knife that, despite the relative dark of the alleyway, was glimmering faintly in the light of a distant streetlamp.
Oh dear.
The street was some distance away; Enjolras knew he could not scramble to his feet and dash into the traffic before the young man caught him again, perhaps even making use of the blade in his hand. Enjolras was a relatively good shot, but he had no firearms on his person, of course, and knew little about hand-to-hand combat.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Enjolras rolled his eyes around in search of something within reach that he could use as a weapon. The alley was practically empty; the only nearby object was a fine-looking top hat that must have fallen from the young robber's head. Holding his breath, Enjolras extended his arm, wincing at the brush of flesh against his sleeve, and finally managed to close two fingers around the brim of the hat.
He glanced up at the murderer—he was still fondling the knife. Odd.
Enjolras brought the hat closer, grasping it at last in his fist.
Now what?
No ideas came into his mind. Resignedly, Enjolras decided there was nothing to do but to knock the attacker down and make a run for it. Retrieving the fallen hat had only benefited him in that it had given him time to think.
Taking one deep, slow breath (and hoping it would not be his last) Enjolras sprang to his feet, facing the robber. The young man was just beginning to look up in mind surprise when Enjolras swung an arm at him. The gentleman ducked, and Enjolras's hand swung harmlessly over his head.
In that brief moment, the young man lunged forward, knife first, and Enjolras quickly thrust the top hat in front of the blade. He saw the tip of the knife rip through the crown of the hat and heard the thief cry out in anguish. Realizing that the knife was temporarily stuck, Enjolras shoved the hat, and the blade lodged in its fabric, to the ground, forcing the attacker to release his weapon. He seized the young man's jacket in an effort to push him to the ground and allow himself time to escape, and heard an enormous ripping sound. The thief bellowed in rage again, and Enjolras turned hastily and fled the alley with the other man's lapel still clutched in his hand.
Montparnasse stood dejectedly, shoulders slumped, his best jacket ripped apart and a lonely button lying next to his ruined hat. After a long period of motionlessness, he finally gathered the button and the wounded hat into his arms, cradling them like a dying infant, and staggered away from the scene of the crime.