Chapter Seven: Of the King and Unsuspected Visitors

Combeferre's nose scrunched as they entered the small refuge. "This isn't…"

"It's temporary," Bouvet assured him stiffly.

"Even temporary it could kill them. Look at the filth."

"You accuse me, then?" the National Guard asked, an unusual look glittering in his dark eyes. "After all I've done?"

Courfeyrac could not keep his silence. "All you've done?" he hissed. "It was you people who did this! Certainly after 'all you've done'!"

"No one asked you to go get yourselves killed!"

The two students' eyes narrowed. Bouvet's soft point, apparently, was just that. They had not managed to get that particular reaction from the icy man yet.

He continued. "No one ask you people to play savior. The people never asked for it, you forced it on them. Is that what you think they wanted? Do you think they wanted their sons and daughters to die for that far-off thing we've dubbed 'freedom'? Do you even think there is such a thing?"

"There is," came the weak voice from the bed and everyone turned to see Enjolras, blue eyes opened a bit and face turned towards them. There was no mistaking the expression on his face. He had not lost his will to speak for those he knew in his heart would wish him to speak for them. "There is a thing called Freedom. We've won it. We'll continue to fight for it if we must."

"And you'll die," Bouvet snapped.

"Sir!"

"What?"

The younger man that had called to him looked taken back by the sound of his voice. Apparently this outburst was unusual for his own men to hear as it was for the students. "I… A messenger, sir. He said… He said that Monsieur Enjolras should be ready for his audience by… day after tomorrow."

Even Bouvet looked surprised at this.

"Are they mad?" Combeferre demanded. "He's too badly wounded to-"

"The king, apparently, will have it no other way," the young man said apologetically. He looked far too innocent to be a part of the National Guard. Was he even of age? "If Monsieur does not go then Monsieur will get no other chance."

"I'll be there," Enjolras said clearly, surprising everyone with the strength he'd manage to put behind his voice. He was propping himself up, apparently trying to sit now. He waved Combeferre off without lifting a hand. His eyes said it all. 'Don't do this, my friend. I have to follow through. I knew it would come.' "Tell the messenger to assure his king that I will be there."

The boy nodded and dashed off without even waiting to be dismissed.

"That was a foolish thing," Bouvet growled, agitation obviously not having worn off. "Do you want to die?"

"It's not that I want to die," Enjolras answered him quietly. "It's that I want them to have the chance to live. Combeferre, I will take some help getting to my feet."

"I must object to-"

"You wish me to lie around and test out what strength I have the day I'm supposed to arrive?" Enjolras asked with a raised eyebrow.

Combeferre sighed and reached a hand to him, pulling him very slowly to his feet and bracing him once he reached them. He draped one of his friend's arms around his own shoulders – his glare told Enjolras that he was lucky he was allowing this little help and was not ordering him straight back to his bed – and moved towards the door.

Bouvet stood with his head slightly cocked to the right, those dark depths looking more intense than ever. There was a man, he thought. He wasn't sure how, but he knew there was.

"You hurt him," Courfeyrac said menacingly behind him, taking him from his thoughts, "and I'll kill you."

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Enjolras had made it as far as the main room before Combeferre refused to let him go any further. He warned him in the sternest voice he could muster that he'd drop him straight on the floor and let him tend to himself if the revolutionary leader would not sit for a moment at least. The blond nodded and sank gratefully to a rickety chair.

"This entire place is in shambles," Joly said quietly by the fireplace where he and Feuilly were trying to coax the logs to light. "I thought the café was bad until we came here. Bouvet says it's safe?"

"Bouvet says a lot," Combeferre grumbled.

"We'll see where his loyalties lie soon enough," Enjolras murmured thoughtfully. He looked up, eyes more awake looking than they had been since they'd come back from their trip to see Marius, and noticed everyone staring at him questioningly. He smiled slightly and motioned to Combeferre. "It's after dark now, isn't it? What do you say to stepping outside?"

"Outside?" Combeferre sputtered. "Outside?"

"That place beyond the door," the blond muttered sarcastically.

"I know what it is, Enjolras, I-"

"If you would not like to come, feel free to stay." He stood, albeit shaky, and started for the door.

Combeferre let out a frustrated snort and leapt to his own feet. He noticed Joly giving him a sympathetic glance. Well at least they'd gotten Grantaire to stay down… It was only a matter of time before he found out that Enjolras' meeting with the king was only two days away and then there'd be hell to pay.

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The stars were shining brightly outside; he could see that much from his bed. Javert shifted and all but rolled out, hissing in quiet pain. He'd heard voices, he now realized, and that was what had woken him. Not that he'd been sleeping all that soundly.

The former inspector made his way slowly through the darkness, toward the voices and then stopped dead. The man speaking with Valjean was tall, broad, and imposing. His grey hair was slicked back perfectly and the only part of him that seemed to be even the slightest bit askew was his coat, which was unbuttoned for the top three buttons.

Valjean's eyes, which had been focused on the man before him, now drifted to the entrance to the room. "Good evening, Inspector," he said politely.

Javert felt like a little boy caught stealing an apple. If he hadn't had years of experience and practice with the subduing of emotion rushing across his face he was sure he would have looked sheepish. The man turned and the inspector saw the lines that seemed much deeper than the last time they'd met.

"Javert," the man gasped, ever ounce of strain seeming to roll off of his broad shoulders and he crossed the space between them and clasped one large hand on the smaller man's uninjured shoulder. "How you've worried Bridget!"

"I'm terribly sorry," Javert murmured. "I hadn't expected to stop here. I would have been by when it was-"

"Someone saw you, you dolt," the man said gruffly. "If you're going to fake your own death, do it right."

Javert couldn't help but smile slightly at this, but it faded before it got much past simply turning the corners up. "I suppose you two have met," he said stiffly, motioning between the newcomer and Valjean.

"It would seem that you have family 'in a way,' Javert?" Valjean asked with a knowing look in his twinkling eyes. "Yes, we've been well met now. The man that raised you, isn't he? Former Prefect of Police Oliver DeLancy."

Javert frowned at the knowledge, his tired mind working to figure out if Valjean had known it before DeLancy had come, or if DeLancy himself had told. It didn't matter, he decided at last. The fact was that he knew a bit of his history and that disturbed the smaller man greatly.

"Might I ask," DeLancy drawled, his keen eyes focused on Javert, "why you might have found it necessary to fake your own death?"

How does one tell the man that raised you that you were most certainly not trying to fake your own death, you simply botched the job of really doing it? Not easily, or perhaps not at all. "I had reasons."

"You have reasons for all you do, that I know."

Valjean watched the two men and almost smiled. When DeLancy had come to his door the man had an air about him that he knew himself to be intimidating. The ex con had welcomed him into his home with a smile and a small bow. He'd barely begun his story when Javert had come into the room. Only that'd he'd heard on the streets that Inspector Javert had 'died' on Thursday, July 5 and had been seen only briefly, frightening people with his near-ghost appearance. Valjean couldn't help chuckling at that.

"Bridget's been in hysterics since midday Friday," DeLancy continued. "My wife," he murmured the explanation for Valjean's benefit.

"I'll be around there to see her when I'm allowed out," Javert growled, glaring irritably at Valjean. "I seem to have been made a hostage."

"Twice in five days time is a feat even for you," Valjean responded. "Though I do not hold you here as a hostage."

"Then I'll leave."

"If you go with Monsieur DeLancy, I have no quarrel with it."

Javert closed his eyes, forcing a deep, supposedly calming breath. He would not stay here another moment if he had the chance, but he also did not want to return to his adoptive family's home. Wouldn't the best choice to be to simply walk out? And to what end?

"Javert?"

Javert's blue eyes flickered upward towards DeLancy, then towards Valjean. "I'll do what you want, whichever that maybe" he grunted. "If for the reason that I am still in your debt and I refuse to live that way."

Valjean's lips turned into a slight frown. "I never-" The glare shut him up.

"Some tea then?" DeLancy asked, breaking the silence.

Valjean nodded and ushered the other men to the living room. As he moved to the kitchen, he realized just what an odd situation this truly was and how little he knew of it. He would find out, he was sure. With that thought in mind, he continued on into the other room.

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"I didn't think we'd do it."

Combeferre looked over sleepily. He'd coaxed Enjolras to take a seat on the rickety porch outside the house, and he'd promptly realized how tired he himself was. He'd spent the last three days focusing on his patients with little thought for himself. Who could with Enjolras in his care? "Didn't think we'd do what?" he asked around a yawn.

"Win."

"So you went into it wanting to die?" Combeferre asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No… Just ready, if need be."

"And what good would that have done? You're much better to help them while alive."

"Others would have risen."

"Now they don't need to. No more blood needs to be shed."

"Have you heard… how it is out there?" Enjolras eyes were gazing off towards Paris.

"In Paris? Uproar. That's why the king wishes to speak to you now, I'd suspect."

"I didn't hope for any more time, to be honest. I thought he'd want to speak the day after it happened."

"You were unconscious."

"It would have made for a very dull conversation," the blond said with a small smile.

Combeferre rolled his eyes and plucked his glasses from his nose, attempting to clean them with his soiled shirt. "You, my friend, have lost part of your mind in all this. I certainly don't remembering you being so obsessive when we were younger. What changed it?"

"You make it sound terrible."

"I agree, obviously. I was there with you."

A smile perked Enjolras' lips. "Yes you were." He tilted his head so it rested on the post next to him. "What changed it?" he echoed. "Coming to Paris. Seeing the people. I couldn't imagine doing anything but helping them… It was the only way I knew how."

Combeferre nodded. "I take it back," he said quietly. "You were always a bit like this. I remember that one summer that you threw a fit because your father struck the maid."

"She didn't deserve it," Enjolras answered quickly.

"Oh I know. And your father probably did too, but I saw the anger in your eyes that day."

"We were young, weren't we?"

"We were."

"And innocent." Enjolras looked at his old friend with sad eyes. "We did what was right, didn't we, Combeferre?"

The young medical student blinked, the question waking him up more than a bucket of water would have. Was Enjolras, the man who was sure of everything, asking if they were right in what they did? If he didn't know, then who would? Enjolras was their center, their stability through it all. They would never have come this far -would they have even started? - without him. How could he say such a thing? And if he didn't know...

"Combeferre?"

"I hope so," was all the shorter man could say.

Enjolras nodded and leaned against the railing again, his blue eyes gazing longingly toward Paris. If Combeferre hadn't known better, he would have thought that he saw tears gathering in his friend's eyes.

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A/N: There's an artist I like on (go look at cillabub's work!) and not only does she do wonderful Les Amis artwork, but also French Revolution in general. To be honest, the French Revolution is something I've never stuck my nose into very much, but that's about to change. Aww… I love the library being within walking distance. They had to give me a bag b/c I couldn't fit all my Saint-Just and Robespierre books into my book bag. Very sad. Aw well, but I'll be quite entertained for a bit. If anyone knows of some good French Revolution lit., let me know.

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Melissa Brandybuck: Everything will be alright… by the end. It'll get worse before that though, don't worry!

Tay-kun: Haha, no offense taken. I like Bouvet. He's not as sympathetic as you might think… not that I'm saying anything. That'd spoil everything. Oh, and by the way, your profile is awesome. Just thought I'd let you know.

Precious Angel: I hope this was quick enough. I've been debating on whether or not I liked the whole Javert snippet, but I couldn't think of any other way to do it within a reasonable amount of time, so there it is… That's very true. I'm pretty set on my writing degree by now, I just have to go through changing it and possibly go pre-law and hope to get out of here in four years for undergrad. Lol! Glad you like it so far!