One must be pretty strange to write AUs for one's AU. But frankly, this is a look into my "writers board". A scene I had written for a previous draft of the story - a reconciliation for Combeferre and Helene after Helene is released from prison.

I did not take it for a number of reasons - mainly a few reactions feel a bit un-Combeferre-y to me. He would bitterly regret what happened here once morning comes (no, nothing NC17 rated, but you will see for yourself) - which I couldn't use in the end.. - and also I realized (this scene would have been on the evening of the 3rd of June) that I would need Combeferre in working order earlier already. This is why the scene got in the end discarded, but I thought maybe people are interested in reading it none the less.

It assumes that Combeferre and Helene did not find a way of dealing with each other over writing articles for le Globe - but it does assume that Helene will be replaced from prison.

As a side note one might also realize that no one seems to have died during the explosion in the Corinthe - at that point in time I was still wondering whether Bossuet or Grantaire should die in the Corinthe (both would have had their charms for the character development of others) and therefore I kept my options open...

Combeferre and Helene(AU): Before the storm

He had stopped counting after the third mug of heavy, provencal red.

Well, he knew that there had been more than these three, so maybe it was, for all intents and purposes, fair to say that he had stopped counting after the fourth.

Now, hours later, as the midnight bell from the Saint Michel tower had come and gone, he finally began to feel some sort of levity again, found – as Grantaire had pointed out hours, mugs, lifetimes ago – at the bottom of a bottle, and he was all but glad for it.

Two days…

Two days until the storm would hit.

At the bottom of the bottle, the words lost both terror and promise.

Slowly, warmth had begun to spread throughout his limbs, chasing away the ever present tension, if only for a while.

He would regret it in the morning; that he knew, but it had been a while since he had had a moment of peace and he would enjoy it and deal with the consequences later.

He closed his eyes, pretending to relish in the taste of the wine, full and rich and just dry enough to remind him of warm summer days in his parents' garden, back in Toulouse, so far away, when childhood cares had been all that had bothered him. A sweet memory of paradise lost.

But truth to be told, the taste had ceased to matter some time ago, as pleasant dizziness had taken over, blurring candles into a warm golden light that caressed the faces of his friends, that supported the languid, content feeling which gripped him effortlessly.

He was quiet, even in inebriation, watching with a mixture of fondness and satisfaction as Courfeyrac and Bossuet had taken it upon them to tease an equally drunk Joly about something that Combeferre did not fully follow. He did not listen so much to the words as to the subtexts of their bantering, the comforts of friendship and familiarity, fondness in smiles and brothers' love in tender jokes.

In the blur of the last week, he would have almost forgotten about it. How much beauty there was found in the face of man.

"See?" Grantaire, sitting at his side, was grinning broadly, taking another, deep sip and knocking back the liquid with years of experience. "Told you so."

He had, in fact, and so had Courfeyrac, equally adamant about the fact that he should stop moping and worrying and have a celebration with them – for whatever it was to celebrate. Enjolras, Éponine, the Sellers and Lamarin had stayed in the back room discussing, but Combeferre had found no mercy with them, even though he tried.

Enjolras, of all people, had told him to go down with the others, and so he had obeyed the command, his own star of guidance lost in the brawl of the previous days.

All was better now, and he nodded towards Grantaire, tipping his mug slightly in a mock salute and taking another sip.

"I admit nothing", he answered drily, glad, that his voice was still remarkably clear given the overall circumstances, and Grantaire grinned, downing the rest of his drink.

"Expected nothing else."

Combeferre leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, his limbs languid and relaxed, and enjoyed the pleasant reverie, only slightly broken by a very familiar sound that his hazed thoughts took a moment to categorize.

Only then, raising himself carefully again, he took a gaze to the opening door of the Café, whose telltale creak alerted him of the intrusion of more visitors into their companionable assembly.

Fire ran through his veins like a promise, when he realized it was her.

Hélène stepped into the warm, golden glow of the Café and heard, absent-mindedly only, that Pierre was closing the door behind him, the item giving of an offended squeaking at being handled thus, as if to remind her that what she was doing was neither appropriate nor advisable.

Pierre had told her so, and if he had been present, Olinde would have certainly concurred, but Hélène had listened to neither of them and insisted, until the xylographist had let her go, on the condition that he were allowed to accompany her, at least.

Since she had been released from La Force, they had been crowding around her, one of her faithful associates always in a present, making sure that she was never in want of a glass of water, a chair to sit, an article to review…

It was their way, Hélène thought, of showing how glad they were that she was back, for a little while at least.

As she was. Infintely.

And yet, she was immeasurably drawn towards this place, towards the Café that the Amis de l'ABC called home. The place, where they had forged dreams, and shared laughter and plans. The place where both Alexandre and she had been happy, marveling at the companionship of those, that believed in the same things they did.

In the golden glow of oil lamps and candles they had seen worlds reborn, had laughed and raged, and it was here, of all things, that she felt inclined to crawl to, now, in the deep of the night, when her specters were lurking in her parents' mansion, in that dark, silent room that was not hers any more.

The ghost of Alexandre and all that he had wished had seeped into the walls of the Café, and next to the print shop, this was where she felt closest to him.

It had nothing to do, of course, with the fact that chances were high that Combeferre was here, as well.

Hélène was fully aware of how inappropriate her behavior was. She was still wearing the black widows' garb, had shifted only the veil so that it was draped around her hair instead of her face, visible reminder of the fact that Alexandre's death was only so few days away.

She had no business being here, a young widow, still under suspicion of murder, among those students who were planning at a revolution, in the middle of the night, in this café, that was closed to business already but open to those, that were known and loved here.

Still, there was no place she would rather be. And two days before the end of the world, it did hardly matter.

Most of them were sitting at a table, close to the bar, and there was the sweet smell of wine lingering in the air, and laughter ringing in her ears and soothing the memory of cold, dark prison walls.

He sat among them, chair slightly pushed back from the table, long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles in a leisurely, relaxed posture which told her that the mug standing before him was probably not his first. His hair was slightly mussed from his habit of running his fingers through it in a nervous gesture, and he had leaned back, as if to survey the antics around the table from a greater distance.

He looked more relaxed than she had seen him in months.

His gaze fixed upon her immediately and infallibly, and for a moment, there was a world in his eyes and he smiled, openly, unreservedly, giving her so very warm a welcome that Hélène quickly understood, that he was in fact fairly drunk.

She would have almost flinched at this. This was a recipe for disaster.

And yet, she was Hélène de Cambout. She finished what he started.

As Pierre stepped towards the table, greeting those of the friends that he knew better, before settling next to Feuilly, who offered him a mug of the wine as well, Hélène squared her shoulders and stepped towards him, his gaze upon her like a warming glow of light, drawn like a moth to the flame; hoping with deep, infallible trust that he would, in the end, not burn her.

"Madame", he greeted her, his voice slightly thick with wine, and reached out an arm to draw up a chair for her in a strangely unguarded way, stretching like a cat as he did not get up but simply reached as far as he could get. He grabbed the back of the chair and scratched it over the floor until it stood at his side, twisted it around with one hand until it faced towards the table – almost toppling in the process, but he caught it just in time. An offering hand completed the odd gesture, that seemed so much out of character in its drunken, languid grace. "Please. Sit."

Hélène felt slightly unsettled at this – his eyes were still fixed on her and there was a gleam in them that confirmed her suspicion of him having had quite an impressive amount of wine. She declined getting a mug of her own from Grantaire – no need to enhance the still everpresent morning sickness with spirits – and nodded a greeting into the assembly before turning to Combeferre again.

"Good evening Monsieur."

He smiled at that again – slightly ruefully, though, but it was a grace in itself to see him smile unguardedly again. It had been so long since she last saw this, and it was a balm on long bleeding wounds.

"As you can see", he explained with a shrug, looking into his mug that was less than half-full, "my friends have seen it fit to engage me in a celebration… of an occasion that I cannot fully fathom, and I have felt myself unable to decline."

"So I see", Hélène answered with a responding smile. "I hope you are enjoying it."

"I am", he answered, sounding astonished at his admission, lifting his gaze again to look at her, a slight frown appearing on his forehead. "I… am."

She had to look away at the echoes of his smile, placing her hands into her lap carefully and resting her eyes on them, not wanting to meet his eye, but not wanting to look at his friends either.

The levity in this room was a labyrinth of pitfalls for her.

Silence settled for a moment, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see him turn back as well, his movements still carrying that slightly unconscious grace, beauté des esprits, as the poets called it, and never more true than in this man, who kept a tight control on himself from the moment he opened his eyes, but now found himself bested by the drinks he had had.

"How are you?"

The question was soft, and much more sober than his previous words, as his fingers fiddled uneasily with the mug. His eyes were firmly fixed before him, on something that only he could see, but Hélène knew that he was addressing her, like she knew the sun would go up in the morning.

"Well", she answered, partly truthfully. "Now I am well." She could not help some of the content seeping into her voice that this place brought to her, in contrast to the dark, silent house in Rue d'Olivel or the home of her parents' that had belonged to the child she once was and now was no more.

His eyes flickered to her quickly at that, a glimmer of intelligence in them – not quite as drunk yet, Hélène concluded – and then back to his previous, unintelligible point of interest.

"Why are you here, Madame?"

Hélène had no answer to that, barely to herself, and certainly not to him. But she had never lied to Combeferre. She had kept things from him, told fragments of truths, and never, never, except for that one enchanted evening, allowed herself to even think of the elusive spell that was so deviously hard to get rid of and that was torturing them both with its viciousness.

But never had she lied to him. And hence she answered truthfully.

"I don't know."

He had turned towards her again to watch her intently, grey eyes stormy with spirits and questions that she could not reply to. Her answer made him close his eyes and take a deep breath, his fingers around the mug tightening and releasing in an unconscious gesture, and he pressed his lips together.

Hélène had the faint feeling that she had angered him, and he seemed to confirm it, because, eyes still closed, he shook his head and placed his mug on the table with a distinctive clunk, fingers unsteady, now at last.

"This is madness", she heard him murmur, and he got up, on feet slightly shaken by the wine he had had, but the remnants of his languid grace still present. Whirling around – not even attempting at giving a regard to either her or his friends – he turned towards the door and stormed out, the creaking sound accusing once, then twice, and then he was gone.

"What was that about?" Bahorel asked in slight exasperation, before turning to the conversation he had had before, but when Hélène gazed back at the assembly around the table, she found Courfeyrac looking at her with a frown that spoke of displeasure.

"Don't you think that's quite enough, Madame?" he asked, almost under his breath, so that Hélène would hear it but it would mix and vanish in the overall murmurs of the room. She frowned, as if she could not believe that he was indeed speaking about this, voicing what she herself had vowed to never, never give form or speech. But there was so much of Alexandre in him. It was, what he would have done.

Courfeyrac, seeing the weakness of admittance in her eyes, continued on.

"Stop it, Madame. Whatever you plan to do. You're tearing him apart."

And myself with it, she would have almost thought, and felt tears threatening in her eyes at the mess her life had become, when first everything had seemed so clear.

Alexandre, bright, happy Alexandre, and a future with him, their dreams and courage seeping into the paper of his – of theirs, a marriage of true hearts and minds. And then the involvement with the Amis de l'ABC, and the utter confusion at her constant heart's wavering and shifting, the feeling of being torn and confused. Pushing through it with the courage of a soldier running into battle, steady in her vows and convictions.

She would have screamed at the skies to give her back Alexandre, give her back constancy and security, give her back what she had had, what she had dreamt, but she had done so, night by night, and god had not heard.

Alexandre was dead.

And her heart was still at war.

But Courfeyrac was right. She had hurt a friend who had been nothing but true and faithful to her, who had been constant, a pillar to lean on, a silver lining in the darkness of La Force.

A friend who loved her. She knew that.

As she loved him.

Things being as they were, she at least would have to take care of that heart he had pushed into her hands for safekeeping, for whatever reason he had done it.

And she was a bad guarding for so precious a burden.

Hélène made a decision and got up.

"I'm going after him", she said into Courfeyrac's slightly suspicious face, but he nodded and Hélène turned on her heel and left the Café, ignoring the curious looks on her back with practiced efficiency.

He had not come far. In fact, he was leaning to one of the pillars at the side of place Saint-Michel, his arms crossed before him as he stared up into the moon, tension returning into the stillness of his movements with the habit of long years.

Hélène approached him from the darkness of the gallery, her steps clear on the pavement, alerting him of her presence.

"Hélène…", her name whispered like a prayer, but he did not move an inch. He had closed his eyes – she could see as much in half profile – but his face was expressionless as he took a few deep breaths of night air.

"I'm here", she said softly, not sure if meant in reassurance of him, or just in confirmation. He seemed so far away at this moment.

Yet, he nodded, eyes still closed, head hung at the end of the movement as if strength had drained from him by it and left him utterly bereft.

"Why?" he asked again, the word pushed out between his lips as if going against resistance. How could she not have seen it? His body, every fiber, was radiating pain and reluctance, a war being fought in every muscle of this man, whom she had called her friend. He was always so calm and silent and reliable. His strength and constancy so easy to get lost in.

Hélène was done hiding.

"Because this is the only place I feel safe", she whispered, her heart jumping into her voice as it beat ferociously. It was so easy to say words of chaste affection. Except with him.

Because whatever it was, it was nothing chaste.

"A street in Saint Michel?" There was a hint of humor in that, but it was strained, forced, and Hélène recognized it for the desperate attempt that it was. His deep breaths, if nothing else, were telltale signs she could not ignore.

"No", she responded, still softly, and she wondered if he could hear her heart beat, loudly as it hammered against his chest in vigor. "With you."

He whirled around at that, a movement so sudden that it unsettled them both. She took an involuntary step back, while he had to brace himself on the pillar with one hand, his drunken mind not following his body willfully.

His grey eyes, in the moonlight, were a frightening thing to behold.

Spirits had chased away whatever barrier he usually set around himself, and his eyes allowed her a clear view on what lay beneath, and with a flash of intuition she realized, how accurate Courfeyrac's estimate had been, a split second before he lashed out at her.

"Don't do this to me!" His voice was not loud, but frighteningly intense and raw. "Please… I beg you to stop." He took a deep breath, but it failed to calm him as he shook his head. "I can't do this any more. This…" a helpless gesture between the two of them, trembling arm, limp fingers. He broke off suddenly, running the same hand through his hair, nervously, once, twice, in this infuriating, maddening, endearing gesture, but it seemed to do nothing to calm his nerves.

It seemed to soothe his anger, though. If it even was anger that was lashing out on her.

"I'm sorry, Hélène." His voice was softer, but curiously thick, and every instinct she possessed screamed to stop this, these raw, open words that he would so bitterly regret in the morning, she knew. "I'm so dreadfully sorry. I thought I could…", a helpless shrug, and again his fingers went up to his mussed strands, running through it in something close to desperation. "I thought I was stronger, I thought I…", and again he broke off, the weaver of words at loss for something to say, incoherent and inconsistent, but still, clear as daylight to her.

How much she had hurt him. How much they had hurt each other.

He closed his eyes briefly to brace himself against her response, but he was stronger than that and reopened them again, meeting her gaze with all the fortitude he had left. And Hélène could almost feel his frantic heart beating in time with hers. She had no idea what to do.

They were surrounded by specters and ghosts, Alexandre not the least of them.

"We are so miserable", she realized with a flash, shaking her head at the utter lunacy of it. The same instincts that screamed for Alexandre went out to him, traitorously and vicious, a surge so strong that she was threatened to be washed away in the tide.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, the minuscule imitation of a smile, of all things.

He shook his head softly.

"God, how I love you", he confessed, almost inaudibly. "And god, how I shouldn't…"

What did one say to words like these? Hélène stared up at him, awe, terror, love warring inside her heart as he looked at her, calmly awaiting her judgment.

His tortured gaze was gone now, as if putting words to the thoughts had finally brought him some measure of temporary peace again, but it had been at the cost of hers, and Hélène was lost.

Carefully, she raised a hand towards the side of his face, trembling only so slightly. He closed his eyes long before the contact, taking a deep, bracing breath in anticipation and for a quick instant, as she finally touched him, his features relaxed and he leaned into her as he released the breath he was holding.

For a moment, they just stood there as time passed by unnoticed.

Harrowing, this is, Hélène thought in awe.

But he found himself again, somewhere in the sea of their confusion, and he shook his head softly, raising his hand to grasp her arm, carefully, tenderly prying her hand away.

"Don't do something you will regret in the morning", he whispered, and only because she knew him well, she had an inkling of the price there would be to pay for the tender calm in his voice.

"It is rather too late for that for both of us", Hélène answered softly, and he actually smiled at that, so very ruefully as his gaze went to the floor and he shrugged slightly.

"You may be right in that…", he admitted, a trifle foolishly.

He turned away from her, leaning with his back to the pillar now, his gaze going over to the lightened windows of the café, as if wondering whether he should go back in there, but now it was Hélène, who would have this no more. Regrets be hanged, doubts be forgotten. She was Hélène de Cambout. She finished what she started.

"Times are changing, Jean", she said softly, and he flinched, a muscle twitching in his cheek at her use of this address. "The world is turning, and water is running down the Seine…"

She raised her fingers and smoothed out the strands he always mussed, tenderly, carefully, and he shivered and did not pull away.

"Look at me", she whispered softly, and after a moment's hesitation, he complied.

He was afraid, she realized with a flash when she looked at stormy, grey eyes that roamed over her face with infinite tenderness and care.

"Time will heal everything", she continued, and his eyes widened at that, "and we believe in nothing if not in a new dawn, you and I. Is that not so?" Her voice trembled slightly at the admission, at the utter lunacy of it, after all that happened, with all that was looming.

He shook his head softly, and the tremor that was going through him was strong enough to be visible.

"Don't say that, if you do not mean it. I would wait… you know I would wait, for whatever time it takes…" He was almost pleading now, beseeching, his eyes holding hers like a lifeline in the dark. "But false hope is…", but he did not finish the sentence, breaking off with a slight pitch in his voice as Hélène carefully placed both hands around his face, thumbs on his cheeks, guiding him closer to her tenderly, and he followed. Hélène, being unable to tell whether he was trembling or whether it was her own hands, that were somewhat less than steady, raised herself to her toes and kissed him, softly, carefully first, almost a question uttered, like a whisper.

Something that had held him back broke, and he uttered an indefinite sound that was not quite a sigh, not quite a breath, but in any way a release of sorts. Hélène found herself seized with surprising strength and agility and brought towards him, tall and lean and all nerves and love and disbelief, as he kissed her in earnest, his hands so careful on her back and in her hair.

He was breathing fire into her, a taste of love and wine and so inexplicably, overwhelmingly of him, and Hélène felt cherished and protected and for a moment, every thought and fear was chased away.

An eternity passed before he broke off, gathering her to him more closely still, calmer now as he rained kisses onto her closed eyes, into her hair, onto her cheeks, on the tip of her nose, worshipping and full of awe.

"Hélène… Hélène…", was all the whisper he could still seem to remember, while she was reduced to full speechlessness, swept away with the tide, now finally, and only when her head finally came to rest against his collarbone, the pounding of his heart mixing and mingling with her own, for a stolen moment in time, they knew peace.