A/N: The plot begins to thicken... Sorry for the late update darlings, fanfictionnet was being really stubborn about uploading this.
The day had trickled by like the slow dripping of sweet wine, and Combeferre was not sure whether it was the burgeoning glimpses of springtime just beginning to dare to show themselves in the highly judgmental fashionable parts of Paris or the fact that it was the last day of lectures for the week which was making him think in bacchanalian metaphor, but there it was. Merci beaucoup, Grantaire, I owe at least the entirety of the annals of Grecian mythology in my mind to your less sober ramblings.
To continue the metaphor, since he never let one dangle, the day being in the mood of a soporific glass of wine heated by a sunbeam who was not paying any attention to the fact that it was really not at all the season for sunbeams to be heating wine - he had decided to forgo his last lecture and drop by Enjolras' apartment instead. The lecture was on a subject which he had already covered in his studies and for once even Eugene Combeferre felt as though if he spent a single moment more in a lecture theatre then him might do something as rash as penning a thesis on the complexity of the human nervous system.
And for once it appeared to be the one day that Augustin Enjolras had decided to go to his classes instead of working on Republican speeches or plans at home.
Irony.
The landlady was a steel-boned, warrior-like woman of about fifty-five who was not quite military-sergeant enough in bearing to make M. Augustin Enjolras eat his dinner if he was not in the mood to do so. Eugene had witnessed several battles on the subject and had always been put in mind of a small angry hen trying to peck at a solemn great stag too caught up in the arborage around him to even notice. Despite these defeats she still took an attentive and frequently irascible interest in the goings on in Enjolras' life and therefore let him into the rooms without an argument but with an excellent commentary on the social petri dish that was the compilation of cats, dogs, children and nosy elderly ladies who wore their hair higher than their noses and their moral sensibilities higher than their necklines.
Ah my friend. Eugene thanked the madame and slid the door closed on her huffing vaguely asthmatic protests and picked up the shirt draped across the back of a chair. Enjolras' apartment reflected his state of mind excellently. The more he had on his mind, especially and specifically to do with the Cause, the more unruly his flat became as other lesser occupations were dropped at the wayside of his mind. It seemed today was a day in which the highways of thought were populated to capacity and beyond.
Combeferre smiled a little and dropped his bags next to the table. Some days it was a joy to walk down that highway with Enjolras, considering the exquisite nobility of the paving-stones and the horizon always touched with sunlight and just out of reach in the distance. He had carried three shirts into the bedroom and was putting them away when he heard the door close.
"Is that you, Enjolras?" They were comfortable enough that Enjolras was not disturbed to come home and find him already in his flat. "I thought you might like to go over that speech with me again."
There was no reply, no further sound even. No firm footstep or grunt of acknowledgement or even exhalation of sigh that yes Combeferre was once again meddling with the accepted order of Things. The hair prickled at the back of Eugene's neck, and he turned, sensing in his chest the sudden tight constriction of prey with the predator's eyes on him.
Behind him stood Pilon, the spy.
"You." He found himself thinking very clearly that this was not the smartest thing he had ever said.
The spy nodded, large thick calloused hands wrapped in a long coil of rope as though this had all been perfectly and meticulously planned out. Which, of course, it probably had. He didn't know why but for a moment or two he had wondered if the spy had appeared on impulse, or through an unintentional summoning of evil speak of the devil and he shall appear... "Me," he said, showing either a sense of irony more subtle than truly fit with the brutish features or a lack of imagination.
Combeferre folded his arms, casting around with half his mind to think of where Enjolras might be keeping his pistol these days, while producing some more of this relatively uninspired melodramatic scripting that they both seemed to be following. It took no concentration and it bought time. Win-win. "So. The government dog returns."
Cue dramatic music from the orchestra.
Dieu, Grantaire, I am disposed to hold you responsible for the fact that all our lives seem to spiralling into cheap theatrics.
"Someone's got to chase down the rats taking over the streets," Pilon said with a nasty grin.
This was really too much. "You may not have noticed, Pilon - or whatever your name really is - but the authorities retracted their charges against myself and M. Enjolras. I cannot imagine what business you could have here." Someone had to at least attempt to reintroduce logic into the universe here. Even the government, as corrupt and riddled with injustice as it was should recognise simple A - B - C (hah) logic as this. Two plus two, monsieur. Please tell me they let you learn basic mathematics wherever they cultivate your particular kind of germ.
"I suppose," the spy drawled unconcernedly. "You'll just have to wait and find out."
"I think instead I will be asking you to leave."
"I think instead I'll be staying."
Combeferre had not really expected M. Spy to shrug his shoulders and say 'Oh dieu, really? Well you got me. How can I possibly say no to such a polite request? I'll just pack up my little back of tricks and be on my merry black-hearted-might-possibly-be-planning-on-killing-your-best-friend way. Au'voir and good luck with that little uprising!' However, he hadn't quite expected the sudden lunge forwards or the violence of the attack. He should have. He would think that later. He should have expected it. But he didn't.
He struggled, his glasses falling to the ground and thank god not shattering - but legs being kicked out from under him and his knuckles scraping ineffectually against the solid chin, bruised and split and arms gripped tight, one twisted back and then his chest pressed against the wall and his struggles bubbling beneath the surface but not making any difference just standing there just struggling and breathing and panting and...
And he was tied up. Damn.
Hi head rang a bit from an unlucky blow as the spy put him in a chair as though he were a piece of luggage and leaned against the doorway, grinning. Smug. "Do you know when your friend will be home?"
I'm a doctor, not a fighter. A doctor, I don't need to know how to box, I am not Dominic Bahorel and I have my own uses outside of brawling. So he had always maintained in that space of his head where he did have to explain his inadequacies like any doctor had to diagnose flaws in the gloriously flawed construction that was the human body.
He had always been contented with the diagnosis until today.
"Leave him alone," he growled, hearing murder in his voice and knowing with a sudden terror that if he were not tied down and had possession of a weapon he would make an attempt on this man's life to protect his friend. Good god. What was happening to him?
"Simple question. Answer it."
"I have no idea," Combeferre said as coldly as he knew how. "I was waiting for him. I would assume he has decided to attend his classes and therefore will not be home for some hours." Hopefully he has decided to not attend his classes at all but get caught up with a debate in the Musain... he won't be home until late then. Perhaps not at all. Screw you, you pig, you'll find Augustin Enjolras harder to pin down.
"All right," was the calm reply. "I can wait then."
That wouldn't do. Combeferre wanted nothing more at that moment - besides a gun to point at M Spy - than for this brute of a man to get sick of waiting an leave. Take me with you or leave me behind, I don't give a damn. Just leave. Leave before he remembers he has a speech to write and I have the notes and he comes home to look for them. Dear god, just leave. He made another attempt at coolness and did reasonably well considering. "Oh come now, what would you want with the pair of us? He's quite a good deal more proficient than myself with his fists."
"I think I can take care of things fairly well," said the spy who obviously had never seen Augustin punch.
"Really now?"
The reply was instant and cold. "Yes."
Before this enthralling conversation could continue any further down the path of well-rehearsed and over-played tropes, there was a noise at the front door and Combeferre heard a familiar voice. "Enjolras?" Jehan. Oh god, Jehan!
Pilon made a quick gesture to be silent, eyes narrowed down to slits. Bastard. That's frankly insulting. As if I would.
"Jehan!" he raised his voice as loud as he could. "Get out of here!"
There was the briefest of brief pauses, and Prouvaire - bless his heart for a literalist with a desire to double-check obvious truths in case they were really not obvious at all but hiding a core of stars and grass stems behind their truth, actually said, "Combeferre?"
Yes - it's me - I'm not a bundle of petals and pearls and sand grains - get... light and pain flashed in front of his eyes and the sounds and colours of the world corkscrewed into a blur.
Concussion, his medical knowledge supplied helpfully.
Go to hell, the rest of him said.
The fog cleared only slowly, and by the time he could lift his head, Pilon was back in the room, looking flushed and furious. Well worth a blow over the head. Jehan had managed to outrun the spy. Well done you, Prouvaire. "He'll tell my friend." Combeferre couldn't help a smile at the thought.
"Figures. Just figures," Pilon hauled him roughly to his feet. "We're getting out of here."
They left. Where the landlady was and how the spy had even gotten in, Combeferre had no idea. All that really mattered was that Prouvaire would warn Enjolras and his friend would not be trapped. Whether or not in the end he could effect a successful rescue was not important. There would be mess and untidiness and thought and the highway - and the highway would lead to the future and not even this connard of a spy could get in the way of the horizon.
