Part Seven: The First Morning
Cosette waits until her father leaves to gather together a small bowl of food and venture outside to look for the dog. She has no solid reason for being so secretive. True, papa might protest her potentially putting herself in danger with the beast. Perhaps there is even some merit to his fear.
But she can't stop thinking of the dog's liquid brown eyes, so bright and clear and seeming to pierce straight through to her soul. If she can find him, she will feed him.
The likelihood that she will find him is slim, especially given that papa had done a cursory search of the garden earlier, but she wishes to look, anyway.
The winter's cold bites sharply even through her shawl, and she shivers as she steps out into the clear part of the garden near the door. Holding the bowl out in front of her, feeling rather foolish, she looks around for the dog.
He appears between one breath and the next, seeming to melt out of the shrubbery. His fur is a handsome dark grey in the light, the ears and tail tipped with a rich brown. His coat is lush, gorgeous, and his tail waves happily above his back.
Taking a step towards him, she sets down the bowl before retreating back to the door. Her heart beats too quickly, though she can't say whether it's from fear or exhilaration as she watches him devour the contents of the bowl in four large bites. Holding the bowl steady between his front paws, he licks the inside almost delicately, his eyes staying fixed on her.
He is a beautiful creature.
He is a wild creature.
He is intelligent.
She doesn't know where she gleans the knowledge of the last two from. She has had little enough time to interact with animals in her life. Perhaps there are dogs, well-kept dogs such as noblemen use for hunting, which carry such thick, lustrous coats as a matter of course. Perhaps he is so beautiful and wild-looking because she has only starving street mutts to compare him to.
Perhaps, but she doesn't think so. In fact, she's not sure he looks much like a dog at all. A dog's relative, certainly, but did dogs come in this size? Did they have such intelligence in their eyes?
"Are you a wolf?" She asks the question as he stretches, closing his eyes.
The dog—or wolf—freezes, sinking down slowly onto his belly and pinning his ears back to his head. His eyes open, fixing on her, and she could swear there is fear and sorrow in them.
"You are, aren't you?" A tiny thrill of fright runs through her, but rational thought soon pushes it away. "No, of course you aren't. A wolf in Paris, how silly, especially when by all reports they are nearly gone even from the countryside. Perhaps a wolf-dog hybrid, then? Are you lost? Do you belong to somebody?"
The creature continues to stare at her, eyes slowly widening, head held perfectly still.
Laughing to herself, Cosette shakes her head. "How foolish, to ask the pet where the owner is, to question you as though you could answer me. I am glad that I was able to feed you, Monsieur Wolf, and I pray that you will hide in the garden again should another winter's squall find you without your master."
Wolf inclines his head, ears pricking forward again, tail swishing in what she can only hope is joy or enthusiasm or something of the sort.
Taking a cautious step forward, she reaches down toward the bowl, ready to retreat if Wolf begins to growl or show his teeth.
Wolf retreats, instead, tail still waving but held low. Is that a good thing? Does that mean he likes her?
Turning back to the house, smiling despite feeling somewhat foolish, she reaches for the door.
A low bark from Wolf causes her to flinch and spin, her hand holding tight to the door. He isn't attacking her, though. Rather, he dances in a circle, his feet barely leaving imprints in the snow, and whines low in his throat.
"Are you still hungry?" Frowning at the creature, she clutches the bowl closer to her. Her heart still hasn't slowed to its original speed. "Do you need water?"
Snapping up a mouthful of snow, Wolf continues to prance. His forelegs flatten themselves on the ground while his back end raises higher, his tail continuing to wave as though it were a flag.
"Do you not want me to go?" Smiling, she relaxes her hold on the door. "And what, Monsieur Wolf, would you suggest a young lady do with a creature such as yourself?"
As if in answer, his darts off to the side, grabbing a fallen branch in his mouth and slowly, gingerly, advancing toward her. He drops the stick at her feet and retreats, his head still low.
Lifting the stick uncertainly, she stares between him and it. "What would you have me do?"
He stares at her, blinking a few times in what could be shock. Then he slinks his way over to her, touches the stick with his nose, backs away, spins, and dashes off into the garden.
He repeats the performance once more before she understands, and then twice more while she claps at his antics, his grace, his agility. Finally, though, she throws the stick for him.
She plays with Wolf for nearly an hour before the cold begins to really numb her hands, to turn her feet into awkward, painful stumps on the end of her legs. When Wolf brings the stick to her, she shakes her head, blowing on her hands. "I'm going to need to go back inside. Perhaps we can play again later, though."
The beast heaves a deep sigh and allows his head to droop down. He inches forward, one step at a time, until he is close enough to place his nose against her hand.
His nose is warm, just slightly wet, the texture strange against her skin. Smiling, she holds her palm out for him to sniff before gently reaching forward to run her fingers along his nose, over his head. His fur is just as soft and warm as she had expected it to be, the outer hairs slightly moist from dancing through the snow but the undercoat thick and dry against her fingers.
After perhaps a minute Wolf pulls away, trotting off toward the side of the garden where he had been the night before. He slips underneath a bush, and a sliver of dark gray that doesn't quite match the bark of the branches catches her eye.
Curious, Cosette follows the wolf, trying not to shiver or to worry about her skirt in the snow. Skirts will dry. Her feet will warm themselves. Her curiosity, though, will only be sated by getting a good look at the mysterious objects lurking in her garden. Wolf returns to watch her progress, his head tilted to the side in a show of curiosity.
And there, arrayed above Wolf, stashed in the bushes in such a way that they are not clearly visible from the house, are off the ground, and are partly protected from falling snow, is a full set of men's clothing.
Reaching out tentatively, she lifts the coat that had initially caught her eye, feeling the coarse fabric under her fingers. The cloth was well-made, once, but it is old and worn, patched in several places. The vest, the breeches, the boots that she finds beneath the tree, all show a similar pattern, well-made garments used carefully until they are well past their prime. She refrains from checking the undergarments, blushing fiercely as she tries hard to ignore their presence, but assumes they are in a similar situation.
Why is there a man's outfit in her garden?
Perhaps Papa… but no, his broad shoulders would have trouble fitting into these clothes. And why would Papa keep clothes in the garden, when they have an entire house in which to store their belongings? Her Papa can do strange things, but this would be strange even for him. So where…?
Wolf's teeth gently settle into the fabric, pulling it towards him, careful not to pull hard enough to rip the seams. His large brown eyes, so intelligent, regard her with an expression that seems far too much like trepidation.
"Are these your master's?" If so, then where is the man? And better yet, why would he abandon his clothes in the middle of winter? And how had he entered the garden?
For that matter, how had Wolf entered the garden?
Wolf continues to pull at the clothing, gentle but insistent.
"All right, all right." Returning the jacket to its place, she looks between the beast and the clothes. Watches the hesitancy in his eyes, the humanity in his eyes, and a sudden thrill runs through her body.
Could it be…?
"No, Cosette." Shaking her head, she smiles at the absurdity of her own thoughts. Perhaps she has been reading too much lately. "There is most certainly a logical explanation for this. If only you could talk, Wolf, I'm sure you could explain everything."
Wolf continues to study her, his expression grave, and did all dogs have eyes like his? Did all dogs have such intelligence in their gaze?
Shivering slightly, not entirely sure it's from the cold, Cosette hurries back to the house.
XXX
Grantaire wakes to chaos.
For long seconds he just blinks blurrily at the figures rushing back and forth around him, not sure what's going on or where he is. Did he pass out in a tavern again? Is he on the street? Did he manage to crawl his way to an inn?
Then he inhales, and in a burst of joy and trepidation he remembers everything. He is in the pack's house, in Enjolras' house, and he is a welcome guest.
"Well, stray?" Courfeyrac's hand settles onto Grantaire's head, ruffles the fur behind his ears in a way that is pitch-perfect. "Did you sleep well?"
Grantaire's tail freezes in mid-wave, his ears pinning themselves back against his head. He woke the others during the night with his foolish dreams. He woke Enjolras, dragged the alpha from his rest to deal with a stray, and though Enjolras' arms around him had felt fantastically right surely the alpha is annoyed with him.
"Don't worry." Courfeyrac's hand continues to fondle his ears. "We don't begrudge you nightmares, least of all him. He deals with all of our foibles with a patience and a degree of compassion that I would be thrilled to see all alphas share."
Grantaire relaxes, just slightly, turning his head to look up at Courfeyrac. He should really shift back to his human form, to make this conversation easier.
Another set of legs pauses in front of him, and Grantaire stares up to see Jehan's curly hair. The female frowns down at him before turning to Courfeyrac. "What's he going to do today?"
"I don't know." Scratching at his own ear, Courfeyrac shrugs. "Perhaps he can follow one of us around, get a better idea of what we do."
Stretching his legs forward, Grantaire reaches for and finds his human form. A few spine-tingling, skin-itching moments later, he's human again, his vision sharper, colors standing out bright and clear once more. Courfeyrac is well-dressed, perfectly pitched to fit in among the young dandies of Paris; Jehan's outfit doesn't quite seem to match, the colors clashing just slightly, and is more rumpled than Courfeyrac's. Sitting with as much dignity as he can muster in his naked state, reminding himself once more than he is among Pack here, Grantaire shakes hair away from his eyes. "I don't want to be any trouble. I can entertain myself, and meet up with you at the café this evening."
"No." Jehan smiles, reaching down to shift stray strands of black hair away from Grantaire's eyes. "I like the idea of showing you around. If you will be pack, it'll be important for you to know what we do. You'll need to dress quickly, though. I have class in a little under an hour."
"I'll be swift, then." Clambering to his feet, Grantaire heads for the stairs and his clothing.
He's never been to class, and has no idea what it actually entails, but perhaps it will be an entertaining way to pass the morning.
XXX
"Remember the way." Jehan tugs on Grantaire's sleeve sharply, drawing the stray's attention back to him and away from the house. Enjolras had bid them farewell, the alpha not having anything that needed his immediate and personal attention for a few more hours, and Grantaire's gaze keeps getting drawn back toward where the exchange had taken place. "Grantaire. Pay attention. I know he's fascinating, but now is not the time to get distracted by him. Watch the way we take to the college."
"Why?" Grantaire asks the question bluntly, finally wrenching his eyes from the invisible point inside the house where Enjolras is almost certainly not even standing anymore. His head is held upright, in a position of authority, and his eyes meet Jehan's evenly.
Jehan forces himself not to bristle. The stray doesn't mean offense, and he won't take offense. "Because if you don't, you could start a territory dispute or find yourself in worse trouble, depending on whose land you encroach upon."
"Oh." Grantaire frowns, staring around them with an expression that is blearier than Jehan would like. "Do you not control the college, then?"
"The college is neutral territory. It has been for the last three years, ever since Enjolras arrived."
Grantaire's frown deepens. "I don't understand."
"The land the college is on used to belong to a well-established pack. The alpha was one of the professors at the university. Wolves attended university at his discretion and his tolerance. Enjolras… changed that." Jehan shivers, a mixture of pride and old fear filling him.
It was before Enjolras claimed him, before he even considered joining the young alpha's new pack. He had been a stray, but a young one, an expected one, testing the waters of various packs to decide which he would join. His magic wasn't strong enough to sustain a pack of his own, and there weren't many who would follow him with his scent as submissive as it was. The university had been his latest stop, a chance to learn and to read and to revel, for a brief amount of time, in the things he enjoyed most about the humans—their intelligence, their creativity, the beauties that they could create.
"He changed it." There's a strange mixture of awe and disbelief in Grantaire's voice. "He defeated the alpha?"
"No." Jehan shakes his head. "Well… yes. But he didn't take the pack or steal their territory. All the alphas of the city met, and it was determined that the college will henceforth be neutral territory. Every pack's territory was marked on the map, and a route from their territory to the college was also declared neutral territory. I believe that's when Enjolras claimed this territory as his own, and collected a few of the others for his pack. He already had Combeferre, and I think Courfeyrac joined them around then."
"He had all the alphas of the city meet." Grantaire continues to stare at Jehan incredulously. "All of them? And they didn't start fighting?"
"They do so every three months now." Jehan smiles again, proud at being able to surprise this stray. "Meet, not fight. There's no fighting allowed. It's a time for alphas to discuss problems they're having, to discuss territory disputes if need be, to discuss concerns about the humans. It's proven to be very effective at cutting down on intra-Pack aggression."
"Most likely because all of their alphas are too busy hating him to hate each other." Grantaire mutters the words almost to himself. "It's… I've never heard of packs doing something like that, Jehan. It's unnatural. If it were anyone but him asking them to do it…"
"But he did ask them, and it's working." Shrugging, Jehan allows his gaze to drop to the street. "Our people are capable of change, Grantaire. Perhaps they only considered change in this circumstance because Enjolras had the strength to make them, but once they see that it's better this way, that it leaves us stronger and better defended, leaves fewer chances for accidents or for the humans to notice us before we're ready… I think that other cities will follow suit swiftly, followed by those areas of the countryside where our people are numerous enough to put packs in close proximity."
"You're all mad." Shaking his head, Grantaire looks around warily, as though expecting other wolves to attack them at any moment. "You're painting targets on yourselves. You're earning the enmity of the wolves and the humans both, and for what?"
"To help." Settling his hand gently on the stray's shoulder, Jehan resists the urge to nuzzle against him. They are in public. They must act human, and keep their voices down. Never mind the instincts telling him to protect the submissive wolf, or his own nature that hates to see distress. "We will give our children a safer, better world than we were given. We will build a world where everyone is given access to education, to knowledge, to beauty, Grantaire, and it will be amazing."
"You're mad." Grantaire repeats the accusation, but there is a fondness and bemused acceptance to the way he says it this time that dispels any tension there had been. "But it's fun to hear you talk about your mad dreams."
"You should hear Enjolras talk, then."
"I have, and I've no doubt I'll hear him again." Gaze still scanning the street, more it seems to memorize than out of wariness now, Grantaire smiles. "So, what will I be educated about at the university today?"
XXX
Marius waits until the girl stops coming to the back window to peer out at him before changing. He could always just slink further back in the bushes, he supposes, but that will leave him longer without his clothes and thus colder. That makes it well on its way to noon before he regains his human form.
Shuddering and shivering as soon as his fur's gone, he forces his unsteady hands to grab his clothes in the proper order.
He shouldn't have done what he did.
He shouldn't have attracted the woman's attention like that.
He shouldn't have asked her to play with him, or enjoyed it so much.
He shouldn't have gotten so defensive of his clothes, but he needs them.
He should leave, now, as soon as he's fully dressed and has stopped shivering quite so much. He shouldn't ever return here. He should find another place, somewhere that a pack won't notice him for a bit, and try once again to blend into the background, to be human.
He tells himself this firmly as he slips out between the loose bars, but his eyes still turn back to the garden. He still pictures her face, her eyes, and he can still hear the ghost of her laughter in his ears, so pleasant, so innocent.
It's madness, his even considering it. He wants to pass as human, but even if he does, he could never…
She has no rank. She has no pack. There could be no mate-bond between them, no magic tying them mind to mind, soul to soul.
She has no beast locked within her, woken by the full moon's light at least once a month. She would hate him, despise him, fear him, set her father to kill him if she were to find out.
And yet…
Perhaps he will return here. Perhaps he will peer through the gates, and see if she notices him. Perhaps they will talk, and he can tell her his name, and maybe…
It's beyond foolish. It's beyond stupid.
But so is everything else he's done in the last two years. Why should he decide to change his tactics now?
XXX
"If I hear another poem in the next week, I will scream."
Bahorel chuckles, taking a bite out of his steak before answering. "You're going to hurt Jehan's feelings, stray."
"Jehan's poetry is fine." Grantaire downs half of his drink in one swig, grateful for the burn of alcohol in his mouth. The headache that had been starting to tease at him loosens its hold. "Jehan can make up any poetry he wants. But real poetry, and people talking about every little word and cadence and speaking in languages that I don't even think are real—"
"I assure you, they were all real languages." Jehan arches an eyebrow. "And I fail to see how telling me that my poetry isn't 'real' is supposed to assuage the insult. I have managed to publish a bit of my work, you know."
"Well, I meant…" Grantaire lowers his eyes, scratching at the wooden table-top of the small restaurant they had met Bahorel in for lunch. "I mean, yours make sense. They're actually good."
Jehan's expression relaxes, just slightly. "What we went over in class would have made sense to you if you had been present for earlier discussions. Perhaps it was a bad idea, taking you to my classes. Showing you where the university is will be helpful for the future, though, as you decide what you'd like to study yourself."
"Wait, what?" Grantaire frowns at the poet. "I'm supposed to study?"
"Or take a job. Either way. It's what we do when we aren't plotting revolution. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are preparing for the bar exam soon. Bahorel should be, as well, but he's a bad tendency to skip class." Jehan gives his mate's arm a shove.
Bahorel only grins in reply. "I do what I'm good at."
"Joly's working to be a doctor. Feuilly works as a fan-maker. Musichetta does odd jobs, mainly catering, cleaning, hauling things. He tried school for a bit, but didn't like it."
"And if I join the pack, you expect me to attend classes?" Finishing the rest of his drink and calling for another, Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't have that kind of money, or, I think, that kind of talent."
"Find what you're talented at, then. If you become one of us, the pack will support you as you find your place."
There's a simple complacency to the way Jehan speaks about finding a job or a career that causes Grantaire's mind to freeze. Does the young wolf really think it's that simple? Does he really think that finding something useful to do to fill one's time was a matter to be flippantly discussed over dinner?
Does he really think Grantaire can be useful?
"If we accept you, stray, you'll find your place." Bahorel claps him on the shoulder, and there's more power in the blow than Grantaire would normally expect from a man or wolf of his size. "Maybe you'll run around doing what Enjolras needs. It seems that would make you happy enough. Or maybe you'll decide to be a lawyer, as terrible of a job as it is. Or maybe you'll be an artisan or a poet or something, I don't know, but you'll find it. You'll find your own way to help make the pack self-sufficient. Panicking about it now won't do you any good."
"Why did the two of you decide to join his pack?" Grantaire asks the question of the tabletop, his head held purposefully low. He doesn't want to make it seem like he's questioning their pack or their alpha.
"Because I saw what he was doing, and I thought it was fantastic." Jehan answers first, amber eyes bright with the same fire that had first drawn Grantaire to Enjolras. "To think that we could change the way we're living, Grantaire… to think that an alpha, an alpha like him, would decide that his whole pack should decide what they do and how they live… I've never had much power. I was resigned to finding a pack that I could tolerate, where my views aligned with the alpha's well enough that I could survive with my soul intact. Instead, I found someone who wants my opinion, who listens to me, who trusts me, who has a vision even greater than anything I had ever imagined. If I could help him at all, help them at all, if my verses or my hands or even my death could help bring about the world that Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Combeferre see, a world that I've helped them imagine… how could I possibly turn that down?"
"I've got a problem with kings." Bahorel smiles as he says the words, but it's a thin, bitter smile that doesn't reach his sharp green eyes. "Have you figured out what I am yet?"
"No." Shaking his head, Grantaire raises his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. "I suspected from when I first met you that you weren't entirely of Pack blood, but I don't know what else you could be. You seem to have an… interesting effect on the Change sometimes, too."
"I make wolves want to Change." Bahorel continues to smile, toying with the rim of his glass. "I make them think of the wilds, of running, of freedom, and I push them towards Changing if I'm not careful. Once they figured it out, my birth pack's alpha wanted to kill me. He would have, too, if my mother hadn't stopped him. My father's people haven't been the kindest to me, either, and living as a human, having a king who doesn't even have to feel your hate and fear when he turns on you… I much prefer the world Enjolras and his pack imagine."
"I'm sorry." It's not an adequate response, and Grantaire knows that. He can't imagine having his birth pack turn on him. He had always known that he would have trouble finding another pack that could accept his differences, but at least he had his childhood. At least he had a bit of time as an almost-normal member of Pack society.
"It's in the past." Bahorel gives his head and shoulders a shake, and his smile is genuine as he raises his glass. "We're creating a better future. It gives me a good excuse to cause trouble, too. I don't suppose you're any good in a fight?"
"I can usually hold my own, if I'm not too drunk." Grantaire frowns, running back over the conversation. "Wait. You didn't ever say what your father was, did you?"
Bahorel laughs. "That's a little piece of information that'll wait until you ask for Pack status, stray."
