Sometimes I worry about my penchant for wandering into extended narratives, but then I remember that in the case of Les Miserables, the source material spent several chapters explaining the daily schedule of a bunch of nuns.

As the night dragged on, the emergency room began to draw more of a crowd – and though Joly tended to snap out of his hypochondria when there was a genuine crisis at hand, he was clearly not comfortable being around that many people with various elements. Marius could understand sudden bouts of illness, but he'd never quite grasped why something someone had been ignoring for days suddenly became an emergency at two am.

Around the time Joly started attempting to breathe with the aid of his shirt as a mask, Marius – who was decidedly unaccustomed to taking charge – decided they should probably move to the hospital lobby, which was nearly the surgical suites. As long as the staff knew where to find them with news, it probably didn't matter where they sat. Besides, the change of scenery might do Enjolras some good. He'd been sitting motionless for the last hour, his elbows on his thighs, staring desolately at the floor.

When Cosette had explained the situation to her father, Valjean had driven her to the hospital. He'd made polite inquires and chatted briefly with Marius before Cosette was able to coax him into going home and getting some sleep. It had been strange; the circumstances had taken all the awkwardness out of meeting Cosette's father. Marius' attention had been pulled in too many directions to worry about that. He'd apparently passed inspection, though, because Valjean had kissed Cosette on the forehead, told her to be careful, and departed with a look that warned Marius of the consequences of not taking proper care of his daughter. Valjean was known to be quite protective of Cosette, so he wouldn't leave her with just anybody. It gave Marius a small emotional boost; he supposed that was part of why he was coping as well as he was. Enjolras crumbled only rarely, and when he did, Les Amis typically turned to Combeferre. But he was in Paris and Joly had devoted himself to keeping watch over Enjolras. So command fell to Marius and that was more than a little awkward. Marius had leadership in him, he knew, but he preferred to leave it to those who wanted it.

It was rumored that the French revolutionaries Enjolras so passionately admired had been able to build a serviceable barricade in ten minutes flat. Les Amis were always fascinated by this and had attempted to construct their own barricade last Bastille Day. Unfortunately, even Courfeyrac's puppy-dog eyes had not been able to convince anyone to throw furniture out their windows at a group of college kids on a quest, and so they'd been left with only a small pile of chairs in the Musain. It had been fun, though, and they'd huddled behind it, drinking and laughing and generally just enjoying life. Marius missed those times. Even Enjolras' stoicism had faded as he grinned at his friends and put a small French flag atop the uppermost chair. That side of Enjolras was light years away now, and Marius squeezed Enjolras' arm in support as they moved to the hospital lobby. He wanted that Enjolras back, but he knew it wasn't going to happen until Grantaire was on the mend.

"Merci," Joly murmured to Marius as they got settled in their new location. He looked enormously relieved as he sat down next to Enjolras. Marius sat down on the other side, making sure Enjolras had someone there no matter which way he turned.

"Of course." Marius smiled, wrapping an arm around Cosette as she snuggled up to him on the far more comfortable couch in the lobby. Sandwiched between Enjolras and Cosette, Marius finally began to feel the gravity of the situation sinking down on him. Grantaire always bounced back, no matter what life threw at him. But this wasn't going to be as easy. This wasn't a bar fight or a broken heart. Alcohol and sarcasm couldn't make it go away. It couldn't be projected onto a canvas. But Grantaire would at least have his friends on hand to help. It seemed that was all they could do and as helpless as that made Marius feel, he knew it was important.

There was a Starbucks at the far end of the lobby that was open twenty-four hours. Cosette got up after and brought them some, which Marius accepted gratefully. He offered it to Enjolras – who was most decidedly not a fan of the chain – with a teasing grin. Enjolras sighed and took the coffee absentmindedly, sipping at it. Joly nearly did a double take and grabbed his phone, quickly texting someone. Marius leaned against Cosette, trying not to stare at the clock. Romantics said it was always darkest before the dawn. Marius didn't care about that, so long as they got a dawn. It couldn't come soon enough.

Her job at the Cafe Musain had been easy to get, given that Eponine and her friends spent so much time there. After awhile, she'd figured that if she was going to hang out there, she might as well get paid for it, and the owner had been happy to offer her a position when she asked. It worked out well. The Musain was a fun place to work, with its primary clientele being bohemian artists and ambitious students. And it let her keep an eye on her boys. They got carried away with themselves sometimes, so it was often left to Eponine to be the voice of reason. She didn't mind. Les Amis had been very good to her and Gavroche, helping them to keep warm and fed when things got really tough. Their study sessions had helped her graduate high school, and more than one of the boys had offered to help her with college tuition. She always politely declined, saying she preferred to be a student of the world. And, really, she did, but she also could only accept so much charity before her independent streak rebelled.

Eponine had been in the back room, doing inventory, when she caught Combeferre's voice in snatches. He was standing near the door, where reception was best. (The Musain had great Wi-Fi, but the old building's cell phone signal left something to be desired.) The vent above the door happened to carry sound to the stock room pretty well, and Eponine paused at the note of concern in Combeferre's muffled voice. She hurried to finish what she was doing and moved back out into the main cafe. As soon as she saw her friends, she knew something was seriously wrong.

Combeferre was tapping his fingers on the table, a nervous habit of his as he looked deep in thought. Jehan was glued to Courfeyrac's side, a daisy about to tumble out of his hair and to the floor, but he didn't seem to notice. Courfeyrac had one arm around Jehan, but had wriggled his hand free to hold his phone and he was texting furiously, his brow creased in worry. The other Amis had left already, either to class or wherever they spent their mornings.

Eponine's pocket vibrated and she grabbed her phone before she approached the trio, hoping for a few answers. Courfeyrac's text was surprisingly brief; he didn't usually spare words.

Courfeyrac: Clear your schedules. Emergency meeting. This is not a drill.

That settled it. Eponine strode over to the table Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Combeferre were occupying and claimed the empty chair. "Quoi de neuf?"

"'Taire's in trouble." Jehan toyed with the end of his ponytail, which only further threatened to dislodge the daisy. Sometimes Eponine thought he was too pretty to be real – he was gorgeous, with flowing hair he kept immaculately maintained and a beautiful face to match. Eponine had never gone for him romantically, but his beauty and Courfeyrac's sheer adorableness were a perfect match. They were never harassed much, either. Even in less-than-open-minded communities, people tended to assume Jehan was a woman, based on first glance – his attractiveness, the flowers, his taste for bright colors. But Eponine had seen most of the boys naked at one point or another – nothing sexual, but they considered her so much one of the guys that they gave little thought to changing clothing in her presence – and she could assure anyone who had concerns that Jehan was, indeed, very much a man. He just didn't care what society thought and Eponine admired that. People who wrote him off without giving him a chance didn't deserve to know that sweet, caring soul anyway.

Eponine's instinctive response was to laugh, though it came out as more of a snort. "When isn't he in trouble?" She knew they would worry about her if she didn't make some kind of wisecrack, but she knew from their faces that this was serious.

"He was stabbed," Combeferre said quietly. "No idea why. Enjolras said he's in surgery now."

"Méré de dieu." Eponine wasn't exactly religious, but her gasp wasn't exactly a prayer either. "Enjolras must be beside himself."

"He is, even if he won't admit it," Combeferre confirmed. "It's been a long time since I've heard him this upset. He's starting to withdraw." Combeferre and Enjolras had grown up in the same neighborhood; they'd been friends most of their lives. Combeferre knew Enjolras better, at times, than Enjolras did himself.

"What about Joly and Marius?" Eponine asked.

"From what I could gather, they're keeping it together," Combeferre replied. "Cosette came down to the hospital." He didn't bother to shoot an apologetic look at Eponine, which spoke volumes about his state of mind, even though it wasn't really necessary. Eponine knew Marius was blind to her love; she'd accepted that long ago. Though it stung, she wasn't going to begrudge him finding happiness.

Courfeyrac made a low noise when his phone beeped. "Sacrebleu, this keeps getting worse. Cosette brought Starbucks."

Eponine laughed. Cosette wouldn't have known of her faux pas, but it was amusing to picture. "And what did she think of Enjorlas' treatise on mindless consumerism and corporate greed?"

"That's just it." Courfeyrac shook his head.

"He didn't notice?" Combeferre asked, looking worried.

"Worse." Courfeyrac was seriously perturbed. "He drank it."

"Oh, boy." Eponine sighed. Individually, the guys all had differing views on the Starbucks issue. Enjolras was the only one who took the firm "friends don't let friends drink Starbucks" route. Most of them didn't have an opinion one way or the other, or at least pointed out that Starbucks did use fair trade products. Jehan was somewhat addicted to their white chocolate mocha. Combeferre just made a point to visit local cafes – which, in Eponine's experience, usually had better coffee anyway. Grantaire, meanwhile, would go out of his way to find a Starbucks for the express purpose of winding Enjolras up. Eventually, Enjolras learned not to take the bait, but he still threw out a token protest or two. Memories of their banter made Eponine smile.

"I'm just saying, when one reaches the point where they can leave Starbucks and walk across the street and into another Starbucks, capitalism has gone too far."

Grantaire laughed, taking an extremely purposeful sip of his coffee. "Maybe it was designed for lazy people."

Enjolras scoffed. "As if that's a trait that should be encouraged."

"Hey, don't laugh." Grantaire shrugged. "The ancient Greeks' gods lived on top of a mountain in their country and yet all of them were too lazy to climb it and check to see if anyone was home."

Grantaire. It was just beginning to sink in for Eponine. He'd been stabbed. Why? He was an artist, not a street fighter. Grantaire and Eponine had bonded through their unofficial lonely hearts club, and though Grantaire eventually got his man, he was always there to lend a sympathetic ear. To watch artsy movies, drink whatever they could find, and blast music written by people who had horrible relationships with their families. He was her buddy, and though he didn't possess any notably effeminate characteristics, he was the closest thing she had to a traditional girl friend. Jehan was the go-to guy for waxing poetic about love; Grantaire was there when love bit you in the ass. And yet he loved truly, deeply, and freely – just not indiscriminately. He was not one of those who were in love with the very idea of love. He didn't fall in love with ideas. He was a genuine nihilist, with one fixation: a blond-haired law student who, as Grantaire had described him, "looked like he'd fallen from Olympus itself." Eponine's heart clenched. Grantaire had his problems; they all did. But he was kind and he didn't deserve something like this. Had it been, say, Montparnasse, Eponine wouldn't have shed a tear; she was tempted to stab him herself sometimes. But, Grantaire...she couldn't wrap her head around it. "What do we know?"

"The good or the bad?" Combeferre asked.

"Whatever you have." Eponine was not quite so cynical about life as Grantaire, but she definitely considered herself a realist.

"The evidence suggests he was found fairly quickly," Combeferre said. "Enjolras met a poor woman on the streets who said she knew the attacker – no one Grantaire knew, it seems. There was apparently a dispute over a woman named Tina. I have no idea what that was all about and neither does Enjolras."

"Tina, cherie, such a shame...atrocities committed in your name," Jehan murmured. Eponine would have been annoyed, but she knew he wasn't trying to be dramatic. Jehan's brain actually worked that way.

"Tina? That doesn't even make sense." Eponine shook her head. "Even if R wasn't gay, he's not going to get into a fight with a stranger over some girl."

"That's what I thought." Combeferre sighed. "That may not even be it. As we all know, a disproportionate number of the mentally ill fall through the cracks and spend their lives on the streets. This woman could be one of them or she might simply be mistaken. Or R might have even been mistaken for someone else. We can't jump to conclusions."

Eponine crossed her arms over her chest. "Dépêchez-vous." Combeferre tended to over-think everything.

Combeferre nodded quickly, catching Eponine's unspoken threat to throttle him if he didn't get to the point. "He lost a lot of blood. A lot. Collapsed lung. I think Enjolras said something about a concussion, but that's less concerning."

"So you're the medical school dropout." Technically, Combeferre had given up medicine to pursue philosophy, his true love, but if Eponine didn't keep her famous rough edge, she might give in to the anxiety that threatened to crush her. "Is he going to be all right or not?"

"I can't say." Combeferre definitely looked at a loss, especially as Courfeyrac and Jehan looked to him for the answer as well. "There are so many variables."

"Ah, bon," Courfeyrac sighed. He glanced at his phone again. "I'm working on getting us there. I can't promise it'll be all of us at the same time. You and Gavroche, are your passports still current?"

Eponine nodded. The guys had insisted Eponine get travel papers for herself and her brother, "just in case." Eponine had thought it pointless, but allowed them to help her through the process – and, hey, it couldn't hurt. And then they'd surprised her with a trip to London for her eighteenth birthday. She began to put the pieces together. "Courf, it's a lovely thought, but Gavroche has school and I have work. You boys go. They'll need you more anyway."

Courfeyrac frowned. "Your brother learns more on the street in a day than he does in a week at school."

Eponine couldn't really argue that point, and a friend in need certainly trumped perfect attendance – which was a joke where Gavroche was concerned anyhow. "All right, then. Take him with you. I'll sign off on it. But I've still got to work. How long are you going to be gone?"

"Probably only a week, alas," Courfeyrac said. "I'd love to stay until 'Taire's completely recovered, but some of these gentlemen's professors are very touchy – and interestingly enough, the more lofty their subject, the less willing they seem to listen to the 'higher cause' argument."

Jehan smiled. "Perhaps they think themselves so far above us that they are the highest cause imaginable."

Combeferre smirked. "It wouldn't surprise me. I've had my fair share of lessons from men who thought they were the reincarnation of Socrates. A few women, too, for that matter. If I ever get like that, just hold my head under water until I stop struggling."

Courfeyrac nodded, as if that had been an everyday request. "Deal." He consulted his phone again. "I can't promise I'll get us all there at the same time, but I can get us there."

Eponine asked the question that everyone always wondered about but no one actually gave voice to. She wasn't known for her subtlety. "How is this getting paid for?" Everyone knew Marius' family was rich, though he had shunned their upper-crust lifestyle. Rumors abounded that Courfeyrac's family might have been even wealthier, but no one had been able to confirm it, even with the most intensive of Internet searches. No one knew anything about Courfeyrac's family, not even Jehan. But his friends respected him too much to force him to talk. Eponine wouldn't push if he brushed off her question; she just had to put it out there.

"Connections." Courfeyrac shrugged, flashing his most adorable grin. "I have an old friend who works for Air France. He's a bit too bourgy to hang out with, but it does help me call favors in."

"Brilliant!" Jehan smiled up at Courfeyrac. "I'll sit in your lap if I have to."

Eponine laughed. He would probably do it, too. "For an eight-hour flight."

Courfeyrac ruffled his fingers through Jehan's hair. The daisy finally worked its way to freedom. "Don't worry about that, mon chaton. I'll make sure we're together." He glanced at Eponine. "And don't count yourself out yet."

Eponine was doubtful, but Les Amis had pulled off bigger things before. She moved to start a new batch of coffee as Bossuet hurried in, responding to the emergency text. The others would be arriving soon and they were going to need it. She could have done with a bottle of wine herself, but even if she wasn't on duty, it was still too early to get away with anything more than mimosas.

Enjolras was a man who believed deeply and absolutely. He was open to altering his views as new information was revealed, but in the absence of facts, he never swayed. For the first twenty years of his life, he had known that he could never love someone who didn't believe in the same causes with the same level of certainty. And then he'd fallen in love with Grantaire. A new variable to skew his world-view. For a long time, Enjolras had been sure Grantaire believed only in not believing anything, but then he'd come to realize that Grantaire believed in him the way he believed in France. The love that Enjolras had for easing the plight of the poor was matched only by the love Grantaire had for him. It was terrifying, flattering, and alluring for Enjolras, all at the same time. Not many men could truly say that they were the god of their partner's universe. Enjolras was sure it couldn't be healthy, but Grantaire always laughed that off. Little in his life was healthy, he said, but at least this vice made him happy. They were only two years into their romantic relationship, but Enjolras was already sure this was where he was meant to be.

Enjolras was with Grantaire because he wanted to be, not because he felt obligated to indulge Grantaire's fixation. He loved Grantaire – and as with anything he loved, Enjolras loved him fully. They were like any other couple. They fought – bitterly, sometimes, but always with the promise of the fun of making up. Opposites attracted, but they got on each other's nerves sometimes, too. Grantaire told him he worried too much. Enjolras thought Grantaire didn't worry enough. Usually, the two extremes balanced each other out, and it was enough to cause Enjolras to reconsider his formerly doubtful stance on the concept of soul mates.

Enjolras had been worrying about the wrong things all along. Grantaire's addiction to alcohol wasn't what had put his life in danger now. It was a concern, yes, but Enjolras had never thought to consider the "Mikeys" of the world, those who would try to kill an innocent man on the way to his car. There were too many questions. Who was Tina? What had happened to her? Grantaire was friendly with nearly everyone he met; could someone have mistaken that for flirtation? Enjolras supposed the "why" didn't really matter. All that did matter was the man he loved was fighting to live. And it shouldn't have been that way. They should have been home, together, either in bed or curled up on the couch. Enjolras shouldn't have been in a hospital lobby, waiting for word. Grantaire shouldn't have been in surgery. It was as simple as that.

Enjolras was in a daze and that was very unlike him. He'd barely noticed Cosette's arrival and he was even more surprised when Joly mentioned that Valjean had been the one to drop her off. He felt a little bad for not being properly social – Valjean was a man Enjolras greatly admired – but they had only previously met professionally and so Enjolras supposed he could be forgiven. Cosette assured him he shouldn't worry about it; her father knew Enjolras and Grantaire were partners and understood that Enjolras was distraught. She smiled sweetly and patted Enjolras' shoulder. "I know you two aren't married, but you might as well be. I haven't known you very long, but I can tell you've got the stuff love is made of." Before Grantaire, Enjolras would have rolled his eyes at the sappy romantic sentiment. Now, it meant a lot. And in this exact situation, it forced him to swallow hard several times and drive his fingernails into his palm to keep control of his emotions.

Marriage. It was an option now, both in New York and their beloved France. It always should have been, as far as Enjolras was concerned, but that was another issue entirely. He'd never considered it, really. He and Grantaire loved each other and they were happy with the way things were. Neither of them needed the legal protections marriage provided, so why alter the status quo? He didn't even know how Grantaire felt about the idea. But it was probably something they should at least discuss, after Grantaire recovered. It occurred to him that even if he was listed as Grantaire's emergency contact, some bigoted idiot somewhere could deny him access because he wasn't legally family and there would be little he could do. Fortunately, the staff at this hospital hadn't lifted so much as an eyebrow when Enjolras had approached them for information; they'd been kind and had promised Enjolras they'd give him news as soon as there was any. Enjolras was somewhat relieved to see the receptionist name him in the computer system as "significant other," considering that in the blank for "relationship" on his emergency form, Grantaire had actually written, "I'm fucking him." He always did love to go for shock value and considering it had only been for an x-ray, it had been fun to watch people's reactions. Rather, it was fun in retrospect. Enjolras had been dying of embarrassment at the time. But he'd begun to see the humor when, after it was confirmed that Grantaire hadn't broken his wrist, Enjolras heard one of the nurses murmur to another, "I think he's just gloating. Have you seen his boyfriend?"

Enjolras had lost all sense of time as the night wore on. Cosette and Marius drifted off at some point, though Enjolras could tell by glancing at them they would probably wake at the slightest noise. Joly was nervously going through an assortment of pamphlets from the information kiosk, most of which concerned either services the hospital had to offer or the importance of proper handwashing.

Enjolras tugged at one of his wristbands as a means of keeping his fingers occupied. He wore several of the popular awareness wristbands, all for different causes. He actually had dozens; he tended to rotate them depending on his mission and his mood. This was one he'd bought for a little boy fighting cancer two years ago; the kid had survived against all odds and was thriving. Enjolras wore it often, both in honor of a boy who had faced things no child should and for the very idea that there was hope in the world. He was having a harder time believing that now. As if on cue, Enjorlas' phone buzzed with a text from Jehan. His friends had a very strange way of doing that, as if they could read his mind, even from an ocean away.

Jehan: Hang in there, E. Remember – even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.

"That's nice," Enjolras muttered to himself. Marius stirred and Enjolras put a hand on his arm to soothe him before standing up and moving away so he could properly pace. He was starting to feel cooped up, the tension gnawing at his muscles. "That's really fucking beautiful, Jehan." It was, actually. A lovely thought. And true. But Enjolras wasn't in the mood.

A petite, curly-haired woman in scrubs walked into the lobby, consulting her clipboard. "Mr. Enjolras...?"

Enjolras couldn't even spare a thought to be annoyed at the way she mangled his name. He crossed to her immediately. "How is he?" That had to be why she was here; he'd already signed endless consent forms. Anything, just save him.

"He's out of the OR," the woman answered. "Our post-operative team will be monitoring him for the next hour, then he'll be transferred to ICU."

"Can I see him?" Enjolras had to prove to himself that Grantaire was alive and they weren't just letting him down gently, only to come back with their sympathies in a few minutes.

She nodded. "Yes, for a few minutes."

Enjolras looked back at Joly, who had apparently witnessed the conversation, because he motioned for Enjolras to go. Enjolras didn't need to be told twice. He followed the woman down the hall, through double doors, and the scent of antiseptic solution and medicine washed over him. Now it really felt like a hospital. One more set of doors, a row of curtains, most open to reveal empty beds. And a closed curtain, near what looked like a nurse's station. Enjolras' escort signaled the nurse who was walking past. "This is his partner," she said to the nurse, nodding and handing over the clipboard.

The nurse smiled at Enjolras and pulled the curtain aside to allow him entrance...and there he was. Grantaire. Looking worse than Enjolras had ever seen him, even at his sickest. Blood infused through an IV in one arm, fluids through another. There was a tube taped to his mouth, down his throat, breathing for him. There were blankets heaped upon Grantaire and Enjolras was somewhat relieved he didn't have to take in all the damage at once. He sat down in the offered chair, nodding as the nurse put a gentle hand on his shoulder and told him she'd be happy to answer any questions.

Enjolras took Grantaire's limp hand in his, noting the bruised knuckles. "You tried to fight back," Enjolras whispered appreciatively. He smoothed the matted, tangled curls away from Grantaire's forehead and kissed it lightly. "Continuer à se battre, mon amour."

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Translations:

Merci – Thank you

Quoi de neuf? - What's new?/What's up?

Méré de dieu – Mother of God

Dépêchez-vous – Get on with it

Sacrebleu - Damn

Ah, bon – Literally "oh, good" but can generally mean "I see"...something to say when you don't know what else to say.

mon chaton – my kitten (a term of endearment)...the French tend to like to use animals as terms of endearment...

Continuer à se battre, mon amour. - Keep fighting, my love.