Author's Note: Next chapter: Enjolras! Now tell me if you didn't squee at that. I know the pretty boy is all you care about, you rascals. Just kidding, I want you to meet him too but the story goes as it goes.

10.

The ride has been something of a torture – long and bumpy and stiffening. They have picked up more people on the way and Suzanne has spent almost all of the time huddled in her corner by the window, covered by Grantaire's coat and worrying about someone noticing something suspicious – a spatter of blood or something else. People have asked her at least twice if she is feeling all right. She has stuttered some quick explanation about having just recovered from an illness. She has gotten off the coach twice, out of necessity but very nervously and rather painfully. The wound which she has managed to ignore at first, on account of fear overpowering all other senses, has gradually become sharply noticeable. She knows she looks peculiar with Grantaire's coat still wrapped tightly around her on top of her own but she has to hide the blood. He has thankfully produced a second one for himself out of his luggage – getting out in only a shirt and vest would have definitely raised some suspicion. She has noticed absently that after disappearing for a short time during several of the stops his baggage has increased by two additional bags. She is secretly hoping that he has thought of getting her at least some kind of change of clothes – this much blood would be nearly impossible to wash off. The knowledge that she is relying entirely on his kindness with no chance of ever repaying it is a heavy weight somewhere at the back of her mind. But it is now a matter of survival and she is prepared to beg if she has to, even if this has gone far beyond any favour.

She is feeling faint by the time they finally arrive, and extremely grateful to be off the diligence. She is also thankful it is dark already so the chances of anyone noticing them are smaller. Grantaire somehow manages to carry all of the bags while she tries to keep up with him hardly paying attention to the world around. She is focused on not collapsing and hardly notices how and when they have arrived at a small room. The woman who has shown them here places a burning gas lamp on the table and leaves them. Suzanne sinks to the bed, hands still clutching the coat around her, and blinks a few times, only now taking any notice of her surroundings. Grantaire places the bags on the floor and heaves a sigh which sounds like it has been suppressed for a long time. He sits on one of the two chairs by the table and silently rubs his forehead for a few moments before pushing himself up again.

"All right. How bad is it? Do we need to find a doctor?"

"I don't-" Suzanne begins and is shocked by how faint her voice sounds. She clears her throat and tries a bit louder. "I don't know."

Grantaire sighs again.

"Take this off, let me look at you."

The phrase sounds very strange in her ears. She has heard it before from various men in much gruffer voices and in much different circumstances. Grantaire's tone is mild but in the first second she pushes his hand away with some irritation as he reaches to take the coat off her shoulders. For a moment, her slightly foggy brain can only register that she wants to be left alone and her fingers briefly grip the fabric tighter before reason settles in and she reluctantly lets go. She glances at Grantaire who is giving her a reproachful look.

"I'm only trying to help."

She expels a tired little sigh of her own.

"I know. I'm sorry. Thank you."

His face softens and he nods briefly before reaching again to remove the coat and toss it on the floor. She shivers a little with the sudden change of temperature but lets her shawl slide off her shoulders, looking down at herself with some apprehension. On the front of her own coat of nondescript gray, the deceptively small tear is barely noticeable in the middle of the bloodstain. This can't all be her blood or she should have been dead long ago. At least some of it must belong to her attacker.

She looks up to see why Grantaire has paused just as he picks up her shawl and drapes it back around her shoulders.

"I should have thought to light the fire first," he mutters. "It's cold." He strides across the room and busies himself with the fire for a few minutes. Suzanne shuffles a little on the bed so she can lean sideways on the wall which the headboard is pushed to and her eyelids drift closed. She opens them again when she hears him return. Removing her coat is slightly painful and she feels vulnerable each time she has to move her arms from where they are folded protectively over the wound. The front of her dress is covered in dried blood and she winces continuously as he helps her take it off. Her chemise is in an even worse state, the once-white material now dirty red-brown and seemingly merged with her skin. She doesn't look forward to the prospect of trying to pull it off. She is afraid she will reopen the wound which at least doesn't seem to be bleeding right now. Grantaire surveys her with a frown.

"We're better off with you not trying to get that off over your head," he concludes, picks one of the bags and places it on the table but stops before opening it, giving her an apprehensive look.

"Su, I'm going to take a knife out now. Don't get any silly ideas into your head, I won't hurt you."

Her heart pounds in her chest at the mention of a knife and she instinctively edges back.

"I think I'm fine just taking it off…" Her own voice sounds too high and sharp in her ears.

Another sigh from him.

"No, you're probably not fine just taking it off, you'll reopen the wound and, judging by the amount of blood on your clothes, you don't want to bleed any more. What am I supposed to explain to the doctor – if I find one in the middle of the night – when I take him to an unconscious woman with a knife wound?"

She bites her lip, terror that is all too fresh in her mind fighting with rationality. He spreads his arms in an imploring gesture.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

There is another pause.

"Fine," she says finally, trying to reign in her emotions. Nevertheless she shivers when he produces a small knife and stays completely rigid as he uses it to cut and tear the fabric so it would be easier to remove. To his credit, he's both quick and careful, putting the blade back in his bag and out of sight when he's done. Suzanne allows herself to breathe a little more freely while he brings a pitcher of water and a bowl, produces a cloth from one of the other bags and starts gradually cleaning off the dried blood, the water helping to ease the material off. Once the wound is exposed, he seems to relax a little. Apparently, it's not as bad as he has feared. He resumes his work as there is still much to be washed. He moves with sureness and efficiency which surprise her until she remembers that his occupations include boxing and perhaps the occasional bar brawl. He must have had opportunities to exercise some very simple forms of doctoring – probably mostly on himself as he isn't exactly the type to have a hoard of mistresses fighting over which one gets to take care of him.

"On one of the rare occasions when we got caught together in the same fight," he begins, as if he has read her thoughts, "I once had to remove the remains of a broken bottle from Bahorel's arm on account of the man having two black eyes and a cracked head which prevented him from having the clear eyesight required. How well I could see was also somewhat questionable since I had been drinking but the arm in question was fully in use after that, so I must have managed. Of course, I was rather thankful I didn't have to pull half a bottle out of his head, which was nearly the case." He stops and spares her a glance that carries a hint of uncertainly, as if he is wondering if he should shut up. Sober, he is more aware of what he is saying and how unwelcome it may be. His worries are, for once, unfounded. She is glad for the return of his customary aimless chatter. The silence has been oppressive. She snorts and decides to comment, as a way of encouraging him to continue.

"Quite the proper young lawyer, is he not?" she says. "I would like to imagine him in a court room. If he had graduated already and if I had the money, I might have hired him. I wonder if he would have broken the judge's nose for proclaiming me guilty."

Grantaire looks up from his task in some surprise and inclines his head to the side with a small smile.

"You know whom I'm talking about?"

She rolls her eyes.

"You have mentioned him more than enough times. And not just him. I bet I can recite a short biography for each of your old rebel friends. They are the only thing you talk about that makes any sort of sense."

He chuckles, slightly sadly.

"Funny, because they themselves seemed to possess so little of that. They appear to have cultivated some since then. Or perhaps just found women to supply sense for them."

The mood has changed, she realizes. The feeling is as familiar as the steps of a practiced dance routine. They have done this often enough in the past – going from an argument to joking and from complete silliness into a deeper, heavier atmosphere when one of them would suddenly say something about the world that holds an uncomfortable amount of truth. This time the change is for the better. She is content to hear about students brawling with each other – it's better than thinking about what lies behind or, indeed, ahead of her.

"It could have been worse," he says eventually, putting the bloodied cloth away. In the first second she doesn't realize he's referring to the cut on the right side of her abdomen – his declaration has come in the middle of a rather convoluted story involving a gambling debt. She realizes only now that she has left herself in his hands without paying much attention apart from automatically trying to cover winces and grimaces. She has been unconsciously reassured by his confidence and allowed her mind to drift. Probably for the better, she must admit – she feels too weak and tired to do much, and since he is sober, she reasons she can trust him not to be clumsy or unfocussed. His touch is familiar enough not to bother her and he has been careful. He has managed to clean the blood and get rid of the remains of her chemise, revealing a gaping red gash where the knife has sliced through her skin. She winces again but nods in agreement with him. Regardless of how ugly and scary it looks, she realizes it's not the worst she might have received.

"He could have gutted me," she notes with a shiver that is only half from the cold, and wraps her arms around her chest. Thankfully the room has warmed up somewhat.

"I am very impressed with you," Grantaire says quietly and turns around to rummage in a bag again, taking out linen and starting to tear pieces from it for bandages. Suzanne wonders if he has bought that on the way, predicting she would need it. It must be because it has come out of one of his new bags.

After he has dressed the wound he brings her some fresh water and a clean cloth and places the second new bag on the bed.

"You will want to look as normal as possible in order not to raise suspicion. The picture you and I presented today was not the best if one wants to avoid being traced. There are clean clothes for you inside and a few other things you will probably find necessary. Do you need my help or can you finish washing up on your own?"

"I think I will manage…" she says, secretly relieved. She has rather hoped he might find her a change of clothes but she cannot deny the fact that he could have easily dumped her anywhere or deposited her in front of a hospital rather than taking the task of treating her upon himself, wasting money on her and risking problems.

"Good." He starts picking up the bloodstained clothes and stuffing them in the bag that has the most space for them. "I'll bring up some food for you and then I'll go find somewhere to get rid of these."

He's out and back in a few minutes with a plate of food and a glass of wine. Then he takes the bag and goes out again.

Careful not to lift her right arm too much as it stretches the skin around the wound, Suzanne does her best to rinse the dirt of the road from herself, wishing she could pretend the water could wash away the events of the day as well. When she's done she opens the bag he has left for her and, as she starts taking things out, a faint 'Oh, Lord…' escapes her lips. The contents include, among other things, a coat, two newly-bought dresses, two chemises and a pair of shoes, all of it not particularly expensive but better than she usually can afford. She slips on a chemise carefully and walks to the table, hunger taking precedence over curiosity. She has felt queasy all day but now she is starving. Once the plate is cleaned, she returns to the bed to examine the rest of the items. The dresses are both dark – brown and green – good quality and suitably unnoticeable. She can tell they will both fit well. She guesses sharing a bed with a woman can teach a man what her size is but he still has to pay attention. Drunk or not, Grantaire often seems to notice more about the world than one might suspect but she has never before considered that this may apply to her person. She is even more shocked at the money. More money than she has ever seen in one place and a note saying 'Please, don't argue.' pinned to the purse. Either he is secretly very rich or this has been meant to pay for about half of his trip to America and back. She knows he can't have given up on going – she has known as soon as he has said the word 'America' who he is going there for and he has confirmed her guess on their way to the diligence. She can't imagine him discarding his plan to pursue his bright idol so for him this sacrifice must mean that once he gets there he would have to make the money to come back, if he is to come back at all. For her, the small fortune means a chance she couldn't have dreamed of to evade the police, disappear and perhaps manage to settle somewhere new. Her heart is in her throat. She wishes she didn't need this but she needs it so badly that saying no could be the end of her and this much foolish pride she doesn't have. Grantaire has offered things in the past and not insisted on payment – a fact she has sometimes found irritating and insulting to her independence – but this last gesture is completely out of proportion. She doesn't know if these are the actions of a sentimental idiot, an incredibly kind man or a very close friend. Perhaps all three. When it gets down to it, she has never thought him unkind or unfriendly but being civil to a whore is a far cry from this. There can be nothing in it for him. The corners of her eyes are burning. What finally does it for her is a bronze vanity set, wrapped in a towel at the bottom of the bag. She stares at it, fingers pressed to her mouth until the image blurs and she realizes there are tears slipping down her cheeks. The ornate hair brush and mirror, while certainly not the most expensive items of their kind, are too unnecessarily pretty to have been purchased only for the practical need of a woman to brush her hair.

A present, she realizes. Not a favour, not things she would need to survive, but something picked simply as a vessel to carry someone's blessing. She strokes the metal back of the mirror and watches the light from the lamp and the fire glint off of it for what seems like ages before the door opens and Grantaire steps inside, an emptier-looking bag in his hand. He freezes when he sees her.

"What's wrong?"

She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand and futilely tries to hold back more tears. On one hand, she's too embarrassed to acknowledge the enormity of what he is doing, being unable to do anything in return. On the other…

He crosses the room and kneels in front of the bed.

"Are you in pain?"

She shakes her head and reaches for his hand.

"Thank you."

"Oh… " His features relax into a slightly embarrassed smile – an expression she has never seen on him. It makes him look younger. Inexplicably, the smile also makes her cry harder. He gives her a helplessly confused look when her shoulders shake in another fit of silent sobs but she can't begin to explain. She is starting to feel acutely now that she is for the second time being left without her one friend. His testaments of genuine friendship prevent her from trying to convince herself, as she might have otherwise, that all she has lost is a little arrangement of mutual convenience. Her doubts of whether she can count on him have all been erased but only now when they are about to part and never see each other again and tomorrow she will be on her own and on the run with no one to turn to. She doesn't want to say all this because it looks horrible from the side – she needs him and he doesn't need her and it seems as if she has only started dreading losing his presence as soon as she has realized how useful he can be. And she doesn't want to ask him to stay and be refused.

"I'll miss you," she says instead, wiping her final tears away. She has no reasons to complain after all.

His eyes show genuine surprise at first and then, unexpectedly, sadness. He looks away and chews his lip, frowning. There is a long silence before he finally looks back at her.

"Come with me then?"

It almost sounds like a plea. When she stares at him, too shocked to answer, he continues, quietly, in a voice full of restrained hope – a feeling she recognizes all too well.

"I'm afraid to go alone. I'm afraid of what I might find or that I won't find anything. I'm afraid I won't know what to do and I'll do nothing… I need your help. No one will be looking for you there. The money in the bag will cover the journey and a bit more." He takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Please. I need you."

"But… What for?"

He inclines his head to the side with a tiny peculiar smile.

"You fight," he says simply.

She pauses long enough to marvel at the fact that he seems to think she could refuse – a notion which seems ridiculous to her. With his money she may have tried to get on a ship to America herself, except she doesn't know the language and without a more knowledgeable companion, she would have ended badly for sure. When she nods, he closes his eyes and there is a small breathy laugh at the end of a relieved sigh.

"You have the whole bed," he says softly, standing up. "I'm afraid if I sleep I may not wake up on time."

At the mention of sleep she suddenly feels just how desperate she is for it. She wants to lie down and fall asleep immediately but she takes care to repack her bag, wrapping the mirror and hair brush in the towel again but leaving them on top as she will need them in the morning. Her head is buzzing when she curls up carefully on her left side and draws the covers around her but exhaustion has the final say and she drifts off with a goodnight she is not sure if she has said or only thought.

End Note: Any thoughts, comments, questions or analysis? No, I am not ashamed of reminding you to review because it's the main motivation I get to write this. Grantaire is giving you a hopeful look. Say no, I dare you.