Author's Note: Warning for more silver collar scenes, as well as descriptions of injuries acquired in previous chapters and how they are doing. Thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing, and the next chapter will be out soon!

Part Twenty-Seven: The Need to Drink

He wants a drink.

It's ridiculous. Grantaire's being held captive by another pack, has a silver collar wrapped around his neck, is in danger of being killed along with one pack-mate and one friend, and his idiotic, ridiculous body wants alcohol.

Not that alcohol would make anything worse. It might make things better. At least then he'd have an excuse besides the pounding in his head and the agony at his throat and the ropes around his wrists and ankles for not being able to come up with a way out of this.

The shadows filling most of the room seem to surge forward, to lap around Grantaire's feet, and he shivers, despair sliding to the fore.

Their new guard increases the speed of his pacing, drawing Grantaire's head up and his eyes forward again, and Grantaire forces himself to focus on the wolf.

At least their situation has improved slightly in this aspect. Yves has been replaced by Bellamy's zeta, a small, nervous male. Where Yves had stood perfectly still by the lantern, watching them with hawk-bright eyes, this male skitters back and forth along the far wall, watching them only out of the periphery of his vision.

Gathering his courage, Grantaire turns as much as he dares to look at Marius, earning only a few new fiery scratches on his neck from the collar. The other male's huddled in his chair, his head down, his eyes closed, a position he's held for the last several hours. Licking his lips, Grantaire draws a breath. "Marius?"

Their guard hesitates for a moment in his pacing and then simply hurries on.

Marius continues to huddle in his chair.

Is he unconscious again? He isn't dead. Grantaire can smell that, at least, can see his chest rising and falling in a steady pattern. Licking his lips once more, trying to make them feel not quite so chapped and painful, Grantaire raises his voice a bit. "Marius?"

Marius' head jerks up, finally, and he blinks hazily at Grantaire. "What?"

Grantaire frowns at the other male. There's something… wrong about the way Marius had spoken, about the way he looks. As though he's forgotten where he is, what's been done to them, what's going to be done to them. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Marius shifts in his chair, then gives a slight whimper. The scent of fresh blood trickles out into the room. "Thirsty, though. Really thirsty."

Of course. Cursing himself for not thinking, Grantaire stares disconsolately at the pool of blood under Marius' chair. Grantaire had seen a man lose his leg, once, when a draft horse panicked and trampled him with hooves and plough. The man had lived, miraculously, but he had spent days begging for water, water, more water, and the doctor had told those caring for the man that it was needed to replace the blood he'd lost. Marius must have lost a great deal of blood from his leg; Courfeyrac has also lost blood, from his nose and his lips and his badly damaged wrist.

"Um…" The zeta wolf's feet come to a halt, though his hands begin moving immediately, fingers twining together and breaking apart. "You need water?"

Brandy or absinthe or even wine sounds far more appealing, but water is probably better for them at the moment and much more likely to be provided by their captors. Tilting his head down, submissive, helpless, Grantaire makes his voice small. "Yes. Please."

Shifting back and forth for a moment, the zeta stares into the corners of the room and then finally nods. "All right. If you all promise not to make any sudden moves, I'll give you a little bit. First sign of trouble, I call Bellamy and you'll all be punished."

"Start with Marius, then." Grantaire stares hard at the young stray, willing him to behave. "Do you mind if I try to wake my gamma?"

Courfeyrac continues to hang limply in his restraints, his lower right arm now alarmingly swollen, the ropes binding it leaving white depressions in the red-and-purple skin. He's breathing easily, at least, despite the swelling of his face from the beating he took, and that's all that's kept Grantaire from losing his mind during Yves imposed silence.

"How are you planning on waking him?" The male chews at his lip, standing nervously halway between the table with the lantern and the prisoners, a cup held between his hands.

"Can I talk to him?" Grantaire tries not to sound too desperate. Pleading is one thing, may trigger this wolf's instincts to protect the less dominant, but he can't appear to want this too badly or Bellamy's wolf will suspect a trap. Never mind that all Grantaire wants is to ensure that his gamma's still sane. Never mind that hours of thinking, as hard as he can over the burn of the silver and the steadily increasing pounding in his head, has given him no better idea of how to escape. "Without you punishing him or me?"

"I…" The wolf raises his left hand to scratch behind his ear, then gives a brief grimace of distaste and a nod. "I don't see any harm in talking."

"Courfeyrac." Grantaire wastes no time, turning all of his attention onto his gamma, striving to reach through the silver-haze that clouds his magic and touch the other wolf's emotions. He can't find them, the effort a red-hot poker through his mind, and gritting his teeth causes the spikes to slide along his neck again, a terrible fire. "Please, Courfeyrac, you have to wake. I need you to be all right. What will Combeferre say if I bring you back like this? I'll never hear the end of it. Please, Courfeyrac, listen to me, reach for me, do something." He's begging despite his efforts not to, the terror of the last few hours spilling out into his voice. His breath comes in panting gasps between bolts of pain, his magic sliding beyond his grasp, and he hates how useless he is, how little magic he has, how helpless he is. His eyes burn, but perhaps he needs water, too, for no tears rise to fill them. "Please, Courfeyrac. Please. I'll do anything."

"Here." The zeta kneels in front of him, holding the cup up to Grantaire's lips. "Drink."

Closing his eyes, despair curling like a living thing through his guts, Grantaire does as ordered. The water is chilly, another reminder of how close they still are to winter, and it is a wonderful counterpoint to the burning fire of the silver around his neck. Grantaire drains the cup dry.

Bellamy's male stands, eyes fixed on the bottom of the empty cup as though it could tell him something important. After a few seconds he moves to the table to fill it again.

Then he moves to Courfeyrac's side, and Grantaire's pulse doubles. "Don't hurt him. Please."

"I won't." The zeta kneels in front of Courfeyrac, his voice soft, something like sorrow in the words. "Bellamy gave his word that none of you would be injured for now. I just… if you're thirsty, he must be, too."

"Gave his word to who?" Hope surges high in Grantaire's heart. Has Enjolras come to some sort of deal with the other alpha? But Enjolras doesn't know all that's happened. What kind of deal could he broker to take back trespassers? "What's to happen to us?"

"I… don't think I'm supposed to tell you." Tipping Courfeyrac's head back, the male allows a trickle of water to run from the cup into the gap between Courfeyrac's swollen, cracked lips. "I'm just supposed to watch you and make sure none of your pack-mates try to come and get you. Damn, Sean did a number on your friend's face."

"Yes." Grantaire shivers, remembering Sean's blows raining onto his own body when he saved Marius, events that seem a lifetime ago now. "He's very good at hitting people."

The zeta turns his head, studying Grantaire with bright, nervous eyes. "Don't say things like that. Sean's not a bad wolf. He's a decent delta. He doesn't hurt Daniel or I often, just when we don't submit fast enough or forget our place or do something else to warrant it. He's even helped us with the pups on occasion. He just… he was really upset when Monet went with the human-born, and he doesn't like that Enjolras allowed Monet to mate-bond with the human-born."

Grantaire looks away from the other male's eyes, new horror rising in him. He'd thought he was beyond horror, now, but he can't help wondering how often Sean turns his teeth on the lower-ranked wolves in his pack for his zeta to qualify it as 'not often', and he sees himself far too easily in the male's place.

He would have killed, once, to be in a pack with wolves like Sean. He would have borne any kind of pain others thought he deserved if they would only accept him, only allow him into the pack. Now, trying to imagine Joly or Bossuet or Jehan or Feuilly attacking him, he feels bile rise in his throat. "Enjolras lets his wolves choose their mates where they will. I thought that was how most alphas functioned."

"Yes, but… a human. I mean… I know he's a wolf now, but he used to be human." The male allows another trickle of water to slide into Courfeyrac's mouth, shaking his head. "I don't know. I suppose that's to be expected, though. I don't understand what alphas do. I don't know how to respond to things like that. It's not my place. I'll just trust Bellamy to do what's best for us."

Anger surges through Grantaire as he takes in Courfeyrac's still form, damaged arm, and the terrible black band wrapped around his throat. "Your alpha is using silver against us. He put silver collars on us. He—"

"Because you've got an alpha who's a monster." The zeta's mouth opens in a long, low growl. "My alpha's doing what he has to in order to keep our pack safe."

Grantaire clamps his mouth shut. Any hope that might have been growing of getting more than water from this wolf fades. Water and conversation is a distinct improvement over Yves, though, so Grantaire once more ducks his head, submissive and apologetic.

And then Courfeyrac chokes, a terrible, gagging, half-wretching sound. Bellamy's wolf jumps back, dropping the cup, diving to the table with the lantern and grabbing the gloves.

Courfeyrac's eyes open, halfway, and he draws in a shuddery breath that comes out as a high-pitched whine of agony. He tries to lift his arms, a yowl coming from him as the ropes press even deeper grey-white marks into his right wrist.

"Courfeyrac!" Grantaire calls the name as loudly as he dares, trying to keep the zeta from panicking and summoning the rest of Bellamy's pack or doing something unthinkable with the gloves and the silver collar around Courfeyrac's neck. "It's all right. It's me. Your big fluffy omega. I'm right here. I know it hurts, the collar hurts so much, and your arm must be agony, but you need to calm down, you need to be still, you're going to hurt yourself more, I'm right here, please, talk with me, tell me you understand, don't do something foolish."

Don't shift, don't try to shift and choke on silver death, don't, please don't…

Courfeyrac's struggles slow, his eyes squeezing shut. Not fast enough, though, and even in the low lantern light Grantaire can see tears working their way down Courfeyrac's face. "Hurts. It hurts. My arm—my neck—my head—Combeferre— Enjolras… can't… it hurts—please talk more, please talk, Grantaire, don't leave me alone it hurts—"

"You're not alone. I'm here, I'm right here with you, I've been here the whole time and I won't leave you and you know that Enjolras and Combeferre won't leave you here, they'll find a way to get you back, so just be calm. It's going to be all right." Grantaire jerks his head around to fix Marius with a glare, heedless to the burning scratches the silver collar leaves on his neck. "You talk, too, tell him you're fine, tell him everything's going to be fine!"

"It will be fine, Courfeyrac." Marius' voice is far too calm, far too certain, and he smiles as he says the words. "We're going to get out of here. I promise."

Courfeyrac nods, then winces as the collar undoubtedly scrapes at his neck. His lips press tightly together, blood oozing from a split on the right side.

At least he's conscious now, though. At least he's awake and aware, not making terrible sounds or hanging limp in his bonds. Courfeyrac's eyes are still squeezed shut, but he's not crying anymore. Trying to dredge up something like the mad certainty that Marius has, Grantaire allows words to spill forth. "We'll get home, and Enjolras and Combeferre will fix up your arm, and you'll get to be coddled by them and the rest of the pack. Joly will help Combeferre, of course, and—" Grantaire bites back a joke about Joly worrying that Courfeyrac will lose the arm, the looks of the injured limb making it seem like far too real a possibility. How strong is Enjolras? How good are Joly and Combeferre at guiding his power? "Anyway, we'll be with the whole pack, a big warm pile of fur all around you, and it will be good. And you'll have an excuse to skip a few of your classes, a very good excuse to sleep as much as you'd like."

"Yes." Courfeyrac smiles, his eyes opening, and it's one of the most beautiful and most ghastly things Grantaire has ever seen, determination and trust shining through blood and pain. "We'll get home, and everything will be fine."

"We will have to get you some new clothes, I'm afraid." Grantaire strives to keep his own voice light and cheerful. "I don't believe wolf-torn and blood-stained is quite in fashion at the moment, though if anyone stands a chance of making it so I'm sure that it's you. Ah, the plight of the Pack, cursed with such easily-damaged garments in human form. Is it truly so difficult to design fabric and clothing that isn't so easy to tear? Perhaps we should set Combeferre on that problem. Creating a blood-proof, tear-proof fabric that is easy to shrug out of when changing…"

Grantaire continues to talk, watching Courfeyrac's expression drift between half-dreamy and pain-filled, and hopes that his words are doing some good.

XXX

Courfeyrac hurts.

His arm is a morass of agony, his skin feeling as though it's going to burst at any moment, his fingertips numb, his palm an itching inferno. His face feels almost fine by comparison, though he can tell by how difficult it is to keep his eyes open and how swollen his eyelids feel that he has two black eyes, and the tendency for blood to flood his mouth and the unfamiliar puffiness of his lips when he forces his tongue to touch them tells him that he's badly bruised there, as well.

The worst thing, though, is the collar around his neck and what it does to his magic. The collar brings pain with every light scratch that it leaves on his skin, draws blood with barely a brush, and it keeps him alone, separate, isolated.

He is not Enjolras. He is not alpha of the pack, responsible for holding all the pack-bonds, responsible for keeping them strong. He is not Combeferre, Enjolras' second, who has struggled repeatedly to teach himself to be what Enjolras is so easily, so that he will be prepared in the event that the unthinkable should happen to their alpha.

Courfeyrac had happily given Combeferre that responsibility after an afternoon's worth of fighting hadn't been able to determine a victor between the two of them. He could have left Enjolras and Combeferre's small proto-pack, accepting that he and Combeferre were simply too close in rank to coexist; he could have continued fighting, waiting for either he or Combeferre to tire enough that the other could get a clear advantage. Instead he chose to surrender, willingly taking the submissive role after ensuring that Combeferre and Enjolras understood and respected his decision.

His decision, not a role he was forced to take, but he's so glad that he took it, so glad that he has his pack. The three of them have collected the best wolves, and though Enjolras is the one always holding their pack-bonds and Combeferre is his second Courfeyrac is also often sending his mind along them. Touching their pack, reading a bit of their emotions, ensuring everyone is happy, safe.

It is a role he enjoys taking, something he can give to the pack, reading what he needs to in order to offer a friendly word or a teasing barb, whatever is best suited to easing tensions. It takes a weight from Combeferre and Enjolras, his doing that, allows him to give rein to his own alpha instincts while helping the pack. He does not need to be alpha to be content, despite what others have told him, does not need to command wolves to quell his alpha instincts. As long as he can be useful, he can be happy with his place. Though the times he loves most are when he finds everyone else content, finds that there is nothing he can do to help any of them, and he can just revel in the feelings of camaraderie and trust that they have fostered in their pack.

All he needs to be whole is to be a part of them, to feel them, but there is nothing to touch now.

There are no pack-bonds to hold to, no steady burn of Enjolras' power flowing into his body, no unpredictable intrusions of excitement or curiosity from Combeferre along their mate-bond, nothing, nothing, just him in his head, just him and it hurts

"Courfeyrac?" Grantaire's voice is half-panicked.

Jerking his head up, forcing his eyes open, Courfeyrac licks at his bleeding lips and tries to smile again for his lambda. "Sorry. Lost the thread of the conversation."

"It's all right." Some of the fear fades from Grantaire's voice. "Perhaps I need to be a better conversationalist. Do you need more water? They're giving us water, at least, if you're thirsty."

"Yes." Courfeyrac turns toward Bellamy's wolf, a very low-ranked male. "Please."

The wolf nods, hesitantly. Skittering forward, he grabs a cup from the floor and fills it with water from a pitcher on the table.

He's just holding the cup to Courfeyrac's lips when there's a terrible sound of snapping wood from behind them, and Bellamy's wolf drops the cup to the floor once more, leaping back with a wordless growl.

A growl that turns to a low whine of confusion, and Courfeyrac understands why as frantic attempts to breathe through his nose finally bring a whiff of scent to him.

Human.

Whoever just entered their prison, he's human.

He's a large human, a well-muscled male who looms over the uncertain wolf. The fact that he's old enough to have white hair and a well-lined face does nothing to detract from his obvious physical prowess. His clothes are good quality but slightly out of fashion, and he has his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His voice is a gruff, low rumble, full of both sorrow and fury as he looks between prisoners and captor. "What is this?"

Bellamy's wolf doesn't answer. He simply bolts, shock and surprise in his scent, and even though Courfeyrac knows he's going to fetch the rest of his pack, knows that they have to run, knows that he is in no shape to run, Courfeyrac feels a grin cracking his lips open again.

He doesn't know who this human is, but right now he's Courfeyrac's best friend.

XXX

Cosette waits just long enough to ensure that the lone wolf guarding Marius and his friends is truly running from her father before dashing across the street and into the building where he's being held captive.

The door swings open easily at a touch, the new lock that her father had ripped out of the decrepit wood of the door dangling disconsolately by one shiny nail. They had debated several ways of entering the building, but the wolves' tactic of locking one of their own people in the prison with their prisoners meant that subterfuge would leave them facing two instead of one guard. Eventually her father had asked the boy if he knew where a scrap of metal could be found, had placed her and Gavroche into hiding across the street, and had proceeded to wrench the lock off through sheer brute force in a show of strength Cosette finds vaguely familiar.

There's no time to worry at that thought, though. Plowing forward, into a room cast into shadows and darkness by a careful application of boards and blankets to the window and walls, she searches for Marius.

Her father already has him half-untied, and she throws herself into Marius' arms, trying not to gag as the scent of blood assaults her nostrils as his arms wrap around her chest.

"You're here." He murmurs the words into her neck, his fingers shaking as they stroke at her hair. "I thought you were coming, I thought it, but it made no sense, but it was true and now you're here and—"

Her father's hand on her arm is firm, wrenching her away from Marius' hold. She turns a glare on him, but his eyes are fixed on the other two prisoners, horror written plain on his face. "Finish untying Marius. I'll free the others."

She nods, dropping to a kneeling position, her fingers fumbling at the ropes binding Marius' legs to the chair. Her father begins working on the large man tied in the chair next to Marius, and a string of inventive curses tells her that Gavroche is already working on the last prisoner.

"The collars." Marius' voice is loud and determined. "Get the collars off them."

Gavroche's nimble fingers have the collar off his prisoner in moments, and Cosette can see the man's body wilt visibly, relief clear in his face. Her father also does as requested, and the large man lifts a hand to his neck, feels gingerly at the puffy, bloody, almost burned-looking skin there, and gives a half-hysterical laugh.

"We have to go." It's the man Gavroche is untying who speaks, a half-mad babble of words. "They'll be here soon, he'll have called them as soon as you scared him, we have to go, need to get closer to him, need to be able to—"

"We're going, Courfeyrac." The large man—Grantaire, by process of elimination—speaks, standing gingerly, holding himself up using the chair that he had been tied to. "Can you walk, Marius?"

"Not alone." Marius also levers himself upright, all of his weight held on his right leg.

Courfeyrac attempts to stand and falls sideways, only her father's quick grab and the boy's hands keeping him from collapsing entirely. "Have to go…"

"Come." Grantaire pulls Courfeyrac away from the other humans, his voice gentle. "If you will help Marius, monsieur, we should make our exit and talk somewhere more… congenial."

Her father comes and pulls Marius' left arm over his shoulder, supporting most of Marius' weight, and their small rescue party begins to make their retreat.

She and Gavroche have barely left the building when the unmistakable sound of a wolf's howl causes Cosette's blood to run cold, terror tasting sharp and sour in the back of her mouth.

XXX

They run, Grantaire leading the way, though he aches, a furious pounding in his head, agony at his throat, every breath raw, every beat of his heart seeming to spread the silver-burn throughout his body. At least the collar is gone, now, the burning seat of agony left behind on the floor of their prison. At least he can feel his magic recovering, slowly, can, if he pushes hard enough, feel Courfeyrac's half-conscious mixture of hope and fear.

"Home." Courfeyrac murmurs the word, leaning heavily against Grantaire, his breath a warm pant against Grantaire's neck. "Home to Enjolras home to Combeferre home home…"

"Home." Grantaire can hear the hunting wolf getting closer, and he knows the voice raised in furious anger. Where Sean is, Yves and Bellamy and the rest of the pack won't be far behind. "We're going to get you home."

They're moving too slowly, though, Courfeyrac and Marius' injuries keeping them from sprinting as they need to if they're to make the border before Bellamy's pack catches up to them again.

"Who are you?" Grantaire directs the question to the human who first entered the room, the large male, assuming, perhaps incorrectly, that he's also responsible for the female and the pup—child, human child, though the boy has the energy and bright eyes of any Pack pup.

"They're my friends." Marius says the words through clenched teeth, his face white with the pain of trying to walk—to run, to hurry—on his wounded leg.

Friends? Humans? Grantaire wants to ask so many questions, to demand answers, but he can't, not with the humans right there. Drawing a deep breath, then another, he tries to force his aching mind to sort through the scents. Why is the girl's scent familiar? Where has he—

On Marius. It's the scent that's toyed around Marius, a phantom scent, too faint to properly read, and Grantaire understands, abruptly, what Marius has done.

The impossible.

He's taken a human as his mate.

He's tied his magic to her, somehow—strong enough that she was able to track him? Strong enough that she was able to find them? Is that where Marius' mind has been all afternoon, why he said with such utter certainty that they would get away?

Another howl, hungry, half-rabid, sounds from far too near behind them.

They're so close to true escape. The border is perhaps a block away, and once they cross into Enjolras' territory they should be safe.

"Marius, would Cosette be able to help you walk?" Grantaire shifts his grasp on Courfeyrac, making a low, comforting sound in his throat when Courfeyrac protests with a whine.

"Yes." Marius' response is immediate.

"And you remember the way to our d—to Enjolras' house?"

Another howl, so close, so close, and they're not all going to make it.

They don't all need to make it, though.

Marius needs to get away. The humans came for him, and his life is forfeit by Pack law if Bellamy keeps control of him.

Courfeyrac needs to get away. His arm and his face and his head and his neck, so much of him damaged by Bellamy's wolves, his thoughts a muddled mess spilling from his lips, his emotions all coated in pain and disorientation, and he needs Enjolras. He needs the pack. He needs healing.

He needs to tell Enjolras what Bellamy did to them.

Whereas Grantaire, omega, helpless, useless, has a body that only seems to want alcohol, even now.

"Take him." He shoves Courfeyrac at the human male, not giving Courfeyrac warning or a chance to protest. With a grace that seems almost practiced, the boy and the human male catch Courfeyrac while Marius drops back to take the support that Cosette offers.

"No." Courfeyrac struggles weakly against the human male, who lifts him bodily to carry him as he staggers. Reaching one hand back over the human male's shoulder, Courfeyrac shakes his head. "No, Grantaire, he'll need you back too, have to have the whole p—"

"He'll come for me. He'll find a way to get me back." Grantaire forces a smile onto his face even as fear threatens to double him over in a heaving mess.

Sean will hurt him when he catches up.

Bellamy will put the collar back on him, assuming he doesn't decide to simply kill him.

But Courfeyrac will be safe. Enjolras will know what happened.

He can hear Marius urging them to run, to hurry, to continue on, and he hopes that the humans listen to Marius, because he can't bring himself to watch them go.

Turning to face the oncoming wolves, Grantaire allows his own lips to turn up in a furious snarl.

Bellamy will never again have a chance to touch a member of Grantaire's pack.

If it takes Grantaire's spilled blood—if it takes Grantaire's life—he'll see to that.