The Failed Lieutenant

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Enjolras sat back down again near Grantaire's head. Not sure what else he could do, he laid a hand, palm flat, gently on Grantaire's forehead. The skin was damp and cool. Enjolras felt the side of Grantaire's face down to the neck, as he remembered his mother doing when he was sick as a child. Grantaire's neck was hot, almost dry, compared to his forehead.

He moved his hand back to the forehead and tried to relax while he waited . If Grantaire's life were in any danger, Combeferre would not have left him in Enjolras's care. "I'm sorry, Grantaire," he whispered. "I used you badly."

Leaving his hand pressed against Grantaire's cold forehead, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of Grantaire's breathing, that steadily reassuring rhythm to which he matched his own. So he immediately noticed when the it changed. He opened his eyes to see Grantaire staring at him with mixed horror and awe in his brown eyes.

"I'm not dead?" The fingers of one of Grantaire's hands were straying toward Enjolras's hair, for once a bright cloud of curls. "You-your hair?"

"A disguise only." Enjolras let Grantaire's curious fingers touch one curl then gently detached them.

"What happened?" Grantaire asked feebly. He tried to sit up. Firm hands on his shoulders held him in place.

Only a steel will kept Enjolras's concern from his face. He could tell that Grantaire was in pain, but he had to keep faith that the man was not in danger. Yet his helplessness against such pain tore at his gut. He could hardly bear this role of patient guardian, and tried to swallow away some of the sourness that had collected in his dry mouth without quite succeeding.

He wondered how he would be able to stand a similar or worse injury in one of the men he counted as a dear friend. What if this were Combeferre? What if the damage were fatal? This was only Grantaire, and his sympathetic pain was agonizing.

After several minutes he heard himself say, "Don't worry about it. Combeferre will be back soon, and everything will be all right." As he spoke, he glanced down to see that Grantaire was staring at him again. The man's dark eyes reflected pity, and the awe had not faded yet. Both emotions horrified Enjolras and oppressed him. How could he escape such responsibility? Not wanting to follow those thoughts, he examined how Grantaire was embedded in the bushes.

Twigs twisted into the cloth at several points. The man was firmly caught on all sides. Tears and dirt marred the distinctive Robespierre waistcoat Grantaire had donned the other night. Without shifting from his position as pillow to the injured man, Enjolras began breaking off twigs.

"I began well enough, you remember? But it got ugly as soon as you left. They wouldn't let me finish." Grantaire's words began to soften and slur with his tired effort. "There was this one man, your mate in majesty, but dark--"

The dusty gray face was suddenly suffused and a few tears sneaked through the cracks to dampen the whiskers near Grantaire's ears.

"Don't-- don't," Enjolras said. One hand moved to wipe away the tears, but stopped before the goal. "I know how it went there. That was no fault of yours. I'm sorry. I... misjudged the situation. I also know some about Pere Bayon's."

"Pere Bayon's? Is that where they took me?" Grantaire swore softly. "Well, no wonder--"

"Not much." Grantaire's eyes closed and his brow hardened with concentration. "Shouting. And the police came."

Grantaire strained to see where Enjolras looked. "Yeah? Merci. I fell out of the tree. And all I could think to do was hide in here. I don't remember much else."

"You don't need to. I'm the one who should apologize." When Grantaire didn't reply, he glanced down and saw that Grantaire's eyes were closed. Enjolras waited for several minutes, listening to Grantaire's even breaths. He fought slipping into a second reverie. And with his efforts came his worries. Had he used this man too hard? Was the task he'd set Grantaire beyond the man's capabilities or had Fate merely been capricious with them both, robbing both cynic and dreamer of their desired goal? What was Grantaire's goal?

"I want Combeferre to get his slow, sympathetic self back here before I expire of boredom." 'Grantaire smiled and peered up at his protector.

Enjolras shook his head. "Not what I meant. Why did you offer to go? You know your own nature."

Grantaire snorted. "Bah! Even in your head you must pretty it up. That is the sense of it, non?"

"Do you practice the things you say to us? Do you have any idea what you sound like?"

"I practice some things. some speeches." He'd been practicing that night, before checking on Grantaire. "But no, I can't say I really know what you mean."

"Your voice, your manner, your gaze and every breath. you are like Moses bringing the Law down the mountain to the Hebrews. You are the angel driving Adam and Eve from Paradise, although it would seem, so you say, that you are trying to drive us all from the World back into Paradise. Do you know what that does to us, to mere mortal men?"

"I am a man, same as you," Enjolras snapped. "Not some saint or angel. If I can see, hovering there before us, a Future within our grasp, surely you could see it too. All we have to do is reach out and take it."

Grantaire shook his head with much effort. "No, we don't see it as you do. Or at least I don't. All I see is you."

Enjolras frowned and tried to keep his temper in check. This conversation was no less frustrating than any he had ever had with Grantaire before. Around and around the argument went, retreading the same tired ground.

"Hold on, Grantaire." Did he manage to keep the alarm out of his voice? Enjolras no longer cared.

"What things? Maybe you should close your eyes." He reached out with one hand to gently close them himself, and Grantaire grasped his hand. Enjolras bit his tongue and locked his muscles to keep from recoiling. He looked at the large hand wrapped around his own. Grantaire had a fine down of dark hair covering the back of his hand. Rather than look into Grantaire's eyes, he stared at the hairs.

"If you were going to die of concussion or somesuch, I'm sure you would have done it before now."

"You're not a doctor. I'd prefer not to risk it. I'm alive and help is on the way. This is not the time to take stupid risks."

"If you wish," Enjolras reluctantly agreed, and Grantaire released his hand. "Talk to me to keep yourself alert."

So for the next several minutes, Grantaire talked. For once, the sound of his voice was peaceful to Enjolras's ears. Every sentence seemed to confirm that Grantaire was still in his right mind if a trifle worn from his ordeal. Enjolras listened and occasionally commented. He was smiling faintly when Combeferre arrived with a cabriolet and his bag.

"I thought we might not want to carry Grantaire back to his flat," Combeferre said patiently.

"I meant you," Combeferre said and knelt to take the burden of Grantaire's head.

"Right," Combeferre grunted, but then he concentrated on his patient, the nearly unconscious drunkard. "Your color isn't good," he said to Grantaire, who half grinned through his dirt.

"Quiet, Jerôme!" Combeferre checked Grantaire's pulse again, counting carefully. He didn't let his worry show on his face. Knowing that Enjolras was hovering over his shoulder didn't help either. "Enjolras, could you fetch some water from the public well?" Anything to get him out from underfoot.

"I don't care," Combeferre snapped. "Use your hat." Grantaire lay still. He pinched the man's cheek hard. Grantaire flinched. "Don't do that!"

The clatter of running boots drew his attention. Was Enjolras back so quickly? "Combeferre! Gendarmes! We have to leave right now!"

But Enjolras was beside him now and pulling Grantaire from the bushes. The drunkard groaned but when his legs were free of the confining branches, he pushed himself upright. They divided his weight between them and sprinted for the waiting cabriolet.

"Drive," Enjolras ordered the driver. The man clucked to the horse between the poles. Before they'd exited the square, a stream of police flooded the area. The driver meekly obeyed Enjolras' anxious orders to turn every few streets.

Eventually Combeferre was thoroughly lost, and his patient had lapsed back into semi-consciousness. "Where are we going?" the medical student asked quietly.

"Well, make up your mind soon," Combeferre said. He removed Grantaire's cravat and used it to mop the beads of moisture from the man's face. "He should be in a bed."

Enjolras did not answer. Eventually, he directed the cab to stop in front of a livery stable he'd spotted. From the ground, he thrust 20 francs into the driver's hand. "Take them wherever they need to go." He moved to Combeferre's side. "Take him to the hospital if you must. I'll settle it with you when I return."

But as he turned to the stable, he spied a pair of patrolling gendarmes walking purposefully toward the cab. "Damn. I can't let them have you."

Enjolras shrugged. "Instinct? Hurry! Help me with Grantaire." He hauled himself back into the cab and pulled Grantaire to his feet with brute strength. And exasperated Combeferre steadied them both as Enjolras lifted the man into his arms and staggered again to the street. Combeferre stepped down from behind, belatedly grabbing his bag and Grantaire's hat.

He led the way into the dim stable, thankful that Enjolras had no breath to spare for invective. The man's strength amazed him. Enjolras was taller than Combeferre but thinner, so he didn't know where he hid his muscles. Combeferre never would have attempted to lift the dead weight of the fainting drunkard. Even though his steps were heavy, Enjolras cradled the man gently, cushioning him from the bumps.

Once fully into the darkness of the livery stable, Combeferre stopped Enjolras with a hand on his arm. "Put him down, Enjolras." Panic did not show in his voice, but anyone looking at him would have seen it barely controlled in his eyes. When his friend only looked at him over the other man's still form, he repeated himself more firmly and pointed at some hay piled nearby. It looked clean enough. "He can rest there. We need to discuss this."

As Enjolras did what he was told, Combeferre balanced his medical bag on his forearm so he could dig through it. He needed to focus on what was best for Grantaire. Enjolras would be angry, but he'd dealt with anger before.

At least he was still keeping his tone low. "I need to get Grantaire back to a bed as soon as possible. He needs to rest, and I insist on going with him."

"You can't go out there!" Enjolras pointed to the wide open doors at the front of the stable.

"Now I'm being paranoid? Whose idea was this?" He swept a hand up and down to indicate his ill-fitting clothing and curled hair. The curls were disintegrating in the humidity, some falling straight again and others frizzing untidily.

"Courfeyrac's actually," he answered. He found a bottle of alcohol, and quickly knelt beside Grantaire again. Without being able to get Grantaire into a bed, he was feeling at a loss. The man's injuries weren't that serious, but he needed rest and a good cleaning. Combeferre busied himself wiping sweat and grime from Grantaire's face and making soothing noises to the half-conscious man. Then he found a length of bandage and moved lower to try to bind the man's injured ankle.

"Enjolras! Help me with this." When Enjolras had knelt opposite him, he said, "Get that boot off him, and listen to me." Enjolras struggled with the boot while Combeferre unrolled the bandage. "You need to get out of town for a few days, I think. This accident has affected your judgment."

"Mmm hmm," Combeferre said. "Didn't you say a few days ago that you needed to go to Aix?"

"Go. Go now." He wrapped the bandage around Grantaire's ankle several times and tucked the ends under to bind it tight.

"So buy some new clothes in Aix. And comb your hair." He took the boot from Enjolras and groped in his bag again. He pulled out a small purse and took out a few coins, then tossed the purse to Enjolras. "You can repay me when you get back. And if you ruin that coat, I'm going to kill you."

Enjolras, wearing a puzzled frown, caught the purse and weighed it. "Why are you doing this?"

"For our cause. You need to go, and I need to take care of this man. So go." He pointed at the horses in the stalls opposite. "Hire a horse and get out of Paris."

Enjolras stood and put the purse in his coat pocket, but his eyes seemed reluctant to leave the pair on the ground. Noticing this, Combeferre waved him away again. Then Enjolras found the stable master and negotiated a horse, but he kept looking back at the two of them.

As Enjolras was mounting the horse, Grantaire awakened slightly. "'Jolras?" he asked.

Combeferre watched Enjolras ride the horse out of the stable. The view of the man on horseback took his breath away. Combeferre knew that when Enjolras got back, whether his mission was successful or not, he'd go back to being the man he had been. Grantaire would be recovered and hiding in his bottle, and Enjolras would have his head in the clouds, dreaming of France. As it should be, Combeferre thought.