Grantaire is good at many things- including some things Enjolras had never even heard of before- but being quiet is not one of them. Even when he's trying his best, tiptoeing around Enjolras as he engages in a glaring match with his typewriter, he only has to stretch or chew on his lip in a particularly distracting way and Enjolras's mind goes completely blank. He doesn't know if Grantaire is doing it on purpose or if he really is just that far gone, but eventually he gives up, finding a quiet, cheap café that doesn't kick him out for nursing a single cup of coffee for hours as he writes.

It's the first really sunny day of the year. The breeze is still cool, but the sunlight dapples prettily through the trees and it's warm enough that he takes a table outside, cupping his hands around his cooling coffee whenever his fingers get cold. He's almost down to the dregs when he feels a hand on his arm.

'Bitte, helfen mir.'

He knows some basic German by now, but the unexpectedness of being touched by a stranger knocks it entirely out of his head. 'I, uh- pardon me?'

The man looks haggard, desperate. His clothes are worn and dirty, and the shoulder seam of his jacket is coming undone. 'Please. Help me.' He holds out an empty hand. 'I have no work. Please help.'

Enjolras fumbles in his pockets. Two marks- enough for the cup of coffee he has in front of him, and no more. 'I'm very sorry, I don't-'

'Please.' The man's grip tightens on his arm, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. Enjolras is suddenly very aware of how he looks- good suit, expensive typewriter, smart shoes- and he searches his pockets again, in the vain hope that money will somehow materialise under his fingers. Still nothing. 'I'm so sorry-'

'Here.' The man releases his grip on Enjolras's arm, and he looks up to see Babet pressing a note into the man's hand. He thanks Babet, cramming the money into his pocket as though it might escape, and leaves. Babet watches him go, his expression unreadable.

'I would have- I mean, I didn't have anything', Enjolras starts, embarrassed. 'Things have been a little-'

Babet takes the seat beside him. 'I understand. Things are bad all around.' When Enjolras merely nods, he goes on. 'That man is one of millions. Millions of German men, good workers, begging in the street.' There's a pause where he looks hard at Enjolras, seemingly searching his face for something. 'Things will change.'

'Of course. I'm sure-'

'We will make sure.' Enjolras is taken aback by the force of his conviction. He sounds almost like Combeferre, or even Enjolras himself. This is a kind of passion he would never have expected from Babet. On the few occasions they have run into one another, or Babet has insisted on buying him a drink, he has never shown any sign of a social conscience.

'I didn't realise you were…' He tails off, not wanting to accuse him of being shallow. Babet doesn't seem to catch the implication. He gazes down the street, in the direction the man disappeared.

'Germany is my motherland. Men like him are my brothers.' He glances at Enjolras. 'There is a way you can help.'

Enjolras's back straightens. 'If I can-'

'There are- things that we need brought into Berlin from Paris. Supplies.' Babet is looking intently at Enjolras. His hand on the table makes a motion as if to take Enjolras's, but he doesn't. 'The customs officers rarely search the bags of non-Germans.' He looks away, embarrassed. 'You see- when we met on the train…'

Enjolras remembers Babet's nervousness, the briefcase he placed among Enjolras's bags, and things fall into place. 'I see.'

'I am sorry to have deceived you.' He looks genuinely embarrassed. Strangely, this makes Enjolras trust him more. He's no stranger to those sorts of tricks. 'I would like to make it up to you. If you are in need of money- I will pay you to take a short trip to Paris. You would go to an address I gave you, collect a briefcase, and come back.' Babet looks Enjolras in the eye. 'Seventy-five marks. And it would be for a very good cause. The cause of men like him.' He nods down the street.

Enjolras hesitates only for a moment. 'When do I leave?'

When he gets back to the lodgings-house, the hallway is- yet again- in uproar. Courfeyrac is hastily doing up his dressing gown as Fraulein Fantine fumes. 'Out with him, then. Come, come, I love to meet yet more of your family. Where is this one from? A cousin, perhaps? From Munich?'

'Exactly so.' Courfeyrac gestures through the gap in the door. After a moment, a young man appears, with wild, messy dark curls sticking in every direction. He smiles sheepishly at Fraulein Fantine.

'Fraulein, this is Joly. Joly, th-'

A crash comes from inside Courfeyrac's room, along with the sounds of a voice cursing. Fraulein Fantine raises a single, deadly eyebrow. 'Such a very large family', she says, in a voice of ice.

'…Yes', Courfeyrac says, after a long silence. He seems to have lost some of his usual charm and exuberance. 'Yes, ah. Bossuet, do come out and meet Fraulein Fantine.'

Enjolras flees.

'Seventy-five marks?'

'It would only be for a couple of days. He'll pay for the train-'

Grantaire laughs. 'Fuck, I'm not complaining. I wish someone would pay me seventy-five marks to go to Paris. Must be nice, having a face like yours.' Seeing Enjolras's expression, he rolls his eyes and pulls a bottle of gin out from under the bed. 'A toast. To our good fortune, and your beautiful, irresistible face.' Enjolras clinks his glass against Grantaire's and takes a sip, trying his utmost not to pull a face.

There's a knock at the door and it opens, revealing Fraulein Fantine. She looks flushed, breathless, and somehow younger. 'I may enter?'

Grantaire smiles and raises his glass. 'We were just having a drink, Fraulein. Do join us.'

She hesitates, but after a moment smiles and extends a hand to take the proffered glass. 'After all, why not?' She pats her hair every few seconds, making minute adjustments. Enjolras has never seen her smile so much. She takes a swig of her gin, without wincing.

'I came to inform you that I am to be married', she says. The words are stiff, but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. 'That is to say- Herr Valjean and I-'

Grantaire seizes her hand. 'Fraulein, that's wonderful.' Enjolras waits for the cynicism, the railing against the oppressive institution of marriage, but it doesn't come. 'We have to celebrate. We're having a party. An engagement party.'

Fraulein Fantine laughs. 'Oh, of course. I am the life of the party.' She pats Grantaire's hand. 'Who do I know, beyond my rooms? No-one. What a party it would be.'

'I'll do the inviting.' There's a gleam in Grantaire's eye that makes Enjolras a little nervous. 'Your engagement will be the toast of all Berlin. I will see to it.'