Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with this so far! We've got one more part to go, which wraps up the dangling threads. I'm sorry if the last part was overly confusing for people; I've gone back and added a short bit about the alphas. Basically Armand and Gillenormand are the oldest; Bellamy, Badeau, and Cavey tend to be the most conservative; Paquet and Areli tend to be somewhere in the middle; and Geroux usually votes with Enjolras, though not always.

Arc Two, Part Eleven: The Value of One

Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras by both shoulders, halting his forward momentum before Enjolras can truly fling himself across the table at Bellamy.

No. Control. Calm. Courfeyrac flings all of his determination along his bond to Enjolras, trying to override the instinctual need Enjolras has to protect, to defend. Grantaire isn't here. Attacking Bellamy will just give him what he wants.

Enjolras stops struggling against him, his muscles quivering with undirected tension, his thoughts slowly coalescing again into something more than a desperate drive to act. Thank you, Courfeyrac. I'm sorry. I just… they're trying to kill Grantaire.

I know. Courfeyrac had felt the sharp pain of teeth in his leg, an echo of Grantaire's agony traveling along the pack-bond that has been becoming clearer and clearer over the last hour, before Enjolras' anger and aggression overwhelmed everything else. You told Combeferre to move?

I did. Enjolras settles back in his chair, his breathing slow and even again, giving away none of the roiling tension that he's holding in check. He'll bring Grantaire home. Now we just try to talk our way out of this.

Marius has retreated a good half-dozen paces toward the door, terror wafting off of him in acrid waves. Geroux and his second have pulled back, Geroux's beta in a half-crouch between his alpha and Enjolras, teeth pulled back from his lips and his eyes half-mad with fear. Cavey is standing at his beta's side, body tense and straight, seeming uncertain if he should be lunging forward or back. His eyes flick to Bellamy and Badeau.

Bellamy is standing, his face white, his eyes distant and glassy. Badeau has half-risen from his seat, but he considers Bellamy for one long, quiet moment and then settles back down into his chair.

As Badeau settles down, Cavey does, as well.

"Enjolras?" Armand is standing now, both hands flat on the table, irritation and confusion mixing in his voice. "Bellamy? What's going on?"

"Trespass." Bellamy's voice is a high, tight whisper, and his eyes suddenly lurch into terrible focus, one hand rising to point accusingly at Enjolras. "His wolves are trespassing on my land! They're attacking my wolves!"

"No." Enjolras' voice is calm, none of his anger showing in it, and as he speaks the calm becomes more than an act, spreading out to dampen down the fury, leaving something colder and more terrible behind. "They're saving one that the Conclave just declared should be returned to me, and that you, in turn, attempted to kill."

"I didn't—that's not—" Bellamy shakes his head, his eyes wild. "They're trespassing!"

"Bellamy." Geroux's voice has a low, growling undercurrent to it, the snap of twigs under a steadily approaching predator's paws. "Is what he says true? Did you order your people to kill Grantaire rather than return him?"

"I…" Bellamy swallows, his hand lowering, his eyes tracking over to Badeau. Whatever he's expecting from the other alpha, though, he gets nothing but a cool, disdainful glare.

"Yes or no, Bellamy." Armand's voice is the crack of a whip. "And be truthful. We'll know if you try to lie to us."

Courfeyrac hadn't though Bellamy's face could get any whiter. And perhaps white isn't quite the color that it becomes, ashen-gray helplessness and hopelessness spreading across his features and through his scent as his eyes slide from Badeau to Armand. There is a particular scent, a mixture of tension and excitement and terror, that tends to go along with a lie, and though it's sometimes possible to fool one wolf who doesn't know you well, trying to fool eight other alphas and their hand-picked seconds who were looking for a lie would be nigh on impossible. "Yes. Grantaire was mine, by Pack law, no matter what the Conclave decided. And I ordered him executed."

Lips pulled back from his teeth, Armand narrows his eyes. "You directly disobeyed the Conclave's decision. And you did so in a way that was designed to discredit Enjolras and turn the Conclave against him by making him look dangerous."

By making him lose control, by turning him into the aggressor that Bellamy and his allies could attack and kill before anyone knew what was happening, but Enjolras and Combeferre had expected it. When they felt the first stirrings of Grantaire's bond to them opening again, an hour before the Conclave, they had known that the silver collars had been removed. Courfeyrac had initially assumed it was Grantaire's pain that was supposed to be a distraction; Enjolras had been certain Bellamy was playing a deeper game, that he wanted Enjolras to be able to feel Grantaire's pain as more than just a distraction. After a brief, heated debate Enjolras had ordered half the pack into Bellamy's territory, to be used as a strike-force if needed to retrieve Grantaire.

It had been a dangerous decision. If the pack was discovered and Bellamy had done nothing to warrant the intrusion, they could lose a great deal—could lose Enjolras, even, depending on how Bellamy pushed his claim.

It had been the right decision, though, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on his bonds with Combeferre. Alive?

He can't actually send the word, Combeferre is too far away, but Courfeyrac focuses on the concept, on the idea of the pack together, on the comfort of resting among the others, the warmth of their skin and fur on his, the rush of air in his lungs, on submission and the sharp tang of alcohol and fierce gratitude, all that codes to Grantaire and the pack.

A sense of tentative relief, the scent of blood mixed with a flare of hope and sharp determination, and he translates it easily. Alive, but injured.

As they expected, and Courfeyrac opens his eyes to study the volatile Conclave before him. Marius has crept back toward the table, his head low, his eyes darting left and right; the other alphas are settling into their seats, but tension is thick in the room. They made the right decision, Courfeyrac has no doubt of that, but it's going to be difficult navigating the murky territory that it puts them in with regards to Pack law.

"He is dangerous." Bellamy's voice drops to a low hiss. "You saw how he reacted. You saw what he was going to do! You see what he's done—violated Pack law, invaded my territory! He's—"

"You could have had me, you know." Enjolras doesn't look at Bellamy, instead studying his hands, and the cold, icy anger is swept away on a wave of regret and disappointment. "All you had to do was obey the Conclave, return Grantaire safely to my pack, and I would have been yours. I wouldn't have fought that—you would have been right, I would have been in clear violation of Pack law. But the reason I did it was because I didn't trust you to obey the Conclave's order, and you did exactly as I feared you would. You tried to kill my wolf. You tried to goad me into attacking you. You're trying to play human games of politics, but you're not even good at playing wolf ones. Why do all this?"

"Because we have to stop you. Because you're dangerous. Because you're evil, a blasphemous disgrace to the Lady and all that we are." Hatred twists Bellamy's features into something terrible, a parody of the evil wolf-man that humans draw to insult the Pack.

Armand settles back in his chair, one finger tapping slowly against the table as he studies Bellamy. "Enjolras is not the one who has tortured wolves with silver. He is not the one who has tricked wolves into trespass so that he could torture them. He is not the one who disobeyed the Conclave because he couldn't control his bloodlust. If anyone is a shame to the Lady, it is you. The only question is, what to do about it. Do we take some of your territory?"

Bellamy's snarl is audible over Armand's voice, but Armand doesn't pause.

"Do we declare your wolves unwelcome on neutral ground, confine you to your territory until you learn how to properly associate with other wolves, until you aren't a threat to your own kind?"

Hands balled into fists, Bellamy looks between Enjolras, Armand, and Badeau. Enjolras continues to study his hands. Armand continues to speak, implacable.

And Badeau turns away, expression sour, a flick of his fingers dismissing the proceedings as beneath him.

"Do we exile your pack from Paris? Do—"

Courfeyrac can see the moment Bellamy breaks, can practically hear the word exile echoing in the older alpha's mind. Shock freezes Yves' body and expression, Bellamy's beta dropping into a huddle on the ground as Bellamy launches himself across the table at Enjolras.

Protect Marius and yourself. The command is a thought, there and then gone, as Enjolras meets Bellamy's rush, grabbing the other alpha out of the air and twisting them both down to the ground.

Courfeyrac acknowledges the command, shoving Marius toward the door again. Then he places himself between Enjolras and Cavey, bringing Cavey's beta up short as Cavey himself hesitates.

Enjolras can take one alpha. So long as everyone else thinks twice before joining the fray…

Enjolras' power sweeps through the room, a comfort to Courfeyrac, a threat to the rest, and Bellamy abruptly stops struggling.

"Hush." Enjolras' voice is gentle, his arm firm where it's wrapped around Bellamy's throat, holding him in a chokehold. "Don't fight me. You'll only hurt yourself."

Blood trickles down Bellamy's face from his nose, and his eyes are unfocused; blood slides down Enjolras face from a deep gash above his left eye, but even as Courfeyrac watches it heals.

Reaching tentatively along his bond to Enjolras, Courfeyrac pulls back as though from a fire. Enjolras is there, as always, but there is another there, as well, a roiling, terrified, angry, mad presence that leads to other bonds, and Courfeyrac knows, with a sinking certainty, what is happening.

Alpha battle.

And Enjolras is winning.

Turning his attention back to the wolves now surrounding them, Courfeyrac finds that Cavey's wolf has backed away, is now standing at Cavey's side. All of the alphas are surrounding them in a loose circle, cutting off their escape. Geroux stands closest to them, his lips pressed tight together, sorrow and frustration in his scent. Paquet and Areli stand back-to-back, uncertain, their seconds next to them, all looking like they would much rather run than deal with this. Cavey stands at Badeau's side, watching him, and Badeau studies Enjolras with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest. Armand watches Enjolras, a frown on his face, but it's fury that Courfeyrac reads in his scent, and he can't tell which of the alphas on the ground it's directed at. Gillenormand watches the two wolves with just the faintest disapproving expression.

And then Marius is there, at Courfeyrac's side, facing the rest of the alphas despite the stark terror radiating off him, and Gillenormand's expression changes to one of pained frustration.

"Conclave." Enjolras' voice is thin, his eyes distant, and Courfeyrac aches to help him, to join in the battle, to take some of the strain from him. "Decision…"

Picking up the thread of what Enjolras is trying to ask, Courfeyrac turns in a slow circle. "What is the Conclave's decision on Bellamy's fate? He has shown himself to be faithless and untrustworthy in his word. He has just attacked and engaged another alpha in an alpha struggle on neutral territory, at a Conclave meeting, something that all here agreed would never be done."

For long moments silence stretches, and Courfeyrac is afraid they won't make a decision, won't speak, that this will devolve into total infighting and outright civil war. Nausea rises in Courfeyrac as their pack-scent, the scent emanating from his skin, defining him and his, slowly shifts, incorporating the scent of Bellamy and his pack.

He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be bound to Bellamy, to have his soul mingle with that of the alpha who tortured him, and his wrist twinges painfully.

Sorry. The word is a whisper, taut, strained, and Courfeyrac can feel Enjolras pull back even further from their pack-bond, locking himself and Bellamy away from the rest of the pack.

Before Courfeyrac can respond Armand draws himself up. "The agreement all alphas made was that any alpha who attacked another at the Conclave would be put to death."

"An agreement that Bellamy just tried to use against Enjolras." Geroux studies Enjolras and Bellamy, wiping his palms against his trousers as he does. "There's a certain justice in using the law he would have perverted against him."

Badeau rubs his jaw. "Enjolras did use the Conclave and Bellamy's absence from his pack to invade Bellamy's territory and attack his wolves."

"Not attack." Enjolras' arms are trembling as he continues to hold Bellamy in place, but Courfeyrac doesn't dare send his thoughts questing along their pack-bond again, not until he's certain it will be safe.

"All Bellamy's wolves are unharmed." Courfeyrac is fairly certain that's true—absolutely certain, when Enjolras doesn't contradict him. "All we did was take back Grantaire, as the Conclave had said was our right."

"We can't trust a wolf like Bellamy." Areli finally speaks up.

"Someone who would do the things he's done…" Paquet hesitates. "But Enjolras did invade, goading Bellamy into a move. But to defy the Conclave's decision… as you said, we can't trust him. Exile, I think, because sharing a border with a wolf who is untrustworthy and doesn't listen to direct orders would be too stressful for any of us, yes?"

"Exile." Cavey glances at Badeau, then grimaces. "Better than death, I suppose."

Murmurs of agreement come from all the other alphas.

"Agreed, then." Armand sighs. "You are to release him, Enjolras. You, Bellamy, will have twenty-four hours to remove yourself and your wolves from Paris. If any wolf bound to you ever returns, they will be hunted and executed. The same will be true if you return. Understood?"

Bellamy sags into Enjolras' hold, his eyes closing, blood continuing to slide down his face, the scent of despair rising around him. "Yes."

"Return his independence and his pack to him, Enjolras." Armand takes a prudent step back. "And if you attack one of us again, Bellamy, know your life is forfeit."

"Yves?" Enjolras' voice is almost too quiet to hear.

"Yves?" Craning to see between the press of wolves, Courfeyrac picks out Bellamy's second, the female wolf crouched in a low huddle on the ground, his hands to his ears.

What is it that Enjolras is trying to ask? What is it that he would want?

Choice.

Freedom.

Always the freedom to choose with Enjolras.

Courfeyrac wants to stand in front of Yves. He wants to touch the other female, hold him, protect him, give him some privacy in which to consider and make this decision.

He doesn't dare leave Enjolras unprotected, not in a circle of alphas, not when Enjolras' just won an alpha battle he didn't want to fight and is struggling to keep their pack and Bellamy's separated when they're all feeding into him.

"Yves." Courfeyrac repeats her name, louder.

And then Marius pushes through the alphas still partially obscuring Courfeyrac's view, his head low but his stride determined, and kneels by the female. His hand on Yves' shoulder is gentle but insistent, and after a few moments Yves' raises barely-focused eyes to look at Courfeyrac.

Giving Marius a fierce smile, wishing Marius were part of their pack so he could feel Courfeyrac's gratitude clearly, Courfeyrac turns his full focus to Yves. "Do you want Enjolras to simply return Bellamy's pack bonds, as he did with Armand years ago, or do you want to be free of his pack?"

"I want—" The beta wolf blinks back tears and bears his teeth in a snarl of despairing hatred. "I want you to go away. I want you to never have come, any of you. I want my daughter back and my pack safe and—and—" Yves gasps in a shuddering breath, gaze raking over Bellamy, and all Courfeyrac can see and smell from the female is despair. "I gave myself to him. We all did. I won't abandon him now."

"Your loyalty is admirable." The terrible thing is that it is, in a way. How many wolves would stay with an alpha who had just lost so soundly, who is being stripped of his territory? "And if that is your choice, we abide by it. But you aren't bound to stay with him. If you want your freedom… if you want a chance to leave this all behind you… we will not begrudge you that choice."

Yves hauls himself upright, every move holding exhaustion in it. "I stand by my alpha. The rest of the pack does, as well, until such time as he betrays our trust."

Bellamy has already clung so hard to tradition that he's driven off one of the most promising young wolves in their pack, tortured other wolves with silver, and now betrayed the Conclave, losing their pack everything in the process. What more did he have to do to show his betrayal?

"He hasn't turned on us." Yves words are a bare whisper. "He still… he thinks all that he's done has been to protect us, to help us. He's trying."

"He's failing you, and himself, and our people." Courfeyrac glances to Enjolras, still holding Bellamy, locked together with him body and mind and soul. Even Enjolras can't hold their packs separate for too much longer, though. "If that's your decision, we accept it. Let him go, Enjolras."

Enjolras' fingers are releasing their hold before the words have fully left Courfeyrac's lips. His hand guides Bellamy toward Courfeyrac, handing the other alpha forward, and Courfeyrac directs Bellamy's staggering steps toward Yves.

Enjolras doesn't release his hold on Bellamy's pack bonds until Bellamy is at Yves' side. The sudden loss of tension staggers Courfeyrac, and he draws a deep breath, surreptitiously widening his stance to try to keep his shakiness from showing.

For one long moment Courfeyrac thinks that Bellamy is going to do the unthinkably foolish and attack them. Reaching a hand down to Enjolras, Courfeyrac hauls his own alpha upright, trying not to flinch at the weakness of Enjolras' grip or the terrible grief in his eyes. There is no doubt in his mind that Enjolras would defend him again, but he will prevent that if he can, even if it means killing Bellamy and any other wolves he must.

Then Yves has his alpha by the shoulder, is guiding him toward the door, and all the other wolves watch in silence until they've left.

"Twenty-four hours for them to be gone from their territory, as we agreed upon three years ago when we made the rules for exile." Armand speaks softly. There's no need for him to raise his voice, everyone still, studying their neighbors with ill-hidden unease. "Shall we meet here again tomorrow? We can verify that Bellamy has abided by the statutes as well as clearing up any other… issues… that have been raised."

"Agreed." Paquet speaks quickly, his eyes wide as they flick between Enjolras and the door. "Tomorrow we'll continue any… deliberations we need to."

Armand studies Enjolras, his expression carefully blank. "If there are no objections, then we will consider this meeting adjourned."

There are no objections. There's hardly any talking at all, the alphas staying close to their seconds, packs pulling together after the display of power and danger that they just saw. None of them come closer to Enjolras as they leave, even Geroux steering wide of their small huddle as the female leads his beta away.

Courfeyrac holds tight to Enjolras' elbow, and steers them toward the door when half the alphas have left, after Badeau but before Areli. A quick gesture with his hand brings Marius skittering up to their side, and their trio leaves together, unimpeded.

"That was amazing." Marius' tone is awed as he stares at Enjolras. "The way you moved when you took him down—so certain and so fluid. And that alpha battle, I've heard of them but I've never seen one, and you made it look so easy—"

"It wasn't easy." Enjolras' eyes close. "It's never easy."

"But…" Marius trails off, his gaze shifting from Enjolras to Courfeyrac. "We won. Grantaire's all right, yes? And no one would dare to touch you or yours again, not after a display of power like that."

"That's what we thought last time." Still with his eyes closed, trusting Courfeyrac to guide him, Enjolras lowers his head. "When I fought Armand, I hoped I'd never have to do it again. There's nothing you can do to frighten away aggression, though. For good or for ill… the monarchy trying to put down the rebels… me trying to protect my pack... there has to be force, dominance, but that isn't what changes anything…"

"But… you won." Marius' hand reaches out, brushes lightly at Courfeyrac's shoulder. "He tortured you, and you won. Aren't you happy? Shouldn't we be celebrating?"

"I am happy to be alive. I am happy to have Grantaire safe with our pack again." Courfeyrac tightens his hold on his alpha, reaching for and gently forcing his way along his pack-bond with Enjolras, into the center of the exhaustion and sorrow that has become his alpha's core. And I am glad to be with you, to be doing what we are doing, even when the cost is terrible.

After a brief pause Enjolras' presence wraps itself around Courfeyrac, the exhaustion pulling at his energy as it's offered. I want to go home, Courfeyrac.

I know. Laying his arm across Enjolras' shoulders, he pulls his alpha close. We're heading there.

And the pack will be there. They'll be glad to see us back. It isn't a question, but there's a desperate, aching need behind the statement that makes Courfeyrac's heart hurt.

The pack will be there, and we'll all be together. All of us, Enjolras, alpha to lambda, together again as we should be, and it will be glorious. Reach for them now, if you need them.

Enjolras hesitates. He—they—won't be disappointed?

Combeferre will understand. We did what we had to. Courfeyrac tightens his hold on Enjolras. We always do what we have to, even when it's terrible. Now rest, Enjolras. We'll deal with the politics tomorrow; tonight, we'll be a pack, as the Lady made us.

A sigh slides from Enjolras' lips, and his thoughts slip away from Courfeyrac's, threading through the rest of their pack-bonds, tentatively touching the rest of the pack.

"Courfeyrac?" Marius' uncertainty turns the name to a question.

"It's fine, Marius. It's just… been a long day. But you did well. We did well. We won, as you said." Reaching out with his free hand to clap the male on the shoulder, Courfeyrac smiles, a genuine expression of happiness as he feels the rest of the pack reaching eagerly for he and Enjolras along their bonds. "Let's go home and enjoy our victory."

XXX

"What's happening?" Grantaire whimpers the question out between panting breaths, leaning even more heavily on Musichetta and Joly. Combeferre walks behind them, guarding their retreat; Bahorel scouts ahead, watching for any ambush, while Feuilly and Monet circle them in wolf form, running their path forward and backward but never straying more than ten paces from the rest of the pack.

"Enjolras' fighting." Combeferre resists the urge to send his thoughts racing along his pack-bond to his alpha. If Enjolras needs him, Enjolras will reach for him; until that point, Combeferre will best serve the pack by protecting those with him.

They've met no resistance from Bellamy's pack as they've made their escape. Combeferre doesn't know if that's a good or a bad sign, though the fact that Enjolras is fighting probably means things aren't going well at the Conclave.

No, not just fighting. A shudder runs through Combeferre as his scent—the whole pack's scent—begins to subtly shift, additional wolves added to the mix.

Alpha battle.

Enjolras is forcing another alpha into submission, claiming all his pack-bonds, and there is nothing Combeferre can do to help and support him other than protect those wolves with him.

His hand closes on the handle of his knife, and he misses his pistols.

"No. No no no noooo." The last syllable draws out into a brief, piteous howl of anguish, and Grantaire stops even the pretense of assisting with walking.

"Grantaire." Scrambling in front of the trio, grabbing Grantaire's face in a firm grip while trying to continue to walk backward, Combeferre meets the other wolf's fever-bright eyes. "Trust him. It's Enjolras. You trust Enjolras, yes?"

A brief, jerky nod is Grantaire's response, and he pulls in a ragged breath that doesn't come out as a howl. "Trust him."

"Good. Then stay away from your bond to him until I say it's all right or he reaches for you. Understand?" Releasing Grantaire's head, Combeferre waits for the lower-ranked wolf to nod before turning his attention to Joly and Musichetta. "We need to get him home as fast as we can."

"Working on it." Joly mutters out the words, but he and Musichetta speed up.

They continue to walk, quickly, harried, the curious eyes of the humans that they pass feeling like firebrands against Combeferre's skin. No one approaches them, though. No one asks them what they're doing.

No one offers assistance, either, but given the circumstances, Combeferre will content himself with benign neglect.

They've just passed the borders of Bellamy's territory when the pack scent abruptly shifts again, back to what it should be, just those who asked and were granted acceptance. It's a palpable relief to all of them, and Combeferre smiles as he watches his companion's steps lighten.

The wait that follows is interminable, but Combeferre doesn't dare send his thoughts along his bond to Enjolras when they might be a distraction. Finally, though, after what seems like ages, Enjolras reaches out to him, hesitant, tentative, tired, ashamed, and Combeferre allows his focus to slide inward for just a short amount of time. You're all fine? Courfeyrac? Marius? Yourself?

Fine. The word is fuzzy, blurred, Enjolras too drained to send properly. Bellamy. Attacked. Angry?

Sad. For many reasons—to feel Enjolras like this again, tired to the point of incoherence; to know that the blow to Bellamy and his pack must be even worse; to be separate, still, when Enjolras needs him, but Grantaire needs him more. We'll see you at home, though. I'll get Grantaire fixed up. I'm sure he'll be very happy to see you.

Home. The sense of relief that accompanies the word is nigh-on overwhelming. Combeferre. Home.

Allowing his bond to Enjolras to flow through his mental grasp, Combeferre turns to Courfeyrac. Safe?

Courfeyrac's response is the feel of Enjolras' warmth against one side, Marius against the other, the scent of their pack. Very safe.

See you at home. He doesn't know how much of the sentiment passes along their mate-bond, but he's certain it's enough, a return sense of their pack and the smell of them all together mixed with the smell of woodsmoke and paper and ink a clear return of the sentiment. Take care of him.

A sense of long-suffering amusement suffuses their bond. Always.

A furred form presses itself hard against his leg, not quite jostling him off balance, and Combeferre looks down to see Feuilly staring pointedly at Grantaire.

The submissive wolf is lagging again, his head down, his breath a pained-looking pant, his gait uneven as his injured leg slows him down. Joly is struggling valiantly to support his weight, but Grantaire is listing toward him more and more, Joly's small stature meaning that the weight naturally gravitates to him.

Murmuring a quiet thank you and apology to Feuilly, Combeferre moves forward and takes Joly's place.

"Thanks." Joly heaves a sigh of relief as he stretches his shoulders. "I'll trade out again in a minute or two."

"The four of us will rotate as often as we need until we get home." Combeferre tightens his fingers around Grantaire, catching Bahorel's eye as he pauses to look back at them. "And we'll be home soon, so just keep walking, Grantaire."

Grantaire gives a soft noise that's probably supposed to be acquiescence and continues limping along, his head hanging low and his eyes staring unblinking and unseeing at the ground, a parody of proper submission.

Quickening his pace as much as he can without stressing Musichetta, Combeferre reminds himself that they're safe now, that there's no danger for them on their own territory.

All he needs to do is get Grantaire home and fix him as much as possible before Enjolras gets back and does something foolish, like trying to heal when he can barely string words together.

XXX

All of his wounds look terrible.

Grantaire's clothing and the bandages that had been placed slapdash across the worst of his injuries lie off to the side, a stinking collection of rags that will need to be dealt with later. His arms and legs are a collection of bruises and swollen, festering bites that have been made quite threatening by nearly a day in the silver collars. He'd done a good job protecting his throat, chest, and abdomen, at least, but heat still rises from his too-pale skin in waves, and Combeferre isn't sure quite where to begin working.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire speaks quietly, his expression almost serene as he stares up at Combeferre with absolute trust.

"Coming." Close, now, but moving slowly, Enjolras' exhaustion setting their pace, whereas Combeferre had pushed his small band as hard as he could to get them back to their den quickly.

Grantaire nods, closing his eyes. They've started the fire in the fireplace, despite the warm spring day, and the heat seems to be doing him some good.

"Where do you want to start?" Joly's question is soft, pitched so as not to carry, but Combeferre is certain everyone in the pack hears it, anyway.

How could they not? They're all gathered around him, staring at Grantaire's battered body with varying levels of horror, pity, anger, and sorrow.

Waiting for him to decide how to proceed, but he's never had to do this without Enjolras before.

Letting out a long breath, Combeferre forces his lips into a reassuring smile. He may not have done this without Enjolras before, but he's good at healing. It comes more naturally to him than fighting, though he's done his best to turn himself into a warrior, as well.

Enjolras is the weapon, no matter that he sometimes wishes it weren't so, born beautiful, determined, sure, sharp, and deadly.

Combeferre is the temper for the fire, the calm that accompanies the storm, always more comfortable sparring with words than forcing their age-mates into submission with his power, eager to learn healing, eager to interact with humans.

Directing the pack in healing one of their own isn't just his duty—it's the type of thing that's his calling.

Joly's cheek rubs against his shoulder, and Joly is smiling as he gently pulls the small knife from Combeferre's hand with his right and clasps Grantaire's arm with his left. "I take care of the physical, you take care of gathering and directing power?"

"Yes." Combeferre scans their gathered pack. "Without Enjolras, I'll need to draw from anyone who's willing. If you don't wish to, for one reason or another, that's fine, just tell me."

"Like we'd refuse to heal one of our own." Musichetta gathers Grantaire's other hand between his, the female giving Combeferre an exasperated look. "We'll give you all you ask for."

"Though…" Bahorel actually raises his hand slightly, looking sheepish. "If you're pulling hard from me, some of us might end up Changing. Good thing about Spring being here—I've got a great source of energy. Bad thing about Spring—I'm a great source of energy that'll happily shove us into our wolf forms."

"That's an easy enough problem to fix." Monet's voice is quiet, tired, drained by the events of the last few days, and the female doesn't stir from where he leans, naked, against Feuilly's side. Combeferre will need to ensure that he or Enjolras or Courfeyrac takes some time to talk to Monet, to make sure he's all right. "Everyone take off anything you really don't want Bahorel destroying, and let's get this finished."

Combeferre feels Courfeyrac's absence sharply, painfully, in the brief pause that follows. What sharp, wry comment would Courfeyrac use to make others smile? Something human, something about the horrors of the pack collected nude, said straight-faced but with laughing eyes.

Bahorel gives a brief, petulant whine. "Combeferre, tell them it's not my fault. I can't help what power I was born with."

"No." Combeferre returns the delta's quick grin. "But you could take less joy in teasing others with it. Now, everyone who's going to help with this, come find a way to touch me. Or… hmm… at least one from each mate-pair, and then mates touching."

The pack presses even closer around him, and Combeferre closes his eyes, focusing on the magic tying them together. It all coalesces at Enjolras, currently a dull, distant point, a flare of curiosity followed by understanding. If Enjolras were here, Enjolras wouldn't need the pack in physical contact to gather their power, shape it, direct it, because it always moves toward him.

Combeferre might not need them to touch him, either, but the weight of their hands, the press of their bodies, the sharp scents of their sweat and the gentle swish of their breath against his skin, all help him focus on the pack-bonds.

The power naturally gravitates to Enjolras, but Combeferre is beta, second, the one who would become alpha if Enjolras were gone, and the bonds shift when he pulls on them, not pulling away entirely from Enjolras but feeding energy into Combeferre instead, gathering the power of Change to him.

It's beautiful. It is silver light, the caress of the moon against his skin, a fire consuming his heart, and he longs to simply shove it forward, into the broken body laid out before him, to coax the flickering fires in Grantaire's limbs into full blaze with the power he holds.

This is all that he has, though, all that he can safely pull from the others, and though it feels limitless, he knows, intimately, that even the greatest power has an end.

Opening his eyes, gripping Joly's hand tight, he begins to direct their work.

XXX

It's like being flayed alive and kissed together at the same time.

Grantaire arches and squirms against the hands that hold him still, whimpering as Joly's little knife lances his skin repeatedly and Combeferre's fingers follow the knife, knitting skin back together neater than any human ever knitted clothes. The heat seems to drain from his skin with each incision they make, coherent thought becoming easier and easier, and eventually Grantaire becomes aware of the undignified pup-noises he's making and stops them.

It doesn't make sitting still any easier, though, and he's grateful for Musischetta and Bossuet when they grab his kicking, trembling right leg and hold it still for Joly and Combeferre to work.

Joly's knife slashes down, certain, sure, and Joly issues another quiet apology as he cleans unhealthy tissue and discharge away with a rag before pulling back, waiting for Combeferre to follow him.

Combeferre does, his fingers stroking along the edges of the cut, and the skin itches, terribly, and it takes both the wolves on his leg and Jehan draping himself across his chest for Grantaire to stay still.

Then Combeferre's fingers pull back, and though the wound is smaller, the blood that trickles from it clear and red now, it hasn't healed to a thin white scar like the other injuries have.

Frowning at the wound, Combeferre narrows his eyes, in an expression that Grantaire finds rather disconcerting. "Not enough power left…"

"That's fine." Squirming, finding himself unable to move much as his pack-mates hold him still, Grantaire tries to catch Combeferre's eye. "I feel much better now. I'm sure the rest will heal. You can stop…"

"He's going to want to make it even better, isn't he?" Bahorel leans into Grantaire's view. "And he's in no shape to try anything, after an alpha battle."

"Yes." Combeferre sighs, his fingers drumming on Grantaire's leg. "But I don't want to leave the rest of you too tired to act, either."

"Combferre." Bahorel's tone is long-suffering. "Did I mention that it's Spring?"

Before Combeferre can react Bahorel has grabbed Combeferre's hand in a tight grip.

The scent of fresh grass, blossoming trees, fresh-turned earth, a crisp, clear sky, all spread rapidly throughout the den. A tingle of anticipation, the thrill of a hunt just started, runs across Grantaire's skin, and he shivers, a smile rising unbidden to his lips.

Bossuet reels back, skin, muscles, bone already twitching and twisting as the Change rushes over him. A half-strangled curse from Feuilly gives away the start of his transformation.

"Bahorel!" Combeferre's eyes shine, a flicker of green around the edges.

Bahorel's eyes glow, the flash of a cat's eyes in the night, and he doesn't look quite… right, anymore. Are those really twigs, twining through his hair? Are those tiny leaf buds—tiny flower buds, red as blood—tiny thorns?

Before Grantaire can finish his half-dismayed perusal Combeferre is practically sitting on him, Combeferre's hands rushing over his body, leaving trails of green-and-silver fire in their wake.

It doesn't hurt. It feels like it should, like the green and the silver together should burn him up, but instead it tingles and dances and fizzes through his blood and he feels awake, he feels alive, he feels—

"Ow." Grantaire flinches back as Combeferre's hands run over his throat, trying to urge the silver-burns to heal. That does hurt, a fire deep in his skin as though something's burning him alive. "No, really, st—"

Pulling back abruptly, Combeferre shakes his hands out as though they sting. "Sorry. I was thinking—hoping—that maybe it would work. Apparently not. Damn silver injuries. How does the rest of you feel?"

Sitting up gingerly, Grantaire flexes his arms and legs, studying the new collection of scars that he has. Some things still twinge—the deepest injuries, to his forearms, where bones were bruised but not broken—but the only thing that actually hurts now is his neck. Raising startled eyes to meet Combeferre's gaze, he grins. "Good. I feel really, really good."

"Good." Combeferre sags back on his heels, his expression abruptly one of exhaustion. "Bahorel, that was—"

"What you needed?" Bahorel runs a hand through his thick black hair, scratching at one of the budding flowers. "Power enough to heal everything you needed to heal?"

"You can't even hold your glamour up properly." Combeferre's disapproval is plain in his words. "What if we need to move quickly?"

"I'll be strong enough for that again in a few hours." Bahorel yawns. "Until then, if we absolutely have to travel, which I think all the exhausted wolves surrounding us would hate to do, I'll go with the very inventive concept of a hat."

"You—" Sitting up, mindful of the twinges more as the haze of energy fades from his blood, leaving behind it exhaustion, Grantaire stares at Bahorel. "You're—"

"Half Wild One." Bahorel flicks a hand out as though in submission. "Half fae. However you want to say it. Full compliment of wolf magic from my mother, bits and pieces from my father. It comes in handy sometimes, though it can also be annoying. I hate feeling like I want to hibernate through vast stretches of winter."

"You would think being tired would make him slow down." Combeferre gives a long-suffering sigh. "Instead it makes him even more prone to getting in trouble."

"I don't want to sleep through a quarter of my life!" Bahorel grimaces. "Of course I'm going to keep myself as active as possible."

"And you—for me—" Grantaire can't quite get the words straight in his head, perhaps because he's having to put so much effort into blinking back tears as his pack presses in around him, Joly's head on one shoulder, Jehan's on the other, Musichetta's warmth against his back, Bossuet's furred head settling into his lap.

"I told you I'd tell you when you were pack, way back when." Bahorel reaches up to ruffle Grantaire's hair. "Easier to show you."

Jehan's tongue licks against his cheek. "Plus it was fun. He doesn't have an excuse to tap that magic very often."

"Especially not this deeply." Stretching, Bahorel creeps forward and tackles Jehan to the floor. "I think I did pretty well, though. I only caused two of us to Change."

Jehan laughs, a low, pleased sound. "We might have to increase that number."

A brief tousle follows, and when they break apart Jehan is in wolf form, Bahorel still looking not-quite-human. Jehan instigates play from some of the others—Joly, Feuilly, Monet, Bossuet—while the others seem to congregate toward Grantaire.

Grantaire turns onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm as he watches his pack-mates play.

He's tired.

He's sore still, his neck itching and burning as though the loss of other, more threatening pains means it can be more obnoxious.

He wants a drink, and he desperately hates that it even occurs to him to want alcohol.

But he's home.

He's surrounded by his pack.

He's alive.

And when Enjolras returns, everything will be perfect.

XXX

The pack is together.

The knowledge is practically a physical blow, a sense of relief and joy so strong it almost brings Enjolras to his knees as he and Courfeyrac walk through the door and into their den. The emotion runs through him, surges along his pack-bonds, drives into the rest of the pack as Enjolras revels in throwing his pack-bonds completely open.

It is glorious to be able to do this again, to not have to worry about what he will find, about what pain or fear or emptiness will be lurking there, about what they might receive from him if he isn't careful, the fury of the alpha battle—

"Easy there." Courfeyrac's voice is gentle, his hair brushing softly against Enjolras' cheek as his lips nuzzle at Enjolras' neck now that they're in the safety of their den. "We're home. You're safe. We're all safe."

It's not safe. There a dozen things they need to do, to plan—how to deal with the Conclave tomorrow, what they're willing and able to give up if the Conclave demands concessions for their trespass, contacting their human allies again and reassuring them that everything's all right, checking to make sure that they haven't missed anything important in human politics over the last two days, contacting Armand to see why he pushed for restrictions on alphas and strays, trying to find out exactly what's going on with Marius and Cosette, teaching Gavroche what he wants to know if he really does want to know, deciding—

"Enjolras." One of Combeferre's arms wraps around him, the other around Courfeyrac, leaving Enjolras sandwiched between them. "You're home."

"Yes." It's an inane comment, but Enjolras can't quite seem to think of something better to say as Combeferre's joy slices through him, sharp and familiar and utterly wonderful. He nuzzles against his beta, dragging in a deep breath through both his nose and mouth, tasting and scenting Combeferre at the same time, and it is both comfortingly familiar and strangely different, a wild, dangerous tang of Bahorel mixed more strongly in Combeferre's scent. It's not a frightening change, though, doesn't seem to be bothering Combeferre, who is just content, just happy, and with each breath that Enjolras takes it seems to fade, so Enjolras decides not to pursue it.

Pursue. There is something he is supposed to be pursuing.

After a few seconds he manages to remember what it is he was supposed to ask Combeferre as soon as they were reunited, what important task it was that he had set for his wolves at home. "Is everyone… all right? Any difficulties?"

"Nothing worth mentioning." Combeferre pulls him gently from the entrance hall toward the main room with the fireplace. "We've already done a fairly good job healing Grantaire, as well, if I may be allowed to congratulate everyone. Joly's skill was superb, and the rest of the pack was very gracious in lending their strength."

Joly blushes, looking pleased, feeling pleased. "You didn't do too bad a job yourself."

Enjolras pauses, closing his eyes, just breathing again as he allows Joly's pride and delight in their work to build into a borrowed ecstasy.

He can't stand still for long, though, because there are others that he needs to see, others that his body itches to touch.

"Grantaire." Enjolras smiles in relief as he spots his lambda—the weakest, most vulnerable member of his pack—finally back where he belongs, ensconced at the center of a pile of wolf and human limbs.

He doesn't remember crossing to Grantaire's side. He doesn't remember kneeling down. He must have, though, because he is in front of Grantaire, his hands cupping Grantaire's face, touching and smelling and reassuring himself that the pack is whole. "You're here."

"Thanks to you." Grantaire's eyes drop down, his head tilting to expose his neck. "Thanks to all of you. There aren't words to express my gratitude."

"Don't need words." Bending down, Enjolras presses his forehead to Grantaire's, his thoughts tumbling sluggishly down his bond.

Grantaire still hurts. It's the first thing Enjolras feels, though it's accompanied by the knowledge that this pain is better, is smaller, is less threatening than the pain that came before.

Grantaire is ecstatic, thrilled to be home, thrilled to see and smell and touch his pack again—still so exceptionally thrilled to have a pack, still certain that he doesn't deserve it.

"All wolves deserve a pack." Enjolras strokes Grantaire's shaggy hair. "Everyone. Safety. Family. Friends."

Loyalty, trust, love, even though it could be so easily abused, and he remembers it even though the memories aren't his.

Bellamy ordering his wolves to kill when they had no right to, ordering Grantaire dead, and it had been at the forefront of his mind as Enjolras ripped through it, tore apart Bellamy's fear and hatred and certainty in order to drive down to the core of his being, to the part of Bellamy that relished in controlling but also wanted to protect his people, and it had been so easy to claim it all.

It shouldn't be so easy to kill.

It shouldn't be so easy for him to steal away another's will.

He shouldn't have felt relief when he did so, a certainty that by controlling Bellamy he could protect Grantaire.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire's word is the softest whisper, his tone somewhere between terror and sorrow.

Enjolras is holding Grantaire. He doesn't remember pulling Grantaire from the pack, doesn't remember wrapping his arms around him, doesn't remember telling his tongue to lick lightly at the pale white scar that is all that remains of the gash his teeth ripped in Grantaire's body when his power claimed Grantaire's soul as his own.

"Combeferre? Courfeyrac?" Grantaire's eyes jump about, and the scent rising from his skin is suddenly far too close to panic.

"He's all right. He's just still trying to process—Enjolras, no, don't—"

Courfeyrac's voice comes from his right, and Enjolras finally focuses his eyes to find that he's forced Grantaire down to the ground, is crouched over him defensively, one hand on Grantaire's rapidly-beating heart.

Afraid.

Grantaire smells afraid, and he shouldn't.

"Enjolras, you're frightening him." It's exasperation rather than fear that Enjolras hears and smells from Combeferre, and that allows him to relax, finally. "Don't worry, Grantaire. He just needs to sleep."

Yes, he should probably sleep soon. Combeferre always gets upset when he can't quite remember all his actions.

"Yes, I do get upset, because it means you're not in full control of yourself." Combeferre pulls him back off Grantaire, into a fierce, solid embrace. "Come here, my alpha, and settle down before you sleep-walk yourself into something actually troublesome."

"The pack's safe." Enjolras knows that it's true, but he needs to say it, anyway, to hear it, the memory of a half-dozen wolves howling their anger and fear into his mind too strong, too strong, and he doesn't want to send it to any of the others—

"The pack's safe. You're safe. We're all home." Combeferre's breath is a comforting warmth against his shoulder.

"All safe, all home, all happy." Courfeyrac settles in at Combeferre's side, his hand on Enjolras' knee. "So sleep."

He will when it's proper, when he's taken care of everything. But there's something else he's forgetting.

Someone else.

"Marius?"

"Uh huh." Marius' acknowledgement is uncertain, as though he doesn't know whether he should have spoken or not.

"Marius is going to stay with me, at least for now. Right, Marius? Right." Courfeyrac pats Enjolras' leg. "So sleep, for the Lady's sake, or you won't be awake in time to make any plans."

"Right."

He needs to plan.

But he needs to be certain of everything he's doing if he's going to plan.

Finally convinced that it's all right to sleep, Enjolras doesn't fight his eyes closing, drifting off with the scents and sounds and gentle banter of his pack as a lullaby.

They're together.

They're safe.

So long as they are, he's certain they can save the rest of the world, too.

XXX

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, collapsed across Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his breathing steady but his face pale and his hair in disarray.

Wrong.

Everything about the last five minutes has been wrong.

This isn't how it was supposed to go. Enjolras was supposed to come home and be tired but happy, because they won. Then Enjolras would join the pile in front of the fireplace, and maybe Grantaire would be able to slide his head into Enjolras' lap or maybe he wouldn't, but it would be fine either way because they'd be surrounded by their pack.

Enjolras wasn't supposed to come home muttering half-comprehensible words, his presence on the other end of their pack-bond alternating between ecstasy and—and—

"Grantaire." Combeferre's voice is gentle, and he pats the empty space at his left side, settling back more comfortably against the wall, arranging Enjolras more naturally in his lap. "Will you come sit with me for a moment?"

Grantaire hesitates, then skitters over and hunkers down by Combeferre's side. He lowers his head, trying to show proper submission, but that leaves him looking at Enjolras' shadow-shrouded closed eyes, and the sight pulls a whine from his throat before he can help himself.

"He really is all right." Combeferre's hand shifts from where it had been stroking through Enjolras' hair to squeeze Grantaire's shoulder gently. "He's just… pushed himself a bit beyond his limits."

"He was hurt during the alpha battle." Grantaire's breath catches in his throat, and he tries not to think of all the things he's heard about alpha battles, about the rare but terrible consequences that can occur. Depression. Pack splintering. Madness. Death. There is a reason most alphas preferred physical battles between packs to alpha fights with magic. "Because of me."

"Not because of you." Courfeyrac's correction is firm, and his eyes shift from Grantaire to the rest of the pack, who are slowly drifting over, shoulders and heads held low in uncertainty and fear. Even Bahorel looks vaguely uneasy, his not-quite-human form only accentuating the concern on his face. "Our pack did everything we could to solve this without bloodshed. Blood was what the enemy wanted, though, and if a fight is what has to happen, we won't run from it. It's just…"

Combeferre's hand slides under Grantaire's chin, brings their gazes into alignment for a moment. "What does Enjolras stand for?"

"Everything." Grantaire can feel his face heat as the honest answer slides out without any censorship. It's true, though. For him Enjolras has come to mean everything—has come to be the representation of pack, of opportunity, of acceptance, of love, of… Drawing in a sharp breath, Grantaire knows what Combeferre is waiting to hear. "Freedom. Opportunity. Choice."

"Choice." Combeferre nods. "And an alpha battle is the antithesis of choice. This, I think, will be better than what we did to Armand, in some ways, because Enjolras didn't start this. He responded to aggression. But it still… he still took his power, the power he uses to hold us together, to keep us pack, and he used it break down another wolf's mind and force all of his pack, all who were bound to him, to become part of our pack. It's… not something he can do lightly or easily, either emotionally or physically. He's drained himself of almost all his power. He needs to sleep. He's practically been sleeping. He didn't know what he was doing when he forced you to the ground. You were afraid, and he smelled it, and his protective instincts took over. He didn't mean it."

"He'll probably apologize and feel really bad about it when he wakes up." Courfeyrac strokes Enjolras' leg, a light, repetitive motion designed to soothe.

"If he's been pretty much asleep…" Grantaire itches at one of his new scars, the skin tender and white. "Then what we were feeling… it's like a nightmare?"

"Yes." Combeferre draws out the affirmation, a startled expression giving way to a pleased smile. "A nightmare is a good way to think of it."

Grantaire frowns. "Can we… is there a way to give him good dreams? To try to help him in some way?"

"He isn't going to break, Grantaire." Courfeyrac is absolutely certain in his words, a firm, comforting presence along the pack-bonds. "He just needs a chance to rest, to build his energy back up to the point where he's able to think clearly again. If he hadn't been so exhausted, he wouldn't have ever let the rest of you see him like this. He hates frightening you."

"I'd rather know." Sliding down so that he's half-crouched on the floor, Grantaire studies Enjolras' sleeping face, allowing his thoughts to slide along his pack-bond again. Enjolras is sending very little, now, his mind quiet if not quite serene. "I'd rather be scared and know when he's hurt than have him try to hide it. And I want to help him. I want to make him feel better."

"Then send him what you've been feeling." Courfeyrac leans on Combeferre's shoulder, smiling as he closes his eyes. "We're alive. We're together. He's ecstatic about having us all here again—I'm sure you felt that before everything else. Reinforce it. Give him something else to focus on other than what he had to do."

Nodding, Grantaire closes his eyes, trying to push aside the fear and the sorrow and reach for the clear joy that had been there before.

It's hard.

It's one of the hardest things he's ever done. It's so easy for his mind to fall back into patterns that he doesn't want—for him to remember the feel of Enjolras' tongue against the scar that marks Grantaire as pack, but instead of joy and acceptance there is horror and dismay filling Enjolras. For him to remember the absolute terror of Enjolras dragging him down to the ground, crouching over him, a low growl in his alpha's throat, and he hadn't known if it was because he did something wrong or not.

For him to worry about other ways things could have gone, might still go, because his pack trespassed, and what will that mean for the future?

For him not to give in to despair and stop trying, because he wants a drink and his alpha is hurt and it's all because of him.

A tongue licks softly against his neck, a nose presses against his elbow, fur slides along his back, and Grantaire draws another shuddering breath as the pack presses forward, surrounding him, surrounding their alpha, beta, and gamma. Joly's tongue continues to bathe his neck, gentle and cool; Bossuet's furred form brushes against his lower torso, and it takes Grantaire a moment to realize Bossuet is itching himself on Grantaire's spine; Musichetta's nose presses repeatedly against Grantaire's leg, nuzzling for a comfortable place to sleep.

Together.

They're together.

Bliss wells up inside him, hot and silver, and he passes it along his pack-bond to his alpha. We're all here because of you. There aren't words to express our joy or our gratitude.

An answering pulse of silver flows toward him, faint, nothing like Enjolras' usual burning flame, but Grantaire doesn't care. Instead he revels in the serenity and contentment that accompany the power, Enjolras' mind finding peace, their pack-bonds wide open again and not filled with darkness.

When he opens his eyes his head is cradled in Combeferre's lap, next to Enjolras'. One of Combeferre's hands rests on each of them, and Enjolras' hand has shifted, covers Grantaire's left, though Enjolras' eyes are still closed.

"Enjolras isn't the only one who needs to sleep." Courfeyrac's words are accompanied by a tender grin and a yawn. "Shall we all just stay here?"

There is no spoken response, just the pack settling down around them, and as Grantaire allows his eyes to close again, true peace flows along all their pack-bonds, a dark silver that he sinks into with a contented sigh.

XXX

Marius watches Enjolras' pack come together, a tight knot in his chest that he couldn't name. Is that jealousy? Surely not—he is grateful to these people, feels very near to them after the events of the last few days, owes them a great deal. He doesn't begrudge them their joy.

Guilt? Perhaps. He's reason enough to feel guilt still… especially because he keeps wondering if he can really do it, really entrust Cosette's life and safety to these wolves. The thought of lying to them, of placing them in further danger for his sake, is unbearable, though, so he shies away from it.

Is this sorrow? He's no reason to be sad. They won. He is free, still, against all odds.

Perhaps it is relief, a strained, bitter relief as he sees the cost of his freedom, the cost of his love.

Why is it like this? Why should it be so dangerous for him to travel where he wishes? Why should it be so impossible for him to claim Cosette as his—to have her claim him?

"Marius?" Courfeyrac's voice is sleep-slurred already. "Did you want to join us?"

Marius studies his friend, buried amongst his pack, and shakes his head. "I… may go to the room you've leant me, though."

"All right. Wherever you're comfortable." Courfeyrac's eyes close. "Just don't run. Please don't run."

It's a plea, just a hint of desperation in Courfeyrac's half-conscious voice, and Marius knows, then, that he couldn't run even if he wanted to. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here."

"Wherever you're comfortable." Courfeyrac's eyes slit open again, the female's mouth turning up into a grin as he repeats the words. "I'll see you when we wake."

That will likely be hours, the pack drained by healing Courfeyrac, healing Grantaire, the strain of their alpha's battle with Bellamy. Settling down against the wall, Marius returns Courfeyrac's smile. "I'll guard you 'til you do."

He doesn't know what he could possibly be guarding them from—surely even Bellamy isn't mad enough to attack Enjolras' pack in their den. Then again, given his situation and desperation and possible madness following everything that occurred, maybe he would.

Moving so that he can watch the door and Enjolras' pack at the same time, Marius feels new determination replace the painful lump in his chest.

There has to be a way for him to be true to Cosette and Courfeyrac both. He will find it, if he only thinks hard enough, trusts hard enough in himself and those around him.

Until then, he will guard Courfeyrac's dreams while imagining his reunion with Cosette.