If there's anything that Enjolras hates about his job as a paramedic, it's late night shifts. Working through the day, he's in his prime. Most of the calls are sports injuries or anti climatic car accidents or the elderly taking falls. He'll be his usual self; charming, as he stitches up a wound or takes someone's blood pressure or whatever it is he has to do. Even the more stressful calls don't cause much stress at all, because his day has been so easy. On the contrary, late night shifts are most often filled with the repercussions of nights out; unfortunate bumps to the head, sprained ankles and worst of all, the drunkenness.

Unfortunately, he's on shift this night. His partner for the shift is Courfeyrac, which lifts the burden slightly as his friend drives mindlessly around the town whilst they wait for a call, but it doesn't stop the fact that he's really not looking forward to the night ahead. All of their other friends- paramedics, doctors and nurses at the hospital(bar Joly who's working in the A&E department)- are celebrating a birthday at the Musain, a local pub; the fact that they're both missing out does nothing to lighten the awful mood. Just as they are about to relax during their final hour, a call comes through.

"We're going to need you to go to the Musain," the call is explained. "Someone's hit their head."

"The Musain, eh? It'll be one of our friends, surely," Courfeyrac grins as he changes the gear quickly and turns round the next corner. "So who do you think it is?"

"Bahorel," Enjolras smiles. "Hit their head, my arse. He'll have been punched."

"Are you sure? I'm betting for Bossuet. Who else is it going to be?"

"How that man is such a good surgeon with his clumsiness, I don't even know."

Neither wins the bet. It isn't one of their friends, in fact. It's a newcomer; a man called Grantaire, who seems to have stumbled across the pub and made quick friends with the medical professionals. But he's drunk; extremely drunk. He's not exactly willing to comply as Enjolras' glove covered fingers prod at the bleeding wound, but a stern look from the blond paramedic sends him into silence.

"Have you had much to drink?" he asks as he tries to clean up the cut.

"No more than..." he stops to hiccup. "Excuse me...usual."

"What exactly happened?" Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre, one of the doctors he works with often in the A and E department.

"He tripped and hit his head on the corner of the table. We wouldn't have called the ambulance if it'd been something we could all deal with ourselves but he'll need stitches and he's saying he's feeling sick."

"Now listen to me, Grantaire," Enjolras asks gently. "Do you still feel nauseous?"

"Y-yeah," he chokes out.

"Do you feel dizzy at all?"

"Kind of."

"It might just be the alcohol, but we're going to take you to hospital anyway because you may have a concussion."

"Thanks guys," Courfeyrac waves, helping Enjolras get Grantaire to the ambulance.

"I'm going to..." the man holds a hand up to his mouth, gagging.

A cardboard bowl is placed underneath his bowl with such speed and precision that by a miracle, the vomit is stopped from coating the ambulance floor. He retches again as Courfeyrac and Enjolras try to decide who'll stay in the back and who will drive.

"You drive," Enjolras says. "You're a better driver and I think Grantaire would appreciate not having his stomach any more in his throat than it is."

"S-s-s-sorry," Grantaire mumbles, tearing up as Enjolras takes a seat across from him.

"It's alright. Do you feel as if you might be sick again?"

"N-no."

"Do you normally get sick with alcohol?"

"N-no. W-with hangovers and withdrawal, but not... not when drunk, no."

He sighs heavily, still hovering over the bowl with a lingering nausea clinging to his throat. He can still taste the alcohol residing in the corners of his mouth, trying to place exactly how much it is that he has drank. As usual, he cannot remember. The number slips his mind like it's meaningless; as if one beer would do just as much damage in his mind as a bottle of whisky.

He can't even pinpoint exactly when alcohol became his muse. His need for it feels desperate; as if he wants to crawl out of his skin when there isn't any surging through his veins. He blames tonight on the good company; the drunken doctors and nurses and paramedics being his scapegoat for his wild night. Of course, that isn't the case. He chugs back alcohol like it's water, whilst the other men realise they've had quite enough once one of their own is left puking in the toilets. He's not even sure why they accepted them into their group; yet they had, and genuinely sought the man's company once he had left.

"Feeling any better?" Enjolras asks, readjusting the bandage on the man's forehead.

"Light-headed," he mumbles.

"The traffic's quite busy so we might be a while," Courfeyrac shouts from the driver's seat. "Even if we put the sirens on it's not as if we could get through."

"M'okay."

"So the Musain, huh? That's where we tend to reside when we're not working," Enjolras tries to calm him with conversation.

"I... uh... was looking for something to do. Stumbled across this pub and was going to stay for just one drink; one of them... Bahorel? We got talking and I ended up staying for longer."

"He's a paramedic too. A bloody good one at that."

"Might have to make my acquaintance with you lot. You sure know how to have a good time."

"You'll be welcome."

Grantaire's strange coherency takes Enjolras by surprise. Most under the influence of alcohol tend to slur, if they're even conscious at all. From the thick smell on his breath and according to what their friends have told them, he has had more than what would be safe. Yet he's unbelievably articulate; Enjolras just can't make sense of it.

"I'm sorry," Grantaire sighs gently as Enjolras moves the little bowl away, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down. "Hospitals just make me really nervous."

"You might have a bit of a wait. Have you got anybody you want to call to keep you company?" Enjolras asks.

"I'm a lone soldier, my friend. I don't have anyone," this particular thought sends a frown to the poor man's face. "Not sure I'll have the will to wait it out alone."

"You should. A bunch of-albeit drunk- medical professionals thought you were in need of the hospital. If they're not busy I'll try and pull a few strings, okay? Joly should still be on shift. He'll be able to see you quickly if we ask him to. They usually put him in charge of the anxious patients to be seen fast; I'll get you seen that way, alright?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Last time I was in an ambulance the paramedic was just... I don't even know. He treated me like I wasn't even human. Okay, I'd like... passed out drunk in the street but still."

"I don't have the right to judge people like that. It's my job to help people so that's what I'm going to do."

"I like you, my friend."

As Grantaire departs from his company, Enjolras is sure they will never cross paths again. As it turns out, this is not exactly the case.