A/N: The next instalment of this little canon thing is here! Thank you to Sarahbob and Chanty420 for their lovely reviews and to everyone who decided to follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much your support means to me!

Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

Waking Up

Combeferre sleeps for what feels like an eternity. It's the sleep of a fever patient he knows that much; a deep, apparently restful sleep that for the patient is pinpricked by moments of excruciating agony as his system desperately tries to ward off any and all signs of infection, drenching his whole body in sticky, icy sweat that makes him shiver at the slightest touch.

His whole body feels weak; pitifully weak and fragile as he curls up against the chill of the cloth that is continuously pressed against his frame in order to cool the heat; feebly trying to bat his friends' fretful touches away with little success.

Sometimes he manages to surface back into consciousness long enough to hear the soft hum of conversation floating on above him, feel the steadying, comforting weight of fingers clutched within his palm, the pressure of a nose pressed into his hair; before feeling content enough to lose himself deep within the darkness of Morpheus' spell; but those times are as fleeting as the lives of the butterflies and just as precious as the darkness nearly always manages to claim him back its' realm of senseless nothingness.

Dimly, in these hazy moments of semi-consciousness, he knows that he really shouldn't be angry with his friends; knows that they are trying to do their best for him given the circumstances; but he wishes they wouldn't worry. 'It's just a summer fever. It's nothing,' he tries to tell them every time he feels Joly reach for his forehead; but the words don't come. Instead they dance and die on a tongue thick and heavy with heat and fall back, barren and wasted into the darkness of oblivion and there is nothing he can do about it.

Sometimes the voices get joined by others or distorted by the slam of a door, the whistle of the humid, stagnant air rising up from the river, a bark of booming laughter which could either belong to Bahorel, Bossuet or Grantaire; he isn't sure which, but the hand is always there; the thick, tremulous pressure of the digits never leaving his own even for a moment as the word and its' conversations continue to work themselves around him.

'… Are you sure it's not contagious? I… I mean… It's not… It's not…' The rest of the sentence is lost in a well placed cough, but even in his fever muddled state Combeferre has picked up enough to know exactly what fears his landlord; a brusque, balding man in his late fifties with a face often stained red by drink is worried about. That his tenant has contracted the disease that he has been trying to battle against for what feels like a lifetime up at the Necker Infirmary and is spreading through the streets of their beloved Paris like wildfire; plunging its' invisible, inpregnatable fingers into every corner of every street, sweeping up the unsuspecting innocents in a haze of gasping, choking coughs ready to be thrown into the care of the Grim Reaper himself.

'It's not contagious and it's definitely not cholera. Enjolras has been with him night and day and the rest of us would have been showing symptoms by now if it were. Most likely it's stress and overwork made worse by the heat and bad water but…'

'How long is he going to be down here for Monsieur? You know that I hold certain sympathies with your beliefs but I have a reputation and a family to think of and if…If the authorities…'

He thinks he recognizes the voice of his landlord but loses the rest of the sentence as a thin, dexterous finger sweeps back a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and he feels himself being eased slowly up into the sitters' lap; a soft stream of light, tender bisous landing gently in his hair as he leans back into the touch. He feels his lips begin to form questions, words that to his muddled mind don't make sense but the nose is back in his hair again and the soft stream of gentle, nonsense words and epithets begins again.

Enjolras.

It's Enjolras' chest he's pressed up against, Enjolras' arms all but holding him upright as he slowly surfaces back into consciousness, all too aware of the pain in his chest that refuses to even think about abating. It's Enjolras' fingers which are slowly tracing comforting circles between his shoulder blades in an attempt to ease the sudden bout of unexpected coughing that crashes through him; gripping his lungs into an iron headlock until he has to fight to breathe; the pain in his chest sending sudden, unwanted shards of salty silver pricking painfully in the corners of his retinas.

As if sensing his pain, Enjolras slowly loosens his grip and yet again Combeferre feels the icy metallic coldness of a water glass being pressed against his lips. He sips greedily, relishing in the icy coolness slipping down his throat and yet all too soon the cup is being slowly moved away and replaced with another gentle, tender kiss swooping down his cheek; slowly asking him to wake fully as he senses the weight of another hand gently reaching across the bedspread to take his own.

Their hands stay there for a moment; the fingers that he thinks either belong to Joly or Courfeyrac; softly squeezing his own as he slowly pulls himself back into consciousness. It's an exhausting effort, one that makes his head spin as he finally is able to lean gratefully into Enjolras' chest; blind brown eyes blinking stupidly in the noontime light streaming through the window. The room is little more than flimsy shadows at first before his eyes can find the ability to focus again.

Someone has removed his spectacles. Someone has removed his spectacles and so the world is little more than a haze of fuzzy grey shapes looming out of an unknown, sun splashed backdrop. Where are they? Why are they not in his and Enjolras' own apartment?

'Good to have you back Mon Ami,' a voice somewhere to his left says quietly, a soft smile tugging at the end of each whispered word that still does not betray the exhaustion radiating from the speaker as he feels the cool, cold weight of a soaked cloth being laid across his forehead. His head aches. His whole body aches, a constant dull throb that seems to stem from his very bones, rising dully through the pit of his stomach as he shifts against Enjolras' grip; the question he has been longing to ask ever since he returned to the land of the living dancing perilously on his lips.

'How long?'

'Two days, close on three nights. We were worried for you Cher', Enjolras murmurs gently into his hair; azure orbs flicking up to meet Joly who, to Combeferre's blind brown orbs; is little more than a hazy shape of a man drifting in and out of focus.

'The worst passed this morning', Joly tells him quietly, the younger medic sinking onto the mattress with a breath of relief and reaching to take Combeferre's hands in his; a silent laugh that is marred with seriousness crinkling on his lips as he does so. 'Your landlord was worried for you when you thought it would be nice weather to take a dip in the Seine, so we brought you down here last night.'

Combeferre feels his cheeks heat up a little at that; the betraying blush burning bright against the still present flush of the fever and makes Joly chuckle as he squeezes his hand still tighter; reaching up to brush back a stray lock of hair out of his eyes; a soft, sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The guide has to suck in a reproach as he takes in the exhaustion tugging at every inch of Joly's features; the grey weariness tugging down at the corners of his lower lids, the pinched worry lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes as the medic scans his face for a brief moment; their eyes locking for a single second as Combeferre finds the strength to raise a sceptical eyebrow at his fellow medic.

'Tell me you actually got some sleep Joly. Please? I don't want you to run yourself ragged just for me… I'm… I'm not worth it…'

Joly smiles at the sense of hazy concern that must be dancing through the guide's eyes; a smile that does little to hide the sudden stream of salty silver pricking at the corners of his eyelids and reaches over to sweep a whispered kiss against his guide's still flushed cheek as Enjolras nuzzles his nose deep within the shock of sweaty chocolate curls. 'Of course you're worth it Mon Cher. You're worth every minute of this and I'm not going to take 'no' for an answer. We'll get you better, I promise.'

The sound of a door being slid softly shut combined with the swish of linen skirts and a murmur of voices that he thinks belongs to Courfeyrac and the landlord's wife breaks the silence. Courfeyrac's usual jovial tones are tight with concern as he hears the scrape of a chair being pulled across the floorboards and the weight of another calloused hand lightly taking his own; the familiar weight of known skin softly roving over his own trembling digits; silently squeezing some semblance of comfort into his touch.

'You need to eat 'Ferre,' the centre says after a moment of silence. 'I know… I know you're tired but this gracious lady', he gestures at the landlord's wife who has been watching this display of tender intimacy with a soft smile that still does not betray the worry tugging at her wide, grey eyes who smiles and nods, her tongue clucking in a gesture of sympathy which Combeferre is sure he does not deserve before slipping away; 'has brought up some broth for you to try. Could you do that for us Mon Ami?'

There's a sense of concern, a sense of genuine, heart breaking concern in his voice as Enjolras reaches over to take his hand and squeeze it gently, silently asking him to comply with their wishes and Combeferre nods slowly, silently; knowing that if he tries to speak, tries to articulate the tumult of thoughts tumbling through his brain into coherent words, he will most likely go to pieces. Instead, he nods quietly and allows Enjolras to help him into a more comfortable sitting position as Courfeyrac settles himself on the side of the bed; the mattress groaning audibly at yet another weight and slides the tray onto his guide's knees. Combeferre eats slowly; the spoon shivering slightly through fingers still thick with the remains of fever, his eyes threatening to slip shut all the while as Enjolras keeps a tight hold on his other hand; azure orbs which are still wide with concern darting every so often to Joly who nods silently; quietly asking him to give Combeferre the space he needs and the guide's heart swells with gratitude for it.

Joly hovers on the other side of the bed; his dark eyes which are flecked with a lighter gold than Courfeyrac's wide with tender, emotive concern as he watches his beloved guides' every move, hands itching, Combeferre knows, to make a grab at the spoon should it slip from his grip or catch the bowl if it falls; his whole body ready, expectant, waiting to do something, anything to help.

He manages to get through about half the bowl before his stomach lurches and he has to shake his head at the rest of it; feeling the age old sensation of nausea which he thought he had forgotten rising with painful speed up his throat. On his side of the bed Enjolras notices this and stiffens, his hand moving up to grip the guide's shoulder, eyes flicking in concern to Joly, who nods.

'It's enough. Truly. You haven't eaten much for the past three days so it's bound to feel strange.' Combeferre nods in silent understanding; wishing that the knots in his stomach would abate, forcing his fellow a medic a small, tight smile because he's sure that if he even thinks about talking, he will throw up and that is more than his body can cope with at the present moment.

Courfeyrac is the one who notices the discomfort etched across his face and throws a concerned look at Joly who has moved across the bed to gather up the tray.

'Stomach hurts?' The younger medic asks quietly and Combeferre nods; managing to swallow down the lump that has been blocking his throat for far too long, but still unable to speak for fear of vomiting.

Joly nods; dark eyes brimming with concern as he reaches over to grip the hand still held fast in Enjolras' marble hold; motioning for Courfeyrac to bring over an empty bowl sitting on the small dressing table that Combeferre has not noticed until now. The fine Delft porcelain with its' swirling frieze of doves and climbing vines, Greek temples and barefoot dancing nymphs and shepherds feels icy to his touch, his fingers shivering and slipping with sweat as finally his stomach lets go and he is allowed to vomit; his whole body trembling with the contractions and releases of his traitorous stomach.

'It will get better soon Mon Cher', Joly murmurs; sinking back onto the mattress and lying a hand on the guide's shoulder; sharing a silent, meaningful look with Enjolras as he does so.

'Will it?' Combeferre mutters dryly, inwardly cursing his stomach again as it contracts yet again, the words thick with sleep and vomit as he reaches up a shaking hand to wipe away the residue with the back of his sleeve and is met with the wet corner of a handkerchief softly wiping away the rest of the grime.

'It will', Enjolras echoes from his perch at his back. 'It's got to.' He pauses there and buries his nose into the pit of skin falling from the guide's neck onto his collarbone, so that his next words sound strangely muffled. 'And… And even if it doesn't Mon Ami, we will be with you. All of us. You don't have to go through this alone Combeferre. I promise.' Combeferre feels his lips quirk upwards a little at that; remembering how many times he has repeated those exact words to Enjolras when times seemed dark and their path to leading their beloved Patria out of the dark Bourgeious tyranny and into their promised land of peaceful freedom seemed impossibly dark and full of terrors.

From his perch, Courfeyrac nods in silent approval and reaches over to squeeze the guide's shoulder as Combeferre leans back into the warmth of Enjolras' chest and for the first time since waking up that morning; is able to feel complete.

A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x