Disclaimer: I own nothing from Les Mis.

Author's Note: I am very sorry for how long it's been since I updated. There were a lot of real life troubles with my family, and I was having some doubts about life, the universe, and my writing. I plan on continuing both stories and finishing them, however. Hopefully people continue to enjoy!

Part Four: A Pack Apart

They're waiting for him.

All eyes turn to look at him when Courfeyrac leads him into the room. They don't inhale in unison, but he can see each wolf draw a deep breath, either closing their eyes or tilting their head or simply scrunching up their face in puzzlement as they determine as much about who he is as they can.

It doesn't take any instincts to cause his head to turn down, his eyes to drop away. That much concentrated attention is more than enough to do it.

What are they thinking? What does his scent—male, alone, no traces of mate or pack bonding present, more submissive than anyone else in the room—mean to them? Does it make them more or less interested in him as a pack member?

No. They aren't going to want him as a pack member. They—

"Everyone." Courfeyrac is grinning ear to ear, and Grantaire can practically see his tail swishing in long, even strokes despite his human form, an invitation to play, a sign of exuberance and glee. "This is Grantaire. He's the stray who's been borrowing a table in the café. He would like to make everyone's acquaintance and discuss whether or not he would be a good fit for our pack."

"I never said—" Grantaire breaks off in dismay, looking around at the sea of familiar faces—so familiar, he's been watching them so closely the last few weeks, but still strangers. He must be careful how he phrases this, to give no insult to these wolves while still getting his point across. "I am honored that you have consented to meet with me, but I wouldn't deign to affront your dignity by asking if you would be interested in my joining your pack."

"He looks like a rogue, but he speaks like a student." It's a short but well-muscled wolf who speaks, one with hair black as pitch that makes his bright green eyes stand out all the more. "Where've you spent the years since you left your birth-pack, stray?"

"Here and there." Grantaire grins, meeting the green-eyed wolf's gaze for a few seconds before remembering to keep his low. "It's really a much better way to live than most wolves give it credit for. The things I have seen, the people I have met, wolf and human and sometimes not quite either! I traveled through southern France for a while, trying a pack here and there. I strayed a bit into Spain once, but I found I missed our land too much and returned to France after a few months. I've been in Paris for most of the winter, wandering from place to place, trying to stay a step ahead of those who would… disapprove of my presence."

"What have you been living off?" It's a female wolf who asks, her brows drawn together. She's stocky, pretty but not beautiful, one whose features tend a bit more toward the human female than most of their kind. She still dresses in male clothes, and almost certainly passes as male in the human world. "If you've been packless since you left your birth pack, how have you made your way?"

"I was gifted by my birth pack with a rather… hefty financial sum when I left." It had been their way of assuaging guilt, his parent's way of attempting to keep him safe while he went about what everyone knew would be a difficult task. An impossible task, as it turned out, but he can't begrudge them their hope. "I work, when I find myself inclined to. I hunt, when I'm somewhere that is conducive to hunting. Otherwise, I live off my inheritance, if you will."

"There will be time enough for questions later, my friends." Courfeyrac makes the statement firmly, taking Grantaire by the arm. "Let us introduce ourselves first! Let us give him a chance to get a feel for us and our pack before we assault him for his life story. Now, Grantaire, would you prefer I work my way up or down the pack? Up would probably be best, saving the most… intimidating for last. In that case, allow me to introduce Jehan!"

The wolf in question is female, dressed in rather ill-fitting clothes that don't quite match. He raises his head as he considers Grantaire, leaning forward, and Grantaire realizes belatedly that even this low-ranked wolf has the smell of someone significantly higher-ranked than he is.

Courfeyrac talks as Jehan and Grantaire exchange silent greetings, Courfeyrac's hand staying on Grantaire's arm, whether to hold him back or offer him protection Grantaire isn't sure. It's impossible to read anything but joy from Courfeyrac's tone. "Jehan is a poet, rather well-respected in that regards by most humans. If you wish for a romantic who would happily sit and examine flowers with you, look no further!"

"Does he drink while examining flowers?" Grantaire directs the question to Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"He can speak for himself." Jehan stands, reaching out to turn Grantaire's head to face him. "Are you planning on fighting me for position, if we invite you to join?"

"No!" Dropping his eyes, turning his head to expose his neck, Grantaire sighs in frustration. "No, Jehan. I'd be no threat to you. Read our scents. You're meant to be higher-ranked than me."

"Then why…" Jehan steps back, a furrow line between his brows. "Ah, well. If you mean no challenge, I accept your word. Now what had your question been? Right. I will drink, though not so much or so well or with as much… enthusiasm as some other members of the pack do."

"And do you spend much time examining flowers?" It's an inane question, could be read as mocking, but Grantaire thinks he puts enough good cheer and gentle humor into it to make it charming rather than impudent.

"So I am told." Jehan smiles, relaxing slightly, head held high. "I find pleasure in it, though, and through my poetry I am able to share that pleasure. And don't allow the others to mislead you. I may examine flowers, but I am no less a revolutionary for all that."

"Revolution?" Grantaire turns to look at Courfeyrac, head down. If he had his ears, they would have swiveled back to pin themselves to his head. Revolution means guns, humans, madness. Why would these wolves willingly bind themselves to that word? "What—"

"Later, later." Courfeyrac waves a hand as though it's a matter of little importance, dragging Grantaire around to face a different table. Pointing at another low-ranked wolf, this one male, small, blinking at Grantaire with hesitant, distrustful eyes, Courfeyrac smiles. "This is Joly. He is studying to be a doctor."

Grantaire bows to the smaller wolf, keeping his head down. It's easier than with Jehan. This wolf is skittish, nervous, uncertain of him, and Grantaire has never liked frightening anyone. Better to keep his head down than to scare the other wolf. Drawing a deep breath, Grantaire tries once again to sort out the mate-bond of this other wolf.

Frowning, Grantaire sneaks a sidelong glance at the man. He's sitting between two other wolves, one male, with only scant patches of brown hair on his head, the other the female who had asked how Grantaire was surviving. Joly smells of both of them, in equal portions, both their scents mingling with his in a way that Grantaire would normally read as a mate-bond. That can't be right, though. He must be reading something wrong. He must be too drunk to properly—

"You're right." Joly lays a hand on both of the wolves next to him, though they're both higher-ranking than he is. "I am bound to both of them. I suppose it's the easiest of our… unique characteristics for another to see."

"I…" Grantaire tilts his head, studying the other wolf intently before remembering to drop his eyes. "Well, then. Congratulations."

Silence grips the room, a silence during which no one even seems inclined to shift in their seats.

"That's it?" It's the mangy-looking wolf who asks the question. "That's all you have to say? Congratulations?"

"Well, yes." Grantaire shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. "It was your decision, wasn't it? I mean, the three of you?"

"Yes." The female wolf speaks slowly, eyeing the two lower-ranked males with a look of proprietary affection as she does. "It was a joint decision, on the part of all three of us, to attempt something like this."

"Bossuet and Musichetta." Courfeyrac introduces first the low-ranked male and then the slightly higher-ranked female. "Joly's mates, as you evidently noticed."

"It's rather hard not to notice." Scratching as his chin, Grantaire shrugs again. "I've no stake in it, though. Let them enjoy themselves as they like."

"If everyone were so mature in their outlook, Grantaire, life would be much easier for all." Musichetta smiles at him, though the same puzzled look that Courfeyrac had worn throughout most of his conversation with Grantaire lies behind the words.

"You do have an eye for people, Courfeyrac." Bossuet raises his glass to the more dominant wolf. "I don't know how you know who's going to throw a fit and who isn't, but I commend you for your insight."

"Do you have fleas?" Joly stares hard at Grantaire's chin, frowning.

Courfeyrac pulls Grantaire around again, turning him away from the trio as Bossuet and Musichetta lovingly descend on the less dominant wolf. "There's another pair you should meet—this is Feuilly, he slots between Joly and Bossuet, and his mate Monet, who is above Bossuet and below Musichetta."

The female wolf stands, raising her head, drawing a deep breath in through her nose, a classic greeting between wolves in safe places. The male stays in his seat, raising a glass in quiet greeting.

"Hello." Grantaire gives a tentative wave. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise." The woman gives an imperious nod before sitting again.

The male wolf doesn't say anything, simply studying Grantaire with a frank, open curiosity that Grantaire isn't used to enduring. After a few seconds he finally speaks. "Were you human?"

"I… what?" Shaking his head, Grantaire gives a self-deprecating smile. "No. Despite my manners, I was born and raised in a normal pack."

"Ah. I just thought…" The wolf turns away, but not before Grantaire reads the disappointment on his face. "No matter."

"I have wished, sometimes, that I were born human. It would at least give me a reason for my deficits, for my failings, but such creatures are rare to the point of being mythological. A human, becoming a wolf? A human-wolf surviving to find other wolves, managing to find a pack that would welcome such a curious creature? Ah, but it would be fascinating to talk with one, if such a man existed! How different is it, to be human and then to be one of us? How much more precious does it make this life of ours? How much more harrowing and frightening and unintelligible?" Grantaire turns to Courfeyrac, to the others that he's been introduced to, excited at the prospect. He loves puzzles like these, abstract, intriguing, at the periphery of their culture. They are safe puzzles, simple riddles whose answer has no deep meaning or which possibly have no answer, and he knows more on the subjects than most wolves he meets. "How would such a feat even happen? How does one go about changing one's species? Is it true that a savaged human could become a wolf? There are so few humans attacked these days, though, and even fewer who survive when they are attacked! Surely, if it does happen, then there must be other ways."

Silence greets his words, a tentative, uncertain silence, and Grantaire remembers to bow his head. Glancing around the room, he finds most eyes fixed on Feuilly.

After a few seconds, Feuilly raises his head defiantly, staring straight at Grantaire in a challenge. "I was human. Until four years ago, I was an apprentice fan-maker. Then I… changed."

"Ah." Grantaire hesitates, keeping his head down, making himself as small as possible. "I hope that my zeal for the subject was not interpreted in the wrong way then, friend. I know there are some who hold ill will towards those who are not pack-born. I assure you, I am not one of them."

"I can tell." Feuilly raises his glass again, smiling slightly. "You spoke with passion. Not with compassion, true, but with an interest and a lack of pre-judgment that I find myself quite appreciative of. It's a matter we can discuss in the future, though, if you are truly interested in the subject."

"I assure you, I am." Grantaire smiles expansively at the red-haired wolf, meaning every word. He looks forward to discussing the basics of werewolf culture with a man who learned it second-hand.

Perhaps together they can find some explanation for Grantaire's own short-comings.

"Having met those two, there are really only two other pack members to make the acquaintance of." Courfeyrac guides him back to the table where Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are sitting. Nodding at the emerald-eyed wolf, Courfeyrac grins. "This is Bahorel. He is Jehan's mate. He's a good man to have behind you in a fight. He's also frequently a reason you will be in a fight."

"Always so flattering, Courfeyrac." There's fondness in Bahorel's voice as he submits to the higher-ranked wolf, grinning at Grantaire all the time. "Don't let him intimidate you. If it's someone to drink with that you're looking for, I'll be your friend."

Grantaire smiles, drawing a deep breath and scenting out the other wolf. Bahorel's scent is different from the other wolves—different from any other wolf that Grantaire has ever scented. The wolf smells like a wolf, true, a dominant wolf, and there are traces of Jehan's scent and Bahorel's mate-bond to the submissive wolf, but there's something… else. Something wild, something green, something growing, and Grantaire can feel his body tighten in anticipation of a Change.

Shaking himself, Grantaire frowns in confusion at Bahorel. It's been quite some time since a Change tried to sneak up on him. He hasn't even had that much to drink, relatively speaking. Why…?

Bahorel grins, raising a glass to Grantaire. "You'll learn, if you stick around. All of us have something a bit special about us. We work together, though. That's the important thing."

"I've noticed." Grantaire hesitates, wanting to look behind him, wanting to look at the alpha. Not yet, though. He doesn't want to insult or annoy the man. "Not that you all have a bit of uniqueness, though I'm certain that's true, but that you work well together. I have very rarely seen a pack as happy and well-disciplined as this one."

"We thank you for the compliment! Though I think many would balk at calling us well-disciplined, both in this room and out of it. We have the discipline of shared purpose and beliefs, and the happiness of those doing what is right." Courfeyrac's grin is infectious, and Grantaire finds a smile tugging at his mouth as he allows the other wolf to turn him around and lead him to yet another table. "The last two members of our pack, then. Enjolras you will recognize; the glowering one is my mate, Combeferre."

Grantaire forces his eye to glance at Combeferre, his nose to sniff briefly at the other wolf's scent. Combeferre is male, powerful, as powerful as Courfeyrac and perhaps a bit more so. It's very difficult to tell, though it shouldn't be. There cannot be two wolves of the same rank in the same pack. The stress would be insurmountable, and for those two wolves to be mated, to lock themselves into a power-struggle for all time…

Grantaire can't bring himself to care, though. All he has eyes for is Enjolras, and he shrinks back, head down, neck exposed, smiling quietly as he basks in the radiance of the alpha's power.

Enjolras frowns at him, an expression of disapproval that strikes Grantaire's heart and jerks a low whine from his throat. Has he done something to offend? Does the alpha not approve of how he has acted? Has one of his ramblings caused affront that he missed?

"You don't submit like that to any of the others." Enjolras' voice is quiet, the deep, sonorous tone of authority. "Why do you cringe and fawn for me?"

It takes Grantaire a moment to find his voice, a situation he hasn't found himself in often. When finally he speaks, he keeps his response short, trying to be as unlikely to cause offense as possible. "Because I can."

Enjolras' frown deepens. "Explain."

"I was born… defective." Grantaire keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, his head down, submissive, almost pleading. This is the heart of the matter, the reason he will be turned away from any pack he tries to join. "I should be submissive. My scent tells others to expect submission. I have no desire to be dominant, no desire to lead a pack, and no desire to fight for position. What good would I be as a dominant wolf? I haven't the magic to hold a mate-bond, let alone to assist a pack. Yet I look alphas in the eye without a second's hesitation. I meet a wolf, I scent his position, and I forget to bow my head. I mean no insult by it. I mean no challenge! Yet my body gives challenge that my mind and heart would not, and no pack wishes for that kind of turmoil. But with you, Enjolras… with you I am normal. With you I see you, I scent you, I feel your power, and I act as I should! I fawn for you because you deserve it. I—"

"You don't know me." Enjolras frowns again. "You don't know my pack. I could be quite unworthy of your praise or obeisance."

"No." Shaking his head, Grantaire smiles. "I have watched you, these last few weeks. I have listened to you. I don't understand all of what you speak about, and I find it difficult to believe much of it, but I know that your pack reflects your words, and your words are kind. You deserve my obeisance, and I gladly give it."

Silence descends between them, a palpable, waiting silence.

Finally Courfeyrac speaks, his tone gentle. "He's done nothing worse than most wolves do on meeting you, Enjolras. Your presence is… impressive. If it strikes you harder with him than with others, I fear it is simply in contrast to his rather… unorthodox behavior with the rest of us."

"We are an unorthodox pack, in many ways." Combeferre murmurs the words, glancing between Enjolras and his mate. "Enjolras wants allies, not servants. If you were to join us, Grantaire, there would be expectations. There are many tasks we have set for ourselves."

"Tell me what you will, and I will do it!" Glancing up at Enjolras, at that stern, imposing expression, Grantaire fights the urge to sink down to the ground and beg. Were he in his wolf form he doesn't think he would be able to stop himself, to keep from rolling on his back and prostrating himself before this alpha.

Enjolras shakes his head. "I am not like most alphas, Grantaire. I will not order you to tasks that you do not believe in yourself. Every wolf in my pack is free to have their own thoughts, their own opinions. I prefer it that way. I am not infallible. If Jehan or Joly or Feuilly or any other wolf sees a way to improve on our plans, or a way to improve on our theories, let him speak. Every wolf has a voice. Rank should not be used to silence or strengthen those voices."

Again there is silence, broken tentatively by Grantaire after a few seconds too many have passed. "I am very good at talking."

Courfeyrac laughs, a bright, joyous, startled sound, and throws his arm over Grantaire's shoulders once more. His chin rubs the side of Grantaire's face, pleased, possessive, dominant. "Enjolras, how can you dismiss a skill such as that! Let him stay with us! Give him a week to see how the pack functions, to learn our ways and our beliefs, to decide if he shares them or not! Just think—a submissive who doesn't submit. Such a wolf was meant for a pack such as ours."

Enjolras hesitates, just a fraction of a second. Turning his eyes away from Courfeyrac and Grantaire, he studies the rest of the pack. "As I have said before, decisions such as this are not solely mine to make. What does the pack wish?"

There is a rush of sound, a susurrus that Grantaire finds hard to pick apart. Enjolras' eyes slide from one pack member to another, and the feeling of pack magic in the room intensifies.

Finally Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire again. A slight smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are kind, inviting, having lost the distance and discontent that had been in them before. "If you wish, if you have not been put off by anything you have seen or heard so far, you may stay with us for a few days, Grantaire. We will discuss your potential inclusion in the pack once you have a better idea about what you would be including yourself in."

"Thank you!" Grantaire rushes forward, wishing to show his gratitude to Enjolras, and ends up standing awkwardly by the man's chair. If only this were somewhere safe to change! If only he could think of a human way to display all of the feelings swelling in his heart! If only he were better with words, with expressing what he truly means, rather than rambling from one point to another.

Enjolras stands, his hand reaching out to rest on Grantaire's shoulder. Grantaire leans forward, resting his weight against the alpha, breathing in his scent, basking in his power.

After a moment Enjolras' chin rubs against Grantaire's downturned head. The gesture is short, simple, something that any dominant wolf should do for a wolf showing subservience as strongly as Grantaire is.

It's the happiest moment Grantaire has had in years.

"Rest." Enjolras murmurs the words softly, gently. "You are welcome here. We will not turn you away for being what you are. And once that fear has faded, I would very much like to see who you are."

I am yours.

He almost says the words, so content and happy he could die, drowning in pleasure and the scent of other wolves like a desert nomad suddenly thrust into the ocean.

Enjolras doesn't want that, though. So close to the alpha, so close to the pack, Grantaire can feel the sorrow, the frustration, the pity that color their thinking with regards to him.

He doesn't want Enjolras' pity.

He wants Enjolras' acceptance.

So he straightens, as much as he can, and whispers his thanks again before retreating back to the table where Jehan sits with Feuilly and Monet.

He cannot look Enjolras in the eyes, though that is what Enjolras wants, but perhaps he will be able find a place here anyway.

That simple thought is far more than he could have hoped for two hours ago, and it is more than enough to keep his spirits buoyed for the rest of the night.