Author's Note: Warning for treatment of septic injury. As for a spot of confusion last chapter, by rank Grantaire is indeed lambda. When he calls himself omega, he's being self-deprecating, referring to how submissive he smells. Hope people enjoy the chapter!
Part Eight: Home
Sean howls again as he turns onto the street that Grantaire is guarding. There is joy in his voice as his eyes lock on Grantaire, and after the howl his mouth remains open, his teeth showing white in the moonlight.
Lady, preserve my pack. Grantaire sends the silent prayer up to the moon. He's never had much faith in the gods—it was hard to, when so many of the Pack were quick to declare him god-cursed or forsaken—but he has a pack now. He has a place to belong. He's striving to protect them. Surely, if the Lady is real, he will grant Grantaire some favor in this fight. Gathering his courage, Grantaire tenses his muscles, preparing to leap as soon as Sean is close enough.
Grantaire's standing in the center of the street, the paving stones uncomfortably cold under his bare feet now that he's standing still. At least his feet are tougher than a normal human's, the sharp edges of some of the stones not much more than a hassle, though a few glass-cuts sting on the bottoms of his feet.
He almost misses Sean. The wolf bounds down the street, swift legs sending him flying, and instead of coming straight at Grantaire as Grantaire had expected he skirts to the right, intending to continue on after Courfeyrac and the others.
"No." The word is barely comprehensible, but it doesn't need to be. The meaning is clear in the furious growl that rumbles through Grantaire's chest. Using all of the speed and strength that his too-large-for-a-proper-submissive's body has, Grantaire throws himself onto Sean's back.
He doesn't get a good hold, at first, and they both go tumbling to the street, Sean's teeth snapping frighteningly close to Grantaire's arm, Sean's back claws scoring deep red lines down Grantaire's chest.
Sean kicks his way free, bares his teeth at Grantaire once more, and then turns determinedly back toward the blood-trail that Marius has left on the road.
It's clear that he doesn't expect Grantaire to fight anymore, that he considers Grantaire no threat.
It's a mistake.
Howling himself, not caring that the sound tears at his still-aching throat, Grantaire tackles Sean to the groud once more. His hands find better holds, his right sinking into Sean's ruff, his left grabbing Sean's left ear in a fierce grip, and when the wolf tries to turn to him Grantaire bites down fiercely on Sean's right ear.
Blood floods his mouth, iron, tasting sweet as life, and Grantaire grinds his teeth down harder. He will hurt Sean. He will distract Sean from the others. He will—
With a pained cry Sean begins bucking, flailing, and before Grantaire is aware of what's happening he's flat on his back and Sean's teeth are snapping at him, scoring his right arm once, twice, finally biting down viciously as Grantaire continues to keep his arms in front of his throat, protecting his jugular.
Grantaire's vision tunnels down, black at the edges, pain spiking through his arm, and he prepares for the shattering agony of the long bones in his arm snapping, for the inevitable lunge for his jugular that will come next.
"Stop." The word is a command, carried on a wave of power, and Sean responds to it immediately, slinking off Grantaire, his head held low.
It means that Grantaire is free to lunge at the alpha who gave the command, the human-form wolf who intends to go dashing past him.
He catches Bellamy low, just beneath the knees, and when they fall Bellamy is the one who lands on top. Grantaire doesn't give the startled alpha a chance to recover, moving despite the pain in his arm, clambering his way on top of Bellamy and striking at the female wolf with both fists, snapping whenever any body part comes near his mouth.
He gets in a good blow to the alpha's face, another to his ribs when Bellamy raises both arms in surprise to guard his face.
Then the element of surprise, of madness, is lost. Bellamy sweeps him to the ground in one elegant motion, landing atop him, the female's legs trapping his. Bellamy stares down at him, lips pulled back from too-sharp teeth in a feral threat display, but there is puzzlement and uncertainty in the female's expression, too.
Grantaire draws breath, gathers his strength, preparing to attack again.
Except teeth close on first his left arm and then his right, gnawing, angry, claws swipe at his face, and with a pain-filled cry he curls in on himself.
"Sean, Yves, stop." Bellamy's command once more brings a release from torment, though there has been enough damage done to Grantaire to make fighting more seem an impossible task. Bellamy's voice drops to a quiet whisper, angry but determined, no command power in it. "Yves, after the prisoners."
The female beta was biting him in human form. Grantaire realizes that as booted feet head down the street and frowns, thinking that it's strange to try to use teeth and claws in human form, and then realizes that if someone had attacked Enjolras he would likely have gone for their throat with wild abandon no matter what his form.
Enjolras.
The pack.
Courfeyrac. He needs to protect his pack. It may hurt to continue fighting, but if he has to, he will. If—
"They're over the border." Yves' voice is grim, and seems to come from far away.
Forcing his eyes to focus, Grantaire stares up through twisting shadows at the moonlight-outlined shapes of the three wolves. Sean paces back and forth beside him, blood on his muzzle; Bellamy and Yves face each other, Yves with his head tilted down in submission.
"I can follow them." Yves' voice is quiet. "We can almost certainly catch them before they reach Enjolras' pack. Recapturing them will be difficult, but if you want us to kill them…"
"No." Bellamy's voice is grim, and he closes his eyes briefly. "No trespassing. No breaking Pack law. We haven't yet, and we won't."
Yves nods, a small, incremental movement, and turns to stare down at Grantaire. "Sean wants very badly to continue hurting this one."
"Sean will have to contain himself." Bellamy's snarl as he stares at the wolf form of his delta is vicious, and Sean cowers back, tail held low, belly to the paving stones of the street. "Nothing is done to our last prisoner without my approval."
The rest of the pack has gathered, now, other dark shapes staring down at him, and Grantaire finds himself curling in more, attempting to protect his most vulnerable parts. The little male zeta, looking more nervous than ever, his chin held tight against his chest in fierce submission, pokes at Grantaire with the toe of his shoe. "And what do you want us to do with him?"
"For now…" Bellamy hesitates, head high, but Grantaire can still smell fear, anxiety, a dozen permutations on uncertainty that will drive Bellamy's wolves mad. The alpha isn't supposed to be uncertain. The alpha isn't supposed to be afraid.
Alphas aren't supposed to use silver against other wolves.
Alphas aren't supposed to scheme and trick and entrap other wolves, like humans would do.
Alphas aren't supposed to do anything that Bellamy has done.
"He used humans." Bellamy's stare manages to pierce through the hazy, half-conscious wandering of Grantaire's thoughts. "Enjolras used humans, and that will frighten some of the others. There's still a chance for this to work. Take him back to our den. Take both collars and put them both on him. Bandage the worst of his wounds."
Sean whines, a frustrated, angry sound.
"We'll kill him." Bellamy's voice is utterly without emotion as he turns away. "Don't worry. But we'll do it when it will help us, not before."
The eta and zeta males reach down, try to drag Grantaire into a standing position, and the blackness swarms from the edge of his vision to cover everything.
He did what he needed to do.
Best to sleep through as much of what's to come as he can.
XXX
Courfeyrac.
Combeferre wakes where he had fallen asleep, wrapped in Enjolras' arms in front of the fire, the rest of their woefully-incomplete pack surrounding them, half furred and half still human-form.
One thing is very different, though. His bonds to Courfeyrac, his pack-bond and his mate-bond, the bonds that have been so awfully silent, so terribly empty all day, are no longer quiet.
Pain.
Courfeyrac hurts, an overlay of agony to every other emotion.
Frustration.
Despair.
Confusion.
So much, too much, but Combeferre doesn't care, he dives headlong into the sensations, sends all the relief that he feels rushing along their bonds, and he can feel Courfeyrac respond.
"Go." Enjolras' voice is quiet as he helps Combeferre to his feet. "Take Feuilly and Jehan with you and bring him home. I'll follow in a few minutes."
Combeferre nods, nuzzling his head against his alpha's shoulder in an attempt to give Enjolras the barest modicum of understanding of the relief running through him, and darts toward the door.
Feuilly's hand on his shoulder draws him up short. He turns to the other wolf, a growl and a whine battling in his throat, but Feuilly has his head down, his eyes fixed on the wall to Combeferre's left, and even half-drowning in Courfeyrac's pain and disorientation Combeferre can feel any desire to dominate Feuilly bleeding away.
Feuilly's voice is quiet. "You need to dress to go outside. We don't need to attract undo attention. Especially if he's hurt as badly as it seems like and we'll be bringing him back here."
A naked Jehan presses Combeferre's pants, waistcoat, cravat, socks, shoes, one of his pistols, and coat into his hands before disappearing back into the steadily-more-wakeful press of the pack.
Combeferre's fingers are shaking too badly for him to get all of the buttons and ties on his clothing done, and with every second that he stands still, doesn't move toward that still-more-tenuous-than-it-should-be connection with Courfeyrac, the shaking gets worse.
Feuilly's fingers slip between Combeferre's own, help him finish lacing his pants and buttoning his waistcoat. After that Combeferre's able to finish dressing, though each beat of his heart seems to tell him that he's too slow, too slow.
Holding his coat for him to shrug into, Feuilly hugs him briefly, tightly, his voice a whisper in Combeferre's ear. "Be calm. As impossible as it is, be calm. You act as emissary of our pack; your calm or lack thereof could be his life or death."
Drawing a deep breath, Combeferre closes his eyes, pulling his thoughts away from his bonds with Courfeyrac. For one terrible moment Courfeyrac struggles to maintain the intensity of the connection, and Combeferre can hear his own breath escape in a high-pitched whine of agony.
I'm coming.
Be patient.
I'm coming.
We'll bring you home.
He isn't Enjolras. He can't shove thoughts along his bonds as though they were spoken words, complete and whole in meaning—overlaid with more meaning than simple words, all of his emotions clear. Even with Courfeyrac, even with this one he is bonded to most strongly, that's impossible.
Something of his intentions and meaning must get through, though, as Courfeyrac stops scrabbling at their bonds and some of the terror and confusion ebbs from the pack bonds.
"Ready to go?" Jehan stands next to Feuilly, struggling into his shoes, his clothing rumpled but present.
"Ready." Combeferre runs a hand over Jehan's hair, lays his palm against Feuilly's shoulder briefly. "Thank you."
Feuilly smiles, a shy, uncertain expression, and looks away. "What's pack for?"
Nothing more is said, and their small trio heads out into the night, ahead of the rest of the pack, homing in on Courfeyrac's position.
XXX
The young man in his arms is finally still, quiet, his regular breathing the only thing reassuring Valjean that he isn't dead.
"Not much further." Marius' voice is drawn, strained, but he limps along at Cosette's side, steady and determined. "A few more blocks, and we'll be with his p—with his friends."
Valjean says nothing. He needs to question Marius. He needs to question Courfeyrac. He needs to know what kind of madness Cosette has gotten herself involved with. He needs to know why these men were tied up, why spiked collars were placed around their necks, why Marius has insisted they not involve the police… why Marius insisted they abandon the hulking young man who had chosen to stay behind and cover their escape.
It was Grantaire's choice. That much had been painfully clear, the utter resolve on Grantaire's face as he turned to face the hunting dogs that had been loosed on them enough to stop Valjean's breath in his throat. Between that and Marius' utter insistence, utter certainty that they must run, Valjean had allowed himself to be coerced into carrying the barely-conscious man he still cradles while they abandoned Grantaire.
And perhaps Grantaire escaped. Certainly he had at least done what he intended, distracting the hunters, for there have been no more howls behind them.
The man in his arms stirs again, and Valjean shifts his grip, trying to ensure he doesn't drop his living burden.
Valjean doesn't know where the others come from. They bleed from the shadows into his path, three androgynous young men, and immediately spread out to form a triangle around Valjean's party. Cosette and Marius press closer to Valjean, Marius' lips twisting up momentarily into a fierce snarl, and Valjean strives to put his body between Cosette and the wide-eyed young man who is suddenly holding a pistol on him.
"Who are you?" The young man's voice is deeper than Valjean expected, his words clipped and precise.
"Combeferre." The name holds all the force of a heartfelt benediction, and the man in Valjean's arms suddenly springs to life, twisting half-free, standing on barely-steady legs. "Combeferre, you're here, you're real."
"They're my friends." Marius' voice is quiet, his head held low, the snarl wiped from his lips and replaced with exhausted relief. "These people rescued us. They're no threat."
The man with the pistol hesitates, his eyes sliding from Valjean to Marius to Cosette to the child hovering at Valjean's side but always coming back to rest on Courfeyrac. "How much do they know?"
Marius hesitates, and when he speaks it's with a tentative hesitance. "No more than they should."
"An interesting turn of phrase." The red-headed young man, the most masculine of the lot, crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes scan Marius, the boy, Cosette, and come to land on Valjean, meeting his gaze evenly. "Why have you helped these men, monsieur?"
These men that the streets have wafted up aren't threats to Valjean. Valjean is certain of that, the way that Courfeyrac's body tilts toward the one with the pistol, the way that Marius' driving energy has dissipated giving him that information. These are still dangerous men, though, men who are awake to meet strangers in the dead of night with weapons drawn, involved in something that results in the torture of some of their members. Keeping his face neutral, keeping hold of Courfeyrac under guise of helping him stay vertical, Valjean shifts his eyes from the red-head to the pistol-holding one, guessing him to be their leader from the way he stands. "Marius is quite… dear to my daughter. I went to help him; I couldn't very well leave anyone else in those… deplorable conditions, not if I was able to save them."
The man with the pistol lets out a long, low sigh, and slowly lowers the weapon. "You vouch for them, Marius?"
"Yes." Marius' affirmation is swift and certain. "You can trust them, Combeferre. They're good people."
The gun disappears into the man's clothes with a speed that seems almost superhuman, and in the time it takes Valjean to blink he is at Valjean's side, an arm laid possessively across Courfeyrac's shoulders. "I can take him from here."
Valjean considers refusing to relinquish control over the injured man, but any ideas of holding Courfeyrac as a hostage dissipate as the young man collapses against Combeferre, his face buried against the other man's shoulder, sobs clearly shaking his shoulders, though Valjean can't see if tears are running down his blood-streaked face.
It's impossible to make out all of Courfeyrac's words, and some of those that Valjean can understand seem to be more fever-ramblings than actual statements, but what Valjean does hear squeezes his heart with horror.
"We are in your debt, monsieur." The smallest man finally speaks, his voice a very light tenor. "I… doubt you could appreciate what you have done for us, but nonetheless, we owe you more than I think we could ever repay. Allow us to take Marius and Courfeyrac off your hands and guide you back to your house, ensuring that no trouble will come to you."
"No." There's panic in Marius' voice as he shakes his head, and Cosette's hand grips Marius' shirt with ferocious strength. "You can't. Stay here, on Enjolras' land. If you don't want them at your d—at your house, take them to mine, leave me under guard if you will, but don't send them away, don't take Cosette away from me—"
"Marius." The red-head's voice cuts through Marius' rising terror. "It's all right. We'll keep them safe. As Jehan says, we owe them."
"We need to get them home." The pistol-weilding man slings Courfeyrac's arm over his shoulder. Courfeyrac seems somehow stronger at his touch, walking, something he hadn't done for Valjean for the last twenty minutes of their journey. "I need to see to Courfeyrac's injuries. We need to get the whole story of what happened."
"We need to help Grantaire." Courfeyrac's voice is still half tear-choked. "He protected me. He… we need to get him back."
"We will."
It's a fourth young man who says the words, one who looks even younger than the others. He melts silently from the shadows, coming to stand at Combeferre's side, but he is a creature of light—pale skin and tousled blond hair and blue eyes that shine like deep water in the bright light of the almost-full moon. He is the most beautiful man Valjean has ever seen, seeming only half-real, though the full weight of his stare brings any illusions about his solidity crashing down. The young man's hand lies lightly on Courfeyrac's right shoulder, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes, some of the pain that has been etched into his face fading away.
"Come with me, monsieur. Marius. Madam. Boy." The young man has an aura of gravitas about him, and Valjean moves to obey him before drawing himself up short.
Blue eyes fix him to the spot, rake up and down his body, and Valjean gets the curious but distinct impression that he is assessed and then categorized as not a threat, something he has rarely ever had occur. The blond man tilts his head to the side. "You doubt us."
Valjean hesitates before nodding. "I have seen rather terrible things related to you and yours."
"I give you my word that you are safe. You return one we were sorely missing, and hold the key to the return of our last companion in the story you will tell, if I am not mistaken." The young man lowers his voice as the intensity of emotion in it increases, and Valjean finds himself leaning forward, caught on each word. "My people and I will do all we can to repay that debt."
Pursing his lips, Valjean considers the young men surrounding them, the way they gravitate toward and protect their wounded member, the way their eyes are always sharp and watchful. "Who are you?"
There is a long hesitation, and Valjean has the most curious sense that the blond is talking with all of the others though no words are said and the amout of time that passes is too short to allow for anything less than the direct transfer of thoughts and the faintest of smiles forms on the blond's face. "We are rebels, fighting for the freedom of ourselves and others. I will tell you more, monsieur, when we are safe."
"Let's go with them, father." Cosette, still holding Marius upright, refusing to hand him over even when Valjean attempts to take his arm, raises her chin and stares resolutely at the blond. "I want to hear what they have to say, and Marius wouldn't lead us somewhere unsafe."
Letting out his breath in a long, low sigh of his own, Valjean gestures for the young men to lead the way, hoping that Marius will be worthy of the faith that Cosette clearly has in him.
And if his own curiosity now drives him, a desire to know who these young men with their strange intensity and dangerous lives are, he only hopes it leads to nothing he will regret in the future.
XXX
Courfeyrac lies back against Enjolras, cradled in the alpha's arms as they sit on Enjolras' bed, Combeferre sitting next to them and examining Courfeyrac's injuries intently.
Courfeyrac's skin is warm against Enjolras' body, and his thoughts are still far more rambling and disjointed than they normally would be, but he is at least relaxing, now.
The pack—all save for Bahorel, who Enjolras had sent on a task of his own and who hadn't returned when they dragged Courfeyrac into the house—had met them eagerly, only hesitating for a moment when the humans pressed forward into their den. Their greetings had been less effusive, less physical than they normally would be given the humans' presence, but they had all still managed to touch Courfeyrac in some way, their joy and relief at having their gamma back with them flooding the pack-bonds. With every touch Courfeyrac had seemed to grow stronger, smiling despite his fever, despite his broken bones, the fear and terror slowly stripped away by being home, by being with the pack.
A fear and terror that will undoubtedly have redoubled in Grantaire, tasting freedom so close and yet not finding it, but Enjolras can't allow his thoughts to travel down that path again, not yet.
"I'm sorry." Courfeyrac's words are the barest whisper. "I told him not to, I tried to get him to go on, I would have stayed—"
"If you stayed, you could have died." Combeferre's face is grim, his lips pressed tight together as he tilts Courfeyrac's head first one way and then the other to look at the angry, swollen, half-cauterized gashes on his throat. "Silver's bad enough for our people without a concussion, several broken bones, and infected wolf-bites to deal with."
"It shouldn't be infected." Courfeyrac winces as Combeferre very carefully extends his purple, swollen arm. "It was just this morning I got bit. 'Sides, wolves don't get infections."
"Apparently they do when they're wearing silver collars." Combeferre carefully flexes each of Courfeyrac's fingers, earning a whimper from his mate with each finger moved.
Enjolras does what he can to dull the pain, sharing it with Courfeyrac, but every touch of Combeferre's fingers against his injured hand and arm is either agony or frightening numbness.
Letting out his breath in a low growl, Combeferre bends down to dip a cloth into the bowl of warm water at his side, a final gift from Jehan before he elected to stay at Joly's side to help him deal with Marius' injuries. Swiping gently at Courfeyrac's neck, Combeferre cleans away the blood and flakes of blackened skin, leaving behind deep red scratches that are somehow less painful despite looking rather awful. "We need to deal with his arm first. If we don't get it healing properly… well, I'll just say I'm very glad he's pack and that we have you as an alpha. Then his face, if you've still strength enough. We'll leave his neck alone—nothing's terribly deep, and it's almost impossible to force silver-wounds to heal faster, no matter how strong you are."
"I know." Enjolras keeps his voice gentle, recognizing the strain and fear in Combeferre's voice. "I'll trust you to guide my power where it needs to go."
"I know…" Combeferre hesitates, then plows ahead, his head low. "Grantaire's still alive. The alpha conclave is tomorrow. You'll need your strength there. If you need me to stop at any point… if I'm asking too much of you…"
"I'll tell you." Enjolras tightens his hold on Courfeyrac's body. "Now, do what you need to do."
It's not the first time he's had to heal one of his wolves. He and Combeferre had spent too long as strays before they founded their pack, known too little about humans when they were first wandering, and he had ended up having to heal both of them more times than he cares to remember. He's had to pour his power into Bahorel, on several occassions, when a fight didn't go quite the way Bahorel intended it to; into Jehan, when determination and conviction overshadowed caution in his dealings with others, human or wolf; into Bossuet, when the Knave decided to play tricks with him and his luck took surprising and dramatic turns for the worse; into Feuilly, during his early days as a wolf in their pack, before the wolves from other packs learned to leave him alone on neutral ground or risk not only Feuilly's teeth but their own alpha's wrath for breaking Pack law and bringing Enjolras snarling for retribution.
He's never had to deal with anything as severe as this, though, and he's always had Combeferre and Courfeyrac to draw on for extra strength if needed.
Still has Combeferre and Courfeyrac to draw on, he supposes, will be urging Courfeyrac's own body to heal itself, but it's still a daunting prospect, especially with Courfeyrac's fever-addled thoughts slipping along the pack-bond in disturbing snippets.
A memory of agony, every breath, an inferno at his throat—
The snap-crackle of his bones in Yves' mouth—
Home, finally home, crossing the border back into their territory but without Grantaire—
"Enjolras." Combeferre's voice is gently chiding. "Don't read his memories so deeply. We're trying to conserve your power, remember?"
"Yes." Strengthening his physical hold on his gamma as he pulls his mind away from him, Enjolras rests his head against Courfeyrac's shoulder and locks his hands together around Courfeyrac's stomach, pulling the female tight against him before fixing Combeferre with an unblinking stare. "What are you waiting for?"
He's waiting to not be afraid. He's waiting in the hopes that he will think of something else they can do, some other way that won't hurt all three of them to try to fix Courfeyrac's wounds.
There is no other way. Rubbing his chin against Courfeyrac's neck, Enjolras grasps his bond with Combeferre and tries to fill it with all the surety and certainty that he feels.
Even if this hurts, it will be a pain of healing, a pain of love instead of hate, and that can make all the difference in the world.
Combeferre finally begins his true work, cleaning Courfeyrac's arm of blood, though fresh red mixed with pus begins to leak from the puncture wounds in Courfeyrac's arm as the injuries are uncovered. Courfeyrac says nothing, only a slight increase in the raggedness of his breathing and the pain vibrating along their pack-bond telling Enjolras how much it hurts.
When the limb is cleaned to his satisfaction, Combeferre positions it carefully, picks up a small, sharp knife, and meets Enjolras' eyes. "Ready?"
Enjolras doesn't answer in words. Instead he opens his pack-bonds to his beta and gamma as wide as they will go, flooding his power into their bodies, and allows Combeferre to guide the deluge.
The knife cuts down, once, twice, lancing the swollen, purple skin, and a red-tinged fountain of white-and-yellow slides along Courfeyrac's arm. The cuts hurt, but the pain fades quicky, and the arm actually hurts less as the fluid drains away, the pain easily disseminated between Enjolras and Courfeyrac.
Then Combeferre grips Courfeyrac's fingers and elbow tight, counts to three, and drags as much of Enjolras' power out of him as he can.
Enjolras' own right hand goes numb, stripped of feeling as the pack-bond is overloaded with sensation. Enjolras wishes that Courfeyrac's arm had gone numb, as well, but that doesn't happen, and all he can do is hold Courfeyrac still, share his pain with him, and give Combeferre what power he can.
It's like Changing. The power of the White Lady rushes through his body, twinges in every muscle, every nerve, but he doesn't allow it to take hold, instead feeding it through into Courfeyrac's body, into Combeferre's control, willing it to change damaged tissue into strong healthy flesh again.
It isn't as fast as when Enjolras simply wills his wolves' bodies to heal themselves, though it is much more thorough, has less of a chance of things going wrong, and takes less energy. It relies partly on Enjolras' power and partly on Combeferre's knowledge, on Joly's knowledge, on the knowledge that the humans have carefully gleaned of anatomy and healing and which his wolves have eagerly learned.
After what seems like eternity Combeferre releases Courfeyrac's arm, moving his hands to rest on Courfeyrac's head, on the worst of the bruising around Courfeyrac's right temple. Combeferre doesn't say anything, but he reaches for Enjolras' power, and Enjolras gives it happily, another wrenching not-Change ripping through his body.
Finally Combeferre releases both Courfeyrac's head and Enjolras' power, reaching out to grab a roll of bandages that he'd set on the bed next to them earlier.
Before Combeferre can reclaim Courfeyrac's hand the gamma has lifted it to his nose, sniffing at the now-pale tissue, wiggling his fingers experimentally and getting only a twinge of pain in response.
"Don't." Combeferre grabs Courfeyrac's hand, gently, straightening his arm again and beginning to apply the bandaging. "I'd say we managed, oh, three weeks worth of healing there, and set it healing straight, but you need to be gentle with it still. How do you feel, Enjolras?"
"Tired." Enjolras murmurs the word, still holding tight to Courfeyrac, relishing in the delight that has brought a grin to Courfeyrac's face, in the fading of the fever-overlay to his thoughts and the loss of the extra heat from his skin. "Not exhausted, though. Not drained. I should be fine tomorrow, if I can get a bit of sleep tonight."
The voice that answers is unexpected, and all three wolves turn to look at Bahorel, lounging in the doorway. "That might be difficult. Because the one you sent me to see has apparently already returned from his mission, and he's currently… entertaining Marius' guests in the dining room."
Courfeyrac and Combeferre both turn to look at Enjolras, confusion evident in their expressions, and Enjolras sighs. He had sent Bahorel to summon Armand as soon as he sensed something happening with his captive wolves, suspecting he would need Armand to intercede with Bellamy again. He had expected to have a bit more time to recover before Armand appeared on his doorstep, though. "Someone's watching Armand?"
Bahorel snorts. "Of course."
"Armand?" Courfeyrac spins back to Bahorel. "Here? In our den? How—"
"By shoving his way past Bossuet when Bossuet opened the door to see who it was." Bahorel's mouth twists in frustration and distaste. "I tried to ask him to step outside or at least not sit with the humans, but he was very adamant that he wanted to be inside the den and given the… delicate… situation I thought I'd see what you wanted me to do. Say the word and I'll boot the old buzzard out."
"No." Enjolras gently shifts Courfeyrac off of him, smiling at the way that Courfeyrac scrambles to his feet and makes to head for the door, only stopped by a frustrated whine from Combeferre as he attempts to finish his bandage. "I'll come see him. I need to know what he learned."
"Thought so." Bahorel sighs, holding a hand out to clap Enjolras on the shoulder.
A jolt of strength runs through Enjolras' body, tasting of spring and Change and sheer vibrant life, and Enjolras can feel the tiredness fade back briefly.
"You've got the whole pack to draw on." Bahorel stares meaningfully between Courfeyrac and Enjolras, bright green eyes flashing in a way that may not be entirely due to the lamplight in the room. "Don't forget it."
Smiling, Enjolras inclines his head. "Never."
Giving a brief nod of his own, Bahorel leads the way to the dining room and the next problem of the night.
XXX
"Don't tie it so tightly! You're going to make it hurt again." Courfeyrac wriggles his fingers, squirming in place but not actually pulling his arm back.
"No, you are going to make it hurt again by doing more than you should. Don't think I don't know you and what you're thinking." Combeferre continues his work, scowling down at Courfeyrac's injured limb.
"I'm not thinking anything." Courfeyrac pauses to consider his words. "No, scratch that, I'm thinking about quite a lot of things, but one of them is certainly not breaking my arm again. It hurts having broken bones."
"Yes." Combeferre's reply is dry as he turns Courfeyrac's hand once more, getting the angle that he wants for his bandage. "I noticed."
"Good. I would have been worried if you hadn't." Taking in the way Combeferre's hands are tense on the bandage, the way Combeferre's eyes still haven't risen to meet his own since Enjolras left, Courfeyrac forces his overly-energized body into stillness.
At first he's afraid the energy—borrowed energy, Enjolras' energy, a flood of life poured into him by his amazing alpha—will dissipate with stillness, dropping him back into the hazy, half-aware world that the fever and concussion had left him in before. It doesn't, though. His head is clear; his arm is more than halfway better, the swelling and discoloration almost gone, the pain barely registering after everything else he's been through today. Only his face and neck still really ache, and he's quite capable of handling that.
He waits for Combeferre to finish tying off the bandage, then reaches out with his good left hand and captures Combeferre's chin, turning his mate's head so that they're eye to eye. "Thank you."
"It's nothing." Combeferre swallows hard, his voice quiet. "I would have done it for any of the pack."
"And it would have been hard for you no matter who it was. I know that. But… thank you. And remember that it's all right now. I'm back. The three of us are together again."
"Together." Combeferre's hands slowly relax, relief flooding their mate-bond. "Today, when you were hurt—Courfeyrac—I've known I could lose one or both of you, I've known, but to feel you hurt, to not be able to do anything—"
"You did do something." Pulling Combeferre close to him with his good hand, Courfeyrac nuzzles against his mate's chest. "You and Enjolras kept the pack safe. You came to a half-way decent deal with Bellamy despite not having all the facts. You just healed me."
"I know." Combeferre's arms tighten around him, and Combeferre's tongue runs gently across his cheek. "I… just need to hold you like this, just for a minute, if that's all right."
Staying quiet, Courfeyrac nuzzles against Combeferre's chest, giving him the moment he needs.
It feels wonderful. It feels right, being here, being home, and he allows his mind to skitter along the pack-bonds, relishing the feeling of having them open again. He is home. He is free, safe, has been wrapped in his alpha's arms, is currently wrapped in his mate's arms, can feel his pack-mates touching their bonds in return, their relief as they find him present again. He could easily stay like this for hours, allowing his body to rest while his heart and soul are busy reassuring the rest of the pack that he is home, he is home, he is home.
They can't stay like this for long, though. Enjolras will need them, and after so long feeling helpless Courfeyrac needs to be involved in this—needs to be involved in getting Grantaire back, in repaying Grantaire for what he's done.
Straightening, he presses a firm, brief kiss to Combeferre's lips, earning a startled gasp that brings a smile to Courfeyrac's face. He enjoys surprising Combeferre like that, the physicality he has learned from the humans still somewhat alien to his mate. Not unenjoyable, though, and he kisses Combeferre again before pulling back with a satisfied smirk. "Now, am I suitably wrapped enough or do you want to tie me up more?"
"Don't tempt me." Combeferre sighs, ruffling Courfeyrac's hair, but pulls away. "You're right. We should go."
Courfeyrac nods. "We need to get him back."
"We will. They haven't killed him yet, and that likely means Bellamy's holding him as a hostage." Pressing Courfeyrac's hand in reassurance, Combeferre offers him a small smile. "With the information you've brought—Bellamy using silver against other wolves—I can't imagine the vote will go in his favor, and there's no way Bellamy would dare risk killing him and angering Enjolras and everyone else."
"I hope so. It shouldn't go in his favor." Rubbing at his neck, at the raised flesh around the deep scratches, Courfeyrac shivers.
Best not to think of that possibility, though. Best not to imagine Grantaire back there, collared again, hurt in who knew what ways during his fight to buy them time to get to freedom.
Standing in a rush, infinitely relieved to find that the ground stays steady under him, Courfeyrac turns to the door.
And spots the human boy, the one who had started all this, eyes wide as he peers up at Courfeyrac from a crouched position by the half-open door.
The boy goes to run, swift on his feet.
Combeferre is faster.
Catching up to them halfway back to the main door to their den, Courfeyrac finds himself looking down into the child's frightened, defiant eyes.
Rubbing once more at his neck, Courfeyrac wonders exactly how much more complicated this whole fiasco can get.
XXX
Armand is seated at the dining room table, looking quite at ease, the human male seated next to him while the human girl and Marius sit across the table from them. The torn leg of Marius' trousers has been cut along the seam and peeled back up to his knee, revealing the extent of the injury, and Joly is very carefully working on sewing up the bloody tears in Marius' flesh.
Marius doesn't whine, whimper, or protest the ministrations, holding tight to the girl—Cosette, that was the name she had given—to Cosette's hand and staring into her eyes. Cosette, for her part, seems to alternate between horrified and intrigued by what Joly is doing, continually sneaking looks down at the doctor before returning her eyes to Marius.
"—nothing that can replace education as the foundation of a society. But how to get an education to everyone? Thought cannot be forced upon another, no matter how sorely they need it. A difficult conundrum, but one that we will find an answer for, I've no doubt." Armand smiles as he finishes his monologue, sipping from the cup before him. A quick sniff tells Enjolras that it's tea sitting before all of their… guests is an accurate enough word, he supposes. Rising to his feet, Armand meets Enjolras' gaze for a moment before allowing his own to travel to the right, a gesture of equality followed by a signal that there should be no fight between them now.
Enjolras is glad for that. His mind is caught somewhere between hyperaware and exhausted, each sound and sight and smell—blood, such a smell of blood in this room as there is in his room now—too sharp and clear but his ability to process all his senses slowed and hampered by what he just did. Drawing a breath through his nose, he acknowledges Armand's presence with a slight nod. He keeps his head up, though, uncertain why Armand has chosen to come here, to invade not only his territory but his den, to threaten his pack—
No. No threat to the pack. Ally, Armand has been, and ally he will remain, the only connection Enjolras has to Bellamy and his lost wolf.
Grantaire is alive. Enjolras knows that, though it hurts, every time he touches the silent bond, all his instincts telling him to run to Grantaire's side, to protect his wolf, to defend his people. Those instincts aren't helped by the knowledge that Grantaire is hurt, pain having transferred over the bond, though the exact nature of the injuries was something he couldn't pick up before his link with Grantaire once more went numb and empty.
Silver.
They've put silver on his wolf, the fire that burns without heat, and there is nothing he can do about it right now.
Armand. He needs to focus on Armand. Holding a hand out to indicate the door, Enjolras raises his eyebrows in inquiry. "Shall we speak away from the injured?"
Armand nods, a pleasant smile on his face. "After you."
Enjolras takes Armand to Combeferre's room, the scent of Combeferre and books comforting after all that's happened. Turning to face the other alpha, he raises his eyebrows in silent query.
Armand simply stares at the wall to Enjolras' left, standing at ease.
After nearly a minute Enjolras frowns. "So?"
"So to which question?" Armand flicks his eyes to meet Enjolras', a small smile on his face. "Do you wish to speak about Bellamy first, or about my invasion of your territory?"
Enjolras wants to close his eyes. He wants to take a moment to hold Courfeyrac, to talk with Combeferre, to plan. He can't afford to take that time right now, though, so instead he meets Armand's eyes and smiles himself. "I assume you've invaded my den in return for my sending my delta to yours. I wouldn't have sent Bahorel into your territory if I didn't need your assistance, and need it quickly. I appreciate your fast response, and I also accept the… retaliation you have chosen to give. Shall we move on to how your second meeting with Bellamy went? To what's being done to the remaining wolf of mine that he has?"
"Ah, Enjolras, you are a joy." Armand's smile is genuine, fondness in his eyes as his stance relaxes. "So swift and to the point, so certain of yourself and your pack, no unnecessary posturing."
Enjolras keeps his annoyance in check, only a slight frown breaking through his control. "Bellamy?"
"I spoke with him. I told him you had no knowledge of how your wolves came to escape, and that you held him to his word not to injure them until the conclave is finished. He accused you of using humans to break Pack law in spirit if not in practice."
"The spirit of the law." A snarl works its way out of Enjolras' throat despite his best efforts. "As if he could speak of it, when he uses silver against other wolves."
"A valid point. The stray still stinks of silver; I've no doubt it still taints your gamma, as well." Nodding in agreement, Armand continues on, seeming unperturbed. "I can tell you that your wolf is alive, and I can say that Bellamy has agreed to hold your last wolf until the conclave, unharmed."
Relief runs through Enjolras' body, and he can feel his muscles relax. He had suspected Bellamy wasn't going to kill Grantaire, not if he hadn't done it yet, but having confirmation given to another wolf—another alpha—is still an important reassurance. "Did you see Grantaire?"
"Yes. He's being held at their den, trussed like a sacrifice and bound in two silver collars."
Enjolras swallows, phantom pain at his throat flaring as the memories from Courfeyrac flood his mind again.
He's alive, though.
Grantaire's alive, and Enjolras will get him back, hopefully through politics, but if necessary…
If necessary, he will fight Bellamy, and try not to revel in the taste of Bellamy's blood in his mouth, payment for all the pain that Courfeyrac and Grantaire have been through.
"Do you need me for anything else, Enjolras?" Armand's voice is quiet calm.
"No. Thank you, again." Turning his gaze once more to the older alpha, Enjolras smiles, grateful for all the work that Armand has done for him. "I won't forget this. If you ever need my help, simply ask."
"All I need is for you to continue to be what you are." Armand's smile is warm, and he crosses the distance to Enjolras, reaches out and places a hand on Enjolras' shoulder, his head dropping low as he does. "So long as you are you, I am content to do all that I can to assist you."
Enjolras inclines his head, knowing that his puzzlement is plain on his face but unable to help it. "I… cannot imagine being anything other than what I am."
"Good." Giving him one more pat on the shoulder, Armand turns away. "I look forward to seeing how things go with Bellamy. This should be a most fascinating conclave."
Enjolras walks Armand to the door and watches him leave, bemused still by the alpha's strange words. What is it that Armand sees in him? What could Armand possibly mean about him being himself?
There are other, more important things for him to focus on right now. Shaking his head, Enjolras turns and forces his feet to head back toward the dining room.
He will deal with their human guests now, decide what to do with them, determine how much they know and what stories they can tell to assuage the human's curiosity without giving too much away.
Unless it is time to give information away. These humans have just saved two wolves, after all. They have shown their ability for compassion. Perhaps they should be the first to hear what the Pack is, what Courfeyrac and Marius are, what it is that they carried back cradled in their arms.
He will need to talk with Combeferre and the rest of the pack before doing that, though.
And then he will need to prepare for the alpha conclave, and try not to pace a hole in the floor as he waits for the appointed time to come.
