March 26, 2017: ...better late than never? I'm not going to bother throwing out excuses. Life has been hectic and my mental health hasn't been the best, and all the usual stuff that goes along with that. But I'm not going to dwell on how long it took me to get this chapter out. I'm going to focus on the fact that I got a chapter out, at all. Hopefully you enjoy it? ^_^
(And, uh... just ignore the screaming in the background. It's probably my students complaining about how I did this instead of grading their papers. ^_~)
Muet — Chapter 9
by eirenical
[I wonder what's for breakfast.]
[Fuck, I hate night shifts. Maybe I can talk Bahorel into taking the next one.]
[Ugh. Who made this coffee? Is it even coffee? Blech.]
[—remember to ask Bossuet to go on another drug raid soon. We're out of—]
[—hell is Grantaire? We were supposed to—]
[—swear to fuck if someone else comes near me before I've had coffee—]
[—kill him next time, I swear.]
[Is that eggs and toast, again? Ugggggh.]
[Combeferre looks like shit. Maybe I should just drug him tonight and save us all—]
[Seriously is this colored dishwater? Who the hell made the coff—]
Prouvaire rolled slowly upright, one shaking hand braced against his temple and a snarl on his lips. Three years. He'd been here three years already and still—
[Damn it, where did I put that report…?]
A scream had been building in his throat since he'd woken, tightening his chest and cutting off his air. And when that last thought barreled its way through Prouvaire's mind, capstone to a thousand other inanities that he'd been privy to since Grantaire had woken him with his stress-addled thoughts this morning, he finally couldn't take it anymore. Tipping his head back, Prouvaire screamed.
For one blessed moment, the entire safe house was silent. Then it started again, louder than before, frantic, and all focused on him. Prouvaire slid off the bed to press himself into the corner, hands clamped to his head and knees tight to his chest. No escape. None at all. Prouvaire whimpered, slammed his head back into the wall once, twice, three times, before burying his face in his knees.
[Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!]
Prouvaire's body twisted, one moment curling even tighter, another moment attempting to bury itself in the wall, in the floor, in the rumpled bed beside him. The voices rose, wailing into an unbearable cacophony that he couldn't even begin to unravel, that he didn't even want to unravel. Voices on top of voices on top of voices. One voice rose above all the others, screaming fit to tear itself apart. He just wanted them silent.
It wasn't until strong arms pulled Prouvaire against an even stronger chest that the agonized screaming cut off. But it wasn't until much later that Prouvaire's ravaged throat clued him in that the one who'd been screaming… was him. For now, he let himself be rocked and shushed, let himself be held and murmured to. Strong hands ran fingers through his hair, gently carding through the tangles and smoothing down his back. He knew those hands.
When Prouvaire finally lifted his head, Bahorel offered him a small smile. "Bad night?"
At the double echo of those words, aural and mental, and thus far louder than Bahorel had intended them, Prouvaire jerked himself out of Bahorel's hold and onto his feet, then began furiously pacing the room. When Bahorel opened his mouth to speak, Prouvaire didn't even wait for the words to emerge before he was snarling out an answer to the next question. "No, I haven't seen Courfeyrac, this morning. Why? Have you misplaced him?"
[Yes.]
[Shit. I didn't mean to—]
Prouvaire stopped his pacing and lowered his hands. He smiled. "Well… well… well… Isn't that interesting." His attention caught, Prouvaire was finally able to push the other voices to the side, to ignore the banalities of a houseful of people going back to their morning routines, to focus on the puzzle right in front of him. He laughed, low and full, as he returned to the corner to straddle Bahorel's legs. As Bahorel's hands came up reflexively to brace his hips, Prouvaire leaned in and whispered into his ear, "How do you know he hasn't just hidden himself somewhere?"
Bahorel shivered and Prouvaire laughed, leaning further into him, rocking against him just enough to produce another shiver. He froze then, head cocking to one side at Bahorel's next thought. "R is missing, too?" When Bahorel closed his eyes and his head filled with a litany of curse words, Prouvaire started to laugh. He continued to laugh even when Bahorel pushed him off his lap and stood, that mental litany getting louder and more foul with each passing second.
Maybe today wouldn't be so terrible, after all.
By lunchtime, everyone knew that Courfeyrac and Grantaire were missing. Grantaire's car was gone, suggesting that at least he had left willingly. No one had seen hide nor hair of Courfeyrac since early that morning at breakfast. Combeferre had locked himself in his room, frantically searching the security footage for any clue as to where they'd gone. One brush against him had been more than enough to convince Prouvaire to stay far the hell away from that mess. Even so, the echo of Combeferre's periodic weeping and crippling self-recriminations became a haunting backdrop to Prouvaire's entire day. It made him twitchy. And if there was one thing Prouvaire didn't need, it was something else to make him twitchy.
Enjolras was no better. He spent the afternoon tearing around the safehouse, getting underfoot, and snapping at everyone when they tried to get him to back off. Musichetta had finally lost her patience and tossed him out of the briefing room, her mind filled with dark muttering about how this time she almost hoped he'd wander out to the sunroom so that a sniper could put him out of her misery. Prouvaire had laughed a little too hard and a little too long at that and had been tossed out, himself, almost immediately afterwards. With nothing better to do, and his mood lightening by the minute at the extent of the game Courfeyrac and R had successfully played, and its effect on everyone at the safehouse, Prouvaire followed Enjolras.
As wide open as Enjolras was, it wasn't that hard.
[Where are they?]
[This is all my fault.]
[So fucking useless.]
[What am I supposed to do?]
Prouvaire pushed open the door to the sunroom to find Enjolras curled up in that old armchair he loved, arms wrapped around himself, practically gnawing on his bottom lip in his worry. Not so fearless, now, eh, fearless leader? Prouvaire owed Enjolras plenty for this safe haven. He owed him even more for the trust Enjolras had placed in him. Prouvaire would have liked to return the favor. Damn Courfeyrac for interfering.
Then again… Courfeyrac wasn't here, was he?
Turning that thought over in his mind, Prouvaire smiled. Step by careful step, he stalked closer to where Enjolras was hunched over in the chair. Sliding onto the ottoman, Prouvaire leaned in, gently started stroking Enjolras' legs, then those tightly crossed arms, then his face. By the time Enjolras began to cotton on to what Prouvaire was about to do… it was far too late.
Enjolras still hadn't gotten into the habit of keeping his shields raised when Grantaire wasn't around, so it was barely the work of half a second for Prouvaire to gain entry. Enjolras tried to fight him then, to push him out of his mind, but Prouvaire had been at this for far longer, and he was far better at it than Enjolras. To Prouvaire, all of Enjolras' best efforts at fighting him off were no more than the ineffectual flailing of a child being picked up and put into time out.
Out in the world, Enjolras was now rigid in the chair, eyes staring sightlessly ahead as his jaw worked. In here… in here he begged, cried, pleaded for Prouvaire to let him go. Prouvaire was having none of it. If this was the one opportunity he was to have, then he was going to take full advantage of it and do what he'd been brought here to do.
Dragging Enjolras with him, Prouvaire inspected everything. Thoughts, memories, hopes and dreams… loves. Prouvaire laid everything bare. But when he got right down to it, finally found the memories of what had happened the night Enjolras lost his memory, he hit a wall. It wasn't a mental block of Enjolras' own devising to hide something traumatic. It wasn't a physical injury from which he would recover with time. And no drug Prouvaire had ever heard of could have caused this. It wasn't natural. Someone had built it. This was proof.
Enjolras' mind had been tampered with… and even as strong as he was, Prouvaire wasn't strong enough to fix it on his own.
They needed help.
Prouvaire pulled out of Enjolras' mind, far more gently than he went in, then caught him as he slumped in the chair, mercifully unconscious. With speed such a necessity, Prouvaire had been less than careful. He'd be surprised if Enjolras escaped this day's work with less than a full-blown migraine.
…perhaps telling Joly about this little adventure wouldn't be such a bad idea.
Two hours after Prouvaire got Enjolras settled in the infirmary, and an hour and 45 minutes after sitting through a thoroughly boring yet impressive harangue by Joly, there was finally news. And, as soon as Bahorel knew, Prouvaire knew. Bahorel's mental outcry was too loud to be missed. Feuilly was coming in, he was bringing R with him… and Courfeyrac was gone.
It was a solemn, sorry group that gathered in the garage as Feuilly and R pulled in. Prouvaire grinned as R raised drooping eyes to meet his gaze when he stepped out of his car. [So, R… I hear you've been busy.]
[Stuff it, Prouvaire. I'm in no mood.]
Prouvaire quieted. He wasn't above provoking a fight, and he'd been spoiling for one since this morning. But the exhaustion was so heavy in R's mind that it almost dragged Prouvaire down with him from that one contact, alone. Besides… he could hear Enjolras' confused and pained grumbling from all the way across the house. Their fearless leader was awake… and he was pissed. Prouvaire grinned. Why get his own hands dirty when Enjolras was about to do it for him?
By the time they relocated to the briefing room, Enjolras had shaken off Joly and joined them. It didn't take long to catch him up to speed. Prouvaire kept a close eye as they did, waiting, watching… wondering whether whatever was behind that wall would rear its head and reveal itself now that Prouvaire had gone and poked at it with a stick. Yet, even in this, Prouvaire was to be disappointed. Enjolras stayed Enjolras… and one thing became abundantly clear as Feuilly and Grantaire struggled to explain what had happened. Enjolras was no longer just pissed. He was furious.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Feuilly winced, breath catching in his throat at the harshness of that attack. He'd known the others would be angry. He'd known they wouldn't understand. He'd known that he would catch hell for daring to tempt Courfeyrac out of the safehouse to begin with, and that had been when he'd assumed he'd be returning with him, too. Now?
Enjolras lurched forward in Bahorel's hold, eyes wide and wild, hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were stark white. "Well? What were you thinking? Were you even thinking? What the hell possessed you?" When Feuilly opened his mouth to say something, to say anything, in his own defense, Enjolras lunged forwards, once more, just barely catching Feuilly's shirt in his hands before Bahorel yanked him back again. "Don't you dare try to defend what you did! There is no defense for what you did."
Before Feuilly could even think to respond to that, Enjolras flinched back in a harsh wince of his own, his hands rising to clutch at his head as he jerked around to stare at Grantaire. Moments later, his face drained of all color, something made all the more startling by how deeply red he flushed a moment later as he jerked against Bahorel's hold again, screaming, "And you're defending him? You? You're just as much to blame as he is!"
Grantaire's jaw locked then, and his fists came up in a boxing stance. Before he could take a swing, however, Enjolras abruptly slumped in Bahorel's arms.
In the dead silent aftermath, Joly stepped out from where he'd been standing behind Bahorel, syringe in hand, no sign that any of the raging tension in the room had affected him at all. "That's quite enough of that, don't you think?"
Feuilly had a feeling that they were all thinking it, but of course it was Prouvaire who stepped up and said it, a wide smile on his face. "Joly… there are times when you are terrifying, my friend." At Joly's twisted frown, Prouvaire shrugged, one hand rising to brush the tip of his braid over his lips. "Yes, yes, I know, I know. We can all appreciate the irony of that coming from me, so I'll thank you to button your lips over a response unless you can come up with something a bit more original." Moments later, his lips twisted into a sneer and he half-turned, the better to flip Musichetta the bird. When he turned back to face Joly, he said only, "Trust me. She deserved it."
"OK, enough!" When all eyes abruptly landed back on him, Feuilly winced. Still. Someone had to step up, and he at least had all the facts. "It would be naiveté of the worst order for me to tell you I didn't expect this to happen. And I'm not that naïve. I knew this could happen." Feuilly raised a hand to run at his temple. "If I'm being honest, I knew this would happen. Still, I stand by my decision. It was the right one. No matter what Enjolras obviously thinks."
"How can you possibly say that?"
Feuilly had been expecting another attack. He'd been expecting anger. He hadn't been expecting this. Quiet. Rough. The sound of a thousand tears caught in a throat that could barely force words past them. Feuilly turned.
Combeferre was standing in the doorway, clutching at the doorjamb with his unbandaged hand as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He spoke again. "The Thenardiers have Courfeyrac. Montparnasse has Courfeyrac. How can a decision that led to that possibly have been the right one?"
A hand landed on Feuilly's shoulder and offered a light squeeze. He didn't even have to look to know who it belonged to. It could only be Grantaire. At least he had that much support. Feuilly said, "Because it wasn't my decision to make. It wasn't Grantaire's or yours or Enjolras'. It was Courfeyrac's. That offer was for him, alone. So, he, alone, had the right to decide if he would take it." The quiet murmuring that had started among the other Amis when Combeferre had first spoken abruptly stopped. Feuilly shrugged. "Over the past two years, we've all gotten used to making his every decision for him. We decided that he needed to be functional more than he needed to be healthy. We decided that he needed to be safe more than he needed to be free. We decided that he needed to be able to think clearly more than he needed to not be hurt. And I've got news for you. Every single decision we've made for him in the last two years has been a bad one. Every. One."
Feuilly shrugged off Grantaire's hand and turned back to face the rest of the crowd, his own hands finally clenching into fists as he turned. "Letting Courfeyrac make his own choice? That was the first good decision any of us has made regarding him in two years. I'm just sorry it took Eponine forcing my hand to get me to make it."
Taking a deep breath, Feuilly forced his hands to relax. "Now, you can stand here and keep throwing blame around if you want, but I'm going to get back out there, put my ear to the ground, and try to figure out what this was all about to begin with."
In the stunned silence that followed that proclamation, Feuilly turned on his heel and left the room. Before he'd gotten even halfway down the hall, a voice slithered into his mind.
[You take on Montparnasse and the Thenardiers alone and you'll end up no better off than Courfeyrac, you know.]
Feuilly spun, hands coming up in a defensive posture that he knew would be useless even as he assumed it. Prouvaire didn't need to overpower anyone physically to have them at his mercy. Feuilly forced himself to lower his hands as he replied, "Well, I didn't see anyone else volunteering to help."
Prouvaire stepped out of the shadows at the other end of the hall, his eyes fairly glittering with unholy glee. [You didn't exactly give them the opportunity.] When Feuilly raised a hand to rub at his temple, Prouvaire's smile widened to match the gleam in his eyes. [You've run alone for a long time, Feuilly. A very long time. Why is that?] Prouvaire tilted his head to the side, brought the end of his braid up to brush against his lips. [Could it be you have something to hide?]
Feuilly's hands were fisted in Prouvaire's shirt, lifting him partway up the wall to slam him against it, before Feuilly even realized he was planning to move. "You have something you want to accuse me of, why don't you just come out and say it?"
Prouvaire just laughed.
Disgusted with how easily he'd been provoked, Feuilly loosened his hold and dropped Prouvaire back to the ground. He knew better. This was what psychics did. They poked and prodded and scraped and picked away at your defenses until you offered up the very thoughts they were looking for without them having to lift a finger. If Feuilly had had anything to hide, Prouvaire would, no doubt, know every sordid detail by now. Prouvaire's smirk was all the confirmation he needed that he was right.
Feuilly backed away until he hit the opposite wall. He sagged. "Just… just tell me what you want from me. I'm barely up for these mind games with you when I'm at my best, and I'm sure as hell not at my best, now."
Prouvaire smiled, and it was a feral smile, all teeth. [I don't want anything from you, Feuilly. As always, it's only ever your partner that I've been interested in. He fascinates me.] Prouvaire tipped his head back against the wall, his arms coming up to wrap around himself. [I've never met anyone who wasn't psychic who had a mind as convoluted as mine until I met him. He wouldn't have just handed himself over. He had something up his sleeve when he decided to go along with this. He may not have told you, and he may not have told R, but rest assured… that man does nothing without a contingency plan. His contingency plans have contingency plans. And I, for one, do not want to miss it when this one comes to fruition.]
Prouvaire peeled away from the wall, then, and stepped up right into Feuilly's personal space. Feuilly's breath caught and, even knowing the wall was directly behind him, he couldn't stop himself from pulling back as far away from Prouvaire as he could. Prouvaire followed him, sliding his hands up to grip Feuilly's waist and nuzzling a kiss into the nape of his neck. When Feuilly shuddered in reaction, Prouvaire huffed out a laugh against his skin. [I find that I'm as sick of being cooped up here as Courfeyrac was. And Feuilly… like it or not, you need me. So why don't you just lie back and try to enjoy it… partner?]
Ten minutes after Prouvaire left him alone, Feuilly was still pressed to the wall, heart hammering in his chest and primal terror screaming in his mind. It was Grantaire who found him. It was Grantaire who coaxed him away from the wall with gentle hands and soft eyes. It was Grantaire who sat him down in the kitchen and forced a glass of brandy into his hands, and it was Grantaire whose eyes were full of too much understanding as he took back the glass and then held it up to Feuilly's lips so that Feuilly could drink without sloshing the alcohol all over himself and the table.
Because Grantaire understood.
Feuilly had been lucky in that his duties had kept him far, far away from their resident psychic. Not like Grantaire. Grantaire's lack of speech had forced him to rely on Prouvaire to have someone to talk to when he couldn't deal with Enjolras. Prouvaire played these games with Grantaire every day he was in the safehouse. But Feuilly… Feuilly wasn't ready for this. He didn't think he ever would be. Prouvaire was right about one thing, though—if Feuilly wanted to emerge intact from tangling with the demons that were Montparnasse and the Thenardiers, he'd have to have a demon of his own on his side. He would need Prouvaire. He just had to hope that, in the end, he'd be able to pay the price on this particular deal… and that the price wouldn't be his very soul.
A/N: Completely unbeta'ed, except by me. So, even more so than usual, any and all mistakes are purely mine.
You can find me on tumblr at eirenical, if you'd like to chat. I promise I don't bite. Much. ^_~
