fic: snap the branches off me
Title: Snap the Branches Off Me
Fandom: Les Miserables (book and film)
Pairing: Bahorel/Combeferre
Summary: Bahorel’s having a more interesting night than usual, and it’s not half over yet.
Bahorel is bleeding. It is no small issue this time, no mere result of a cheerful brawl, and nothing he can thrill to later, pressing his fingertips into bruises and measuring them against others he keeps warm in memory. He’s managed to get away before the worst could occur, but over the sound of his footsteps he hears others, and such are his muddled senses, he cannot tell if he is in pursuit or pursued. The thought that he might be both amuses him-whoever cannot catch him when he’s hobbled isn’t worth his concern, and whoever could ignore his presence behind them isn’t one he might choose to engage-but he cannot bring enough air to his lungs to laugh.
The next corner offers with it a chance to find a place to rest, and perhaps a drink to blunt the spreading ache all over him. If he’s lucky, a piece of pretty work will bandage him up before he’s shoved back out into the darkness, and if he’s not, he’ll stagger home and hope his situation improves in late morning light.
A sturdier piece of work is what he finds as he turns the corner and slams directly into a broad back, knocking himself and the other man to the ground with a low grunt of pain and annoyance. His new friend is not much happier, though his noises are only of frustration, and they are familiar to Bahorel, as is the amused resignation on his face once he recognizes his attacker.
“You overgrown child,” Combeferre sighs, unable or unwilling to rise back to standing yet. “I should not be surprised, and yet I am.”
“Forgive me,” Bahorel says, as cheerfully as he can, drawing one arm across his stomach to hide the worst of things from Combeferre’s keen eyes. It is dark enough that he could possibly escape this meeting without having to say much more, but he must do so quickly, and that is no easy task now. “When next I sweep you off your feet, my intention will be more pleasant.”
“Spare me,” Combeferre says, but with no disdain; he and Bahorel have never quarreled, however differently they lead their lives. Still, they are only friends, not companions, and Bahorel would rather not explain why he’s likely to collapse entirely if he does not start moving again soon. He shifts to his knees but finds no strength for more, and Combeferre gasps.
“You are bleeding-”
“You should not be surprised, and yet-”
“Spare me your banter, too, for now.” Combeferre pushes Bahorel’s arm away from his chest gently, and breathes low and hard at what he finds. “Who-”
“I was not recording names, and their faces are now hardly in any state for proper identification,” Bahorel laughs, then erupts in a fit of coughing that spatters Combeferre’s cheek with blood he does not seem to notice. Once he’s caught his breath again, Bahorel shakes his head. “Proper pack of dogs they were, in any case.”
“And you a wolf among them,” Combeferre snaps, then tempers his voice as he moves to his knees. “But there is better strength in numbers than in even your fists, Bahorel. Did you invite this?”
“Oh, I am certain of it,” Bahorel mutters, pushing at Combeferre’s shoulder as he leans in. “Leave me, Combeferre; I need only a moment.”
“I will look after you,” Combeferre says decisively, evading Bahorel’s injured hands and searching for the safest way to get Bahorel standing again. “My rooms are closer, though I would not call them near, and you will have your moment there.”
Bahorel laughs, offering him no assistance. “I’ve been worse off than this. And you will forgive me if I say that any lecture will fall on deaf ears tonight.”
“I’d say more boxed than deaf, but I believe you,” Combeferre sighs, squinting in the darkness at the condition of Bahorel’s face and turning his chin gently. Bahorel flinches finally, unaccustomed both to Combeferre’s gaze and his touch. “I would see you safe tonight, that is all,” Combeferre says then. “Safe and at the minimum those cuts cleaned; I swear I will spare you lectures and my company afterward, if you will allow me those two things.”
Bahorel lets him drag them both to their feet, staggering a little before he sags against Combeferre, his eyes closing in unfamiliar relief. “I have no objection to your company, though I did not expect to find it at this hour or in this place. What brought you here?”
“What brings any man out on a night like this?” Combeferre says quietly. “Questions later, my friend; we must go-”
“This is not your route, Combeferre,” Bahorel says, dragging a tease from between teeth clenched in pain. “Even when you’re drunk you take better care than this. There’s nothing here for you, unless-”
“Questions later,” Combeferre says again, grunting under Bahorel’s weight, and steadying them against the wall before he starts to move, his arm warm around Bahorel’s back. “I could ask many of you, though I may already have my answers.”
“You’re a step ahead of me.”
“I was several steps ahead of you, thinking myself in danger,” Combeferre says, and Bahorel can hear the smile in his voice. “Had I known it was only you-”
“Only me. And I present no danger.”
“No more than I do to myself, perhaps.”
Bahorel stops them, clutching at Combeferre’s coat, forcing his eyes open to see Combeferre’s still smiling, but it’s thinner than usual, and Bahorel feels the sudden ache in his jaw as he lets it fall open. Combeferre laughs, then hitches Bahorel against his side tighter. “I do not count you among the things I fear in this world, Bahorel, but I am able to fear for you, as you are not breathing well, and I believe we may have over-extended our welcome here, if we were welcome at all.”
“I was.”
“Of course you were. Come on.”
::
Combeferre’s rooms are smaller than Bahorel imagined, but they are warm and well appointed enough that he lets out a low breath of appreciation once Combeferre has lit the space. Combeferre nods Bahorel toward the bed, then busies himself doffing his coat and rolling his sleeves before he begins to gather the instruments of whatever torture he has in mind, and Bahorel watches him from beneath eyelids growing heavier by the moment.
Combeferre is made of different stuff than Bahorel, but stronger than he appears, and makes a glorious form to observe when not hunched over his books or Enjolras’ shoulder. Ever one to give attention to the hands of friends and foes alike, Bahorel suddenly loves Combeferre’s; they move over shelves and across tables with a precision so fascinating that Bahorel has to bite the inside of his cheek rather than mention it aloud. It is rare that Bahorel is able to keep his thoughts to himself at this late an hour, and it seems Combeferre can hear them anyway, from the expression on his face as he crouches before Bahorel, a basin of water in the crook of one elbow, cloths in the other, and a bottle of something menacing in his left hand.
“Remove your shirt,” he says, nodding with only mild distaste at the stained material already rucked halfway up Bahorel’s stomach. Bahorel arches an eyebrow, then hisses; there will be a new scar above his left eye, to draw fresh attention to one older. Combeferre pretends not to hear, his focus on unfolding one of the cloths, and so Bahorel does not bother to make a show of getting the shirt off his back; the truth of it is that every movement is painful now, perhaps more so because Combeferre is allowing him to accept it as such. Grisettes tend to flinch and wait for Bahorel to look after his own wounds before he finds their beds, and he typically makes a point to leave the scenes of his not-quite-crimes before any man can find him as Combeferre had.
“You had only-to ask,” Bahorel says, breath hitching with pain, and Combeferre mutters something concerned but resigned, too, before he helps Bahorel with the shirt, pulling the fabric over his head and watching Bahorel wince when he lowers his arms.
“This will be considerably worse before it is better,” Combeferre says gently, and Bahorel nods, throwing a hand that’s started to bleed again.
“Then let it be worse quickly, if you can. I have only so much in the way of patience, and I would not give any of you the satisfaction of my not surviving this.”
Combeferre laughs, resting his hand on Bahorel’s knee. “Satisfaction and survival. You are a fighter to the marrow, my friend.”
“I have never pretended otherwise.” Bahorel takes a hard breath, and lowers his voice. “If you would, Combeferre. If you-” he throws the hand again, the line of blood upon it flowing freely now. “If you must.”
Combeferre works quickly, and mostly kindly; if he is at times rougher than Bahorel supposes he must be with patients, then it is because Bahorel does not give way as easily as they might, and even nearing exhaustion cannot keep from drawing both his breath and his bruised stomach in tight at the touch of the cloth, or from hissing again at the sting of whatever Combeferre has in that dark bottle he’s clutching now with something like irritation.
“Try to remain still, Bahorel. I would like to think it not beyond you, even in this state.”
“Would you rather know for certain?”
Combeferre tuts under his breath, pressing his hand flat over the cloth. “I could make certain, if I felt the need or desire to do so.” He looks up, that thin smile just visible once more as Bahorel feels the warmth of his hand through the fabric and leans into it. “Persuade me otherwise later, but for the moment I do not.”
“What a mad flirt you are with the filth of the city on you, Combeferre; I would never have thought.”
“If we are lucky you will not remember, either. I would not call it flirtation, in any case, and you are familiar with threats; consider it one.”
“You are a bastard,” Bahorel says around a wild grin, the word the only half-delighted insult he can manage with Combeferre’s hands still on him. Combeferre hums, not disagreeing, then ducks his head to return to his work, reaching for a fresh cloth.
“They did say I patterned not after my father.”
“Be glad of it,” Bahorel hisses when Combeferre’s fingers brush against a wound Bahorel has no memory of taking. “Make your way without the burden of another man’s life on yours.”
“That burden is perhaps lighter than what you carry, my friend,” Combeferre sighs. “It does not matter; I have others to balance it. I do not think either of us desires this conversation now. Let me finish, and I will let you rest.”
“I don’t desire that either.”
“Then indulge me and do so nonetheless, and perhaps after, we will speak instead of what you do desire.” Combeferre sits back on his heels and tilts his head, peering at Bahorel with something like a keen fondness and somehow holding himself steady there far longer than necessary, Bahorel thinks petulantly.
“What would you have me do?” he says finally, the words tumbling out of him, and Combeferre’s expression warms enough that Bahorel can hardly hold his gaze.
“Only be still,” Combeferre says calmly, but firmly, too. Bahorel huffs in annoyance but Combeferre leans forward to quiet him, pushing gently at his chest until Bahorel falls back-retreats as he so rarely does-groaning softly with unexpected relief. “Be still and sleep,” Combeferre murmurs, and though Bahorel can feel the cloth and the sting and the warmth of Combeferre’s touch and breath too near his skin, he gives way, closing his eyes but smiling again, too.
::
To watch another man sleep does not come naturally to Combeferre, no matter how often he’s had occasion to do so at the hospital or in Enjolras’ or Joly’s rooms. His friends typically fall to rest much later than he does, notwithstanding his attempts to stay awake with them as they study in near silence, and the patients under his watch, whatever his compassionate and scientific interest in their welfare, do not make comfortable viewing.
As friend and patient, however, Bahorel in his sleep is compelling; the bruises mottling his arms, chest, and stomach seem less alarming than simply well-earned, and his features have softened to a degree Combeferre cannot recall seeing before, leaving Bahorel looking younger than some of their friends. Even the man’s breathing is more peaceful than it sounds when Bahorel has allegedly been at ease, watching and listening in the café rather than clenching his fists, itching for every fight to come.
This peace will not last, Combeferre thinks, leaning forward and tenting his fingers in front of his face to frame Bahorel’s sleeping form; it cannot, if for no other reason than how much pleasure he takes in it, and Bahorel, too. If asked, Combeferre would not deny that his attention has been diverted on many levels by Bahorel’s presence, but he has never given anyone cause to ask, and regardless of the fact that the man is now sprawled down the length of Combeferre’s mattress, bared to his waist and as pliant as Combeferre imagines he could or would ever be, Combeferre will not take advantage of this or him. He will keep watch, he will honour his intention and see Bahorel safe tonight and to his injuries in the morning, but he will do nothing more, unless-
Well. Unless he is indeed asked.
Hours pass, and Combeferre is caught enough in his own thoughts and the battered vision before him that he does not notice the prickle in his flesh as his back and arms begin to ache from holding themselves still for so long. Only when Bahorel stirs in the darkness does Combeferre move, too, tching under his breath as that prickling becomes more intense. He fears even that small sound might startle Bahorel fully awake and lead to questions he is not certain now he wants to hear asked, but Bahorel does not leave his dreams as loudly or frighteningly as one would expect. Rather, he stretches like a large cat and not the wolf Combeferre had called him before, soft noises accompanying the slow tense and release of his muscles, and exhales low and easy before he curls back into himself, back arching as he turns onto his side and reaches for something, someone, and finds only air. The question in his murmur can’t possibly make sense even to him, not if the expression under his still-closed eyes means anything, and Combeferre smiles in spite of himself, at least until Bahorel reaches out again and this time finds his prize.
“You are in no danger,” Combeferre says quickly, keeping his voice rather level, considering the crushing grip around his wrist and the wild stare Bahorel throws him. “These are my rooms, and you are injured, Bahorel; do not make yourself worse-”
“I haven’t slept or drunk anywhere enough to make me lose that much of my bearings,” Bahorel huffs. “I know where you’ve brought me and why.”
“Then it is not confusion that has you bent on breaking my wrist.” Bahorel’s fingers around him loosen slightly, and Combeferre exhales deeply before he continues. “Please remember I am trying to look after you, and release your violence on someone a bit more deserving-”
Combeferre’s next breath leaves him in a gust of surprise when he’s pulled forward, only just able to brace himself with one hand on the mattress as the rest of his body covers Bahorel’s. Bahorel’s smile is fierce and perhaps frightening, if Combeferre is honest, its sudden appearance creasing Bahorel’s face enough that a fresh scar on his cheek tears itself open again. Bahorel doesn’t notice, not even when Combeferre visibly does; his focus is on Combeferre alone.
“Your rooms are cold,” he says, peevish under his grin. “You must draw a parade of humanity to share this bed if you can live without a proper fire.”
“I have learned to exist with neither fire nor partner, you ingrate-”
“I can see it’s done you no harm; you flare up pretty enough without.” Bahorel’s fingers move from around Combeferre’s wrist to press against his lips. “You swore no lectures.”
“And you have received none,” Combeferre spits back, smacking Bahorel’s hand back to the mattress and forcing the other down as well, shocking himself with the vehemence of both words and action. “God himself could try, to no purpose.”
“I’m not interested in what the Lord could do to or for me,” Bahorel laughs. “Not him bent on breaking me now, is it?”
Combeferre inhales sharply but doesn’t release him; Bahorel relaxes under his grasp and shifts his hips upward, dragging them against Combeferre’s, holding their stare when Combeferre stutters out invectives. He cannot think, not when Bahorel’s hunger is this plain in his eyes and the rushing pulse Combeferre can feel under his fingers, and not when his own blood thunders in his ears. Yes, he had denied himself the relief of this sort of touch, these urges, earlier tonight before he’d found Bahorel, and yes, he has learned to exist without them, but perhaps not to live.
Bahorel twitches beneath him, rolling his hips again, and Combeferre hears himself groan first and then nearly growl, tugging at Bahorel’s wrists to force him higher on the mattress. Bahorel hisses, and Combeferre sees the smear of blood at his side, rusty on linen.
“You will make an inexplicable mess of my bedding,” Combeferre sighs irritably, and Bahorel laughs, tilting his chin up in bright challenge.
“Burn it for your bloody fire, then, and thank me another time.”
::
Combeferre is upon him hard and fast at first, and Bahorel's head spins with delight and need; he has never doubted that given reason Combeferre’s blood would run hot, leaving his everyday calm in the dust. He can imagine this Combeferre moving in darkness through streets he would shrink from in daylight, eager for something he could receive nowhere else.
“Is this what you sought tonight?” Bahorel gets out from between clenched teeth again. “You are clever, Combeferre; find it on streets not your own and let the scent of it live on you a little-”
“Better that than the scent of blood,” Combeferre says, bending to bite down hard at the join of Bahorel’s neck and shoulder. Bahorel bucks against him, and Combeferre pulls back a little, his stubbled cheek scoring Bahorel’s, before he checks himself, still holding Bahorel’s wrists down as his eyes fall to Bahorel’s chest and stomach. Impatient as ever, Bahorel shifts beneath him, nodding as if to assure Combeferre he wants more of whatever the man’s willing to give, and Combeferre shakes his head, his smile returning.
“Your desire has already been noted, my friend.”
“Then bloody well act on it,” Bahorel snaps, then smiles, too, relaxing his hands. “I am under your command.”
“You are not,” Combeferre sighs. “But you will be.”
The threat’s still echoing between them when Bahorel feels his arms tugged upward again, harder now that Combeferre’s as much beyond caring about his more minor injuries as Bahorel has been all night. Combeferre wraps one hand around both of Bahorel’s wrists, not quite circling them but leaving enough of the impression to work, and Bahorel watches as Combeferre tears his cravat loose and turns it in his free hand, staring down Bahorel as if to offer him opportunity for another retreat. Bahorel smirks and turns his chin to drag the tip of his tongue hot and quick along Combeferre’s skin, and Combeferre tilts his head in approval.
Combeferre is good at this, Bahorel finds, and once the material’s been tested, Bahorel relaxes again, ignoring the different ache in his shoulders and staring at his wrists, fastened now by the cravat to the strongest of the spindles in Combeferre’s ancient headboard. He’s fascinated enough by the turn of fabric and the precise knot that he doesn’t notice Combeferre’s dragged the trousers from his waist and hips until Combeferre’s freed his cock and wrapped his fingers around it, the touch making Bahorel release a stream of curses as he digs his heels into the bedding.
“That took but little,” Combeferre murmurs, flattening his hand above the curls between Bahorel’s legs, and another curse flies from Bahorel’s lips before he recovers.
“It is novelty more than talent.”
“So you say.” Combeferre’s smile is terrifying now, and Bahorel swallows hard under the weight of it rather than fire back some childish return. “Would you offer a complaint now?”
Bahorel shakes his head wildly. “Only that you are stalling.”
“I could do worse.”
Combeferre leaves it there, and Bahorel takes a deep breath before he brings his knees back and higher, spreading his thighs in a manner he knows few could resist. Combeferre proves his theory, moving to stroke Bahorel’s cock with a pretty, practiced cruelty that makes Bahorel shiver.
“I say again, bastard.”
“You talk too much-”
“If you wanted me silenced, you would have acted upon that at least.” Bahorel’s petulance is answered by Combeferre’s broader grin, but then both vanish as Combeferre moves on him again, covering Bahorel’s body with his own and pressing down this time, heavy and warm. Combeferre is hard, shockingly so, and Bahorel rises to meet him as much as Combeferre’s weight will allow. He pushes the heel of one foot into Combeferre’s back, hissing when Combeferre shoves against him in response, and they both chatter out breaths, all too suddenly aware there is only so much more they can draw this out.
“Get those-”
“-bloody clothes off,” Combeferre finishes it, nodding as he pushes at Bahorel’s knee and sits back, shucking waistcoat and shirt in a flurry of movement. Combeferre’s trousers follow the rest of his clothing to the floor, and then he’s reaching for the small pot of oil Bahorel hadn’t noticed in his earlier stumble toward the bed; its existence might have distracted him beyond help, and there has already been too much tonight he would have hated to miss.
Combeferre slicks his fingers as easily as he might perform any other small procedure, with the knowledge of experience and the confidence of a careful man. Bahorel spreads his thighs as far as they’ll go without causing himself more pain, and Combeferre lets out a low, eager breath at the curve of Bahorel’s cock against his stomach. They take rapid measure of each other before either moves again, Combeferre with a nod and Bahorel with another groan as Combeferre’s fingers press inside him, two at once; there is little time for preliminaries, and Bahorel hardly wants them now in any case. He grinds down on Combeferre’s hand, laughing breathlessly at the expression on Combeferre’s face and urging more from him.
Combeferre does not tease him beyond endurance. He drags his fingers from Bahorel only to slick himself now, closing his eyes as he strokes his own cock and opening them to find Bahorel’s gaze locked on him. Neither risks talking when there is happier danger to be found, and Combeferre moves on Bahorel again, sinking inside him more quickly than he might with a less greedy partner, nearly choking on the relief when Bahorel yields, his legs trembling at Combeferre’s sides.
Bahorel recovers himself faster than Combeferre expects, meeting every challenge Combeferre presents him, straining against the fabric holding his wrists even as he lifts his chin for the bruising kiss Combeferre sets upon it. At this pace, Combeferre will come apart before he does, and they both know it; that knowledge leads Combeferre to reach between them and stroke Bahorel hard, breathing words Bahorel can’t properly hear but thrill him nonetheless with their intensity and heat. A particular turn of Combeferre’s wrist forces a strangled gasp from him, and then Bahorel comes with enough of a shout that it startles Combeferre, who presses the hand covered with Bahorel’s release to Bahorel’s mouth the moment he’s recovered from it. Bahorel groans again, too exhausted to pretend shock, and his body clenches around Combeferre, catching him out enough that Combeferre has no choice but to surrender, coming with a hiss more violent than any Bahorel’s heard in even the hardest of this sport.
::
The weight of Combeferre on him is less enjoyable after several minutes have passed; Combeferre’s body burns against Bahorel’s broken skin, but Bahorel has no heart to urge him away. Combeferre mouths distracted kisses over Bahorel’s chest until he finds the strength to move and release Bahorel’s hands, and Bahorel counts those kisses off as he would the wages of a good bet, with smug internal grace and a new rush in his blood.
“You are an unholy thing,” Combeferre sighs as he gets to his hands and knees on the mattress. Bahorel laughs and reaches for him, but Combeferre pushes his hand away. “No, you will end this night better served by letting me go.”
“And you would break the heart of the most jaded whore, leaving so abruptly,” Bahorel mutters, and Combeferre laughs then, too.
“You forget this is my bed, Bahorel; I have every intention of returning to it.”
Bahorel releases him, but his eyes follow Combeferre around the small space keenly. When Combeferre returns to the bed, Bahorel offers an open hand Combeferre takes and brushes against his own cheek before he kisses Bahorel’s palm. The tenderness of it surprises and pleases Bahorel, but he says nothing, just continues to watch as Combeferre tends to him in a strictly non-medical fashion. Bahorel stretches under his touch, exhaling on a sound no sane man would dare call a sigh in his presence. When his kinder work is done, Combeferre falls to the mattress, placing a hand on what little space there is between bruises on Bahorel’s stomach.
“You should rest,” Combeferre says when Bahorel turns to him, and Bahorel stares as him as if he’s run mad.
“I hardly have other options.”
“You do, but none as appealing, I should think. Sleep, Bahorel. For my sake as much as your own.” Bahorel’s mouth works as he looks for words of protest, but after a moment he shrugs as much as his aching shoulder will allow, and closes his eyes.
An hour more passes before Combeferre sleeps, but the rest he finally finds is deeper than he’s felt in months. When he wakes, he’s relieved to discover that he has not done so wrapped around Bahorel, or Bahorel around him. He tests his muscles, as careful with himself as he might be with a patient in shock much worse than he’s taken, and feels no urge to rise from the bed, out of shame or anything else. Eventually sleep takes him again, into dreams that fade only when Combeferre feels Bahorel stir first beside him, then against him.
Combeferre makes to speak, but Bahorel’s mouth falls on his, tasting strangely sweet for the hour and occasion; it comes then to Combeferre that Bahorel’s woken at least once as well, and has left the bed to find what provisions he could. Combeferre’s rooms may be cold, but his larder is well-kept, by himself and his landlady’s good heart. When Bahorel moves to sit back, Combeferre catches him by the scruff of his neck, smiling under still-closed eyes as Bahorel releases a sound between pleasure and warning.
“You are under a doctor’s care,” Combeferre reminds him. “And I have not given you leave to run off and get yourself beaten again.”
Bahorel snorts, but doesn’t pull away. “If you serve all your patients so well it’s a wonder they are not queued outside your door.”
“My hours are not posted; they know not when to come.”
“I will make a secret of it, then, and keep those hours occupied. Christ knows I will need seeing to again soon enough.” Bahorel lowers his head, his lips following a path Combeferre would gratefully have him take when he could better enjoy it.
“Bahorel,” he murmurs, tugging at his hair again. “There is no need.”
“For you, perhaps.” Combeferre opens his eyes finally, waiting for them to focus on Bahorel’s searing little smirk. “But I have been awake some time, and your books don’t interest me. Grant me some amusement, Combeferre.”
“Another time,” Combeferre sighs, and Bahorel shrugs, agreeable enough. Combeferre yawns, reaching out to touch Bahorel’s chest, and it’s then that his focus fully returns, his eyes and hands finding Bahorel’s bandages torn and bled through in most places, gone entirely from others. “God above, Bahorel-”
“You flatter me-”
“I should murder you. Have you undone all my work?”
“I had not a little assistance,” Bahorel says hotly, batting at Combeferre’s hands when they travel over the scars and bruises. Combeferre guides him to his back, ignoring Bahorel’s muttered argument, but when a more curious touch leaves Bahorel groaning softly and not in pleasure, Combeferre looks up, apology only in his eyes.
“Perhaps we should pay a visit to Joly-”
“Murder would be preferable.” Bahorel’s hand finds Combeferre’s, lacing their fingers together again. “He would not believe you would have done such a poor job unless I had distracted you, and this is a tale I am not certain you would have told. I am, however, sure I could bear another round of you swaddling me like an infant, but you should get about it before more of this ends all over you.”
“What do you-” Combeferre looks down again, at Bahorel and at his own skin, flecked and smeared with blood, and swallows his gasp. It is a poor doctor who fears the wounds more than his patient, and Combeferre squeezes Bahorel’s hand before he rises, stealing a little of the man’s strength for himself. Bahorel closes his eyes, and Combeferre takes the chance to dress himself before his work begins again; the less his skin touches Bahorel’s, the safer they both might be.
“This may go worse for you than even last night,” he warns Bahorel when he returns with more cloths and the bottle, and Bahorel opens his eyes, frowning at Combeferre fully dressed, but resigned to his fate, drawing his stomach in tightly once more.
“May that God above it grant it be so.”
::
It is a strange joy to help Bahorel into fresh clothes once the bandages are replaced and the wounds clean again, stranger still to see how Combeferre’s own shirt falls on Bahorel’s body and how grateful he seems to wear it rather this his own, stained and torn beyond repair and now destined for rags or rubbish. Bahorel is quiet as they work, lost in thought until Combeferre absently tugs at one of the shirtcuffs to catch his attention.
“I’ll have it laundered,” Bahorel says, shaking his head when Combeferre scoffs. “No, it’s a promise. And you must offer me one as well.”
“You do not seem one to demand such from a partner,” Combeferre laughs. “What would you have from me?”
“Your word that I will not find you again as I did last night.”
Combeferre stares at him, floored by the lack of tease in Bahorel’s voice or expression. “I would hardly dare ask the same of you; what prompts this?”
“There are pretty thieves down there, Combeferre, not all willing to bed you before they bargain over your wallet and your life.”
Combeferre takes a deep breath and forces the smile back on his face, handing Bahorel his cravat. “You said yourself I am more careful than that.”
“You may not always be. There are distractions that can overcome one-”
“I would not run from a fight, Bahorel,” Combeferre says sharply. “And I do not look for them, in any case, but for those begun and ended in a desire for pleasure.”
“Would that I could have you for a mistress.”
Combeferre can feel the heat rise up in his face as Bahorel steps forward three paces, just out of their mutual reach, and sighs.
“You risk little taking a bit of violence out on me,” Bahorel tells him. “I am perhaps too frequently deserving. And if the opposite urge should come to you-”
“It will not.”
“Don’t limit yourself, doctor.” Bahorel’s tone is harder now. “Or believe yourself above or beyond what desire might bring you. If it does, I am at your service then as well.”
Combeferre breaks their held stare first. “You offer me remedies more dangerous than anything I would have faced last night, Bahorel.”
“Because I would see you safe.” Combeferre looks up to catch the warmth of affection in Bahorel’s face before it vanishes. “That is all.”
Combeferre nods, flexing his fingers at his sides. “We seem to understand one another, then.”
“I understand little to nothing about you,” Bahorel laughs raucously, as if they are simply arguing in the café again, and Combeferre almost flinches at the sound of it. Bahorel reaches for him, and Combeferre does not fight being gathered in the roughest embrace they have shared. “But that is enough. You know where to find me, Combeferre; until you have need of me, I shall find my amusement elsewhere.”
“Of course you will,” Combeferre sighs, but smiles, too, pushing him gently toward the door. “Go on.”
Fandom: Les Miserables (book and film)
Pairing: Bahorel/Combeferre
Summary: Bahorel’s having a more interesting night than usual, and it’s not half over yet.
Bahorel is bleeding. It is no small issue this time, no mere result of a cheerful brawl, and nothing he can thrill to later, pressing his fingertips into bruises and measuring them against others he keeps warm in memory. He’s managed to get away before the worst could occur, but over the sound of his footsteps he hears others, and such are his muddled senses, he cannot tell if he is in pursuit or pursued. The thought that he might be both amuses him-whoever cannot catch him when he’s hobbled isn’t worth his concern, and whoever could ignore his presence behind them isn’t one he might choose to engage-but he cannot bring enough air to his lungs to laugh.
The next corner offers with it a chance to find a place to rest, and perhaps a drink to blunt the spreading ache all over him. If he’s lucky, a piece of pretty work will bandage him up before he’s shoved back out into the darkness, and if he’s not, he’ll stagger home and hope his situation improves in late morning light.
A sturdier piece of work is what he finds as he turns the corner and slams directly into a broad back, knocking himself and the other man to the ground with a low grunt of pain and annoyance. His new friend is not much happier, though his noises are only of frustration, and they are familiar to Bahorel, as is the amused resignation on his face once he recognizes his attacker.
“You overgrown child,” Combeferre sighs, unable or unwilling to rise back to standing yet. “I should not be surprised, and yet I am.”
“Forgive me,” Bahorel says, as cheerfully as he can, drawing one arm across his stomach to hide the worst of things from Combeferre’s keen eyes. It is dark enough that he could possibly escape this meeting without having to say much more, but he must do so quickly, and that is no easy task now. “When next I sweep you off your feet, my intention will be more pleasant.”
“Spare me,” Combeferre says, but with no disdain; he and Bahorel have never quarreled, however differently they lead their lives. Still, they are only friends, not companions, and Bahorel would rather not explain why he’s likely to collapse entirely if he does not start moving again soon. He shifts to his knees but finds no strength for more, and Combeferre gasps.
“You are bleeding-”
“You should not be surprised, and yet-”
“Spare me your banter, too, for now.” Combeferre pushes Bahorel’s arm away from his chest gently, and breathes low and hard at what he finds. “Who-”
“I was not recording names, and their faces are now hardly in any state for proper identification,” Bahorel laughs, then erupts in a fit of coughing that spatters Combeferre’s cheek with blood he does not seem to notice. Once he’s caught his breath again, Bahorel shakes his head. “Proper pack of dogs they were, in any case.”
“And you a wolf among them,” Combeferre snaps, then tempers his voice as he moves to his knees. “But there is better strength in numbers than in even your fists, Bahorel. Did you invite this?”
“Oh, I am certain of it,” Bahorel mutters, pushing at Combeferre’s shoulder as he leans in. “Leave me, Combeferre; I need only a moment.”
“I will look after you,” Combeferre says decisively, evading Bahorel’s injured hands and searching for the safest way to get Bahorel standing again. “My rooms are closer, though I would not call them near, and you will have your moment there.”
Bahorel laughs, offering him no assistance. “I’ve been worse off than this. And you will forgive me if I say that any lecture will fall on deaf ears tonight.”
“I’d say more boxed than deaf, but I believe you,” Combeferre sighs, squinting in the darkness at the condition of Bahorel’s face and turning his chin gently. Bahorel flinches finally, unaccustomed both to Combeferre’s gaze and his touch. “I would see you safe tonight, that is all,” Combeferre says then. “Safe and at the minimum those cuts cleaned; I swear I will spare you lectures and my company afterward, if you will allow me those two things.”
Bahorel lets him drag them both to their feet, staggering a little before he sags against Combeferre, his eyes closing in unfamiliar relief. “I have no objection to your company, though I did not expect to find it at this hour or in this place. What brought you here?”
“What brings any man out on a night like this?” Combeferre says quietly. “Questions later, my friend; we must go-”
“This is not your route, Combeferre,” Bahorel says, dragging a tease from between teeth clenched in pain. “Even when you’re drunk you take better care than this. There’s nothing here for you, unless-”
“Questions later,” Combeferre says again, grunting under Bahorel’s weight, and steadying them against the wall before he starts to move, his arm warm around Bahorel’s back. “I could ask many of you, though I may already have my answers.”
“You’re a step ahead of me.”
“I was several steps ahead of you, thinking myself in danger,” Combeferre says, and Bahorel can hear the smile in his voice. “Had I known it was only you-”
“Only me. And I present no danger.”
“No more than I do to myself, perhaps.”
Bahorel stops them, clutching at Combeferre’s coat, forcing his eyes open to see Combeferre’s still smiling, but it’s thinner than usual, and Bahorel feels the sudden ache in his jaw as he lets it fall open. Combeferre laughs, then hitches Bahorel against his side tighter. “I do not count you among the things I fear in this world, Bahorel, but I am able to fear for you, as you are not breathing well, and I believe we may have over-extended our welcome here, if we were welcome at all.”
“I was.”
“Of course you were. Come on.”
::
Combeferre’s rooms are smaller than Bahorel imagined, but they are warm and well appointed enough that he lets out a low breath of appreciation once Combeferre has lit the space. Combeferre nods Bahorel toward the bed, then busies himself doffing his coat and rolling his sleeves before he begins to gather the instruments of whatever torture he has in mind, and Bahorel watches him from beneath eyelids growing heavier by the moment.
Combeferre is made of different stuff than Bahorel, but stronger than he appears, and makes a glorious form to observe when not hunched over his books or Enjolras’ shoulder. Ever one to give attention to the hands of friends and foes alike, Bahorel suddenly loves Combeferre’s; they move over shelves and across tables with a precision so fascinating that Bahorel has to bite the inside of his cheek rather than mention it aloud. It is rare that Bahorel is able to keep his thoughts to himself at this late an hour, and it seems Combeferre can hear them anyway, from the expression on his face as he crouches before Bahorel, a basin of water in the crook of one elbow, cloths in the other, and a bottle of something menacing in his left hand.
“Remove your shirt,” he says, nodding with only mild distaste at the stained material already rucked halfway up Bahorel’s stomach. Bahorel arches an eyebrow, then hisses; there will be a new scar above his left eye, to draw fresh attention to one older. Combeferre pretends not to hear, his focus on unfolding one of the cloths, and so Bahorel does not bother to make a show of getting the shirt off his back; the truth of it is that every movement is painful now, perhaps more so because Combeferre is allowing him to accept it as such. Grisettes tend to flinch and wait for Bahorel to look after his own wounds before he finds their beds, and he typically makes a point to leave the scenes of his not-quite-crimes before any man can find him as Combeferre had.
“You had only-to ask,” Bahorel says, breath hitching with pain, and Combeferre mutters something concerned but resigned, too, before he helps Bahorel with the shirt, pulling the fabric over his head and watching Bahorel wince when he lowers his arms.
“This will be considerably worse before it is better,” Combeferre says gently, and Bahorel nods, throwing a hand that’s started to bleed again.
“Then let it be worse quickly, if you can. I have only so much in the way of patience, and I would not give any of you the satisfaction of my not surviving this.”
Combeferre laughs, resting his hand on Bahorel’s knee. “Satisfaction and survival. You are a fighter to the marrow, my friend.”
“I have never pretended otherwise.” Bahorel takes a hard breath, and lowers his voice. “If you would, Combeferre. If you-” he throws the hand again, the line of blood upon it flowing freely now. “If you must.”
Combeferre works quickly, and mostly kindly; if he is at times rougher than Bahorel supposes he must be with patients, then it is because Bahorel does not give way as easily as they might, and even nearing exhaustion cannot keep from drawing both his breath and his bruised stomach in tight at the touch of the cloth, or from hissing again at the sting of whatever Combeferre has in that dark bottle he’s clutching now with something like irritation.
“Try to remain still, Bahorel. I would like to think it not beyond you, even in this state.”
“Would you rather know for certain?”
Combeferre tuts under his breath, pressing his hand flat over the cloth. “I could make certain, if I felt the need or desire to do so.” He looks up, that thin smile just visible once more as Bahorel feels the warmth of his hand through the fabric and leans into it. “Persuade me otherwise later, but for the moment I do not.”
“What a mad flirt you are with the filth of the city on you, Combeferre; I would never have thought.”
“If we are lucky you will not remember, either. I would not call it flirtation, in any case, and you are familiar with threats; consider it one.”
“You are a bastard,” Bahorel says around a wild grin, the word the only half-delighted insult he can manage with Combeferre’s hands still on him. Combeferre hums, not disagreeing, then ducks his head to return to his work, reaching for a fresh cloth.
“They did say I patterned not after my father.”
“Be glad of it,” Bahorel hisses when Combeferre’s fingers brush against a wound Bahorel has no memory of taking. “Make your way without the burden of another man’s life on yours.”
“That burden is perhaps lighter than what you carry, my friend,” Combeferre sighs. “It does not matter; I have others to balance it. I do not think either of us desires this conversation now. Let me finish, and I will let you rest.”
“I don’t desire that either.”
“Then indulge me and do so nonetheless, and perhaps after, we will speak instead of what you do desire.” Combeferre sits back on his heels and tilts his head, peering at Bahorel with something like a keen fondness and somehow holding himself steady there far longer than necessary, Bahorel thinks petulantly.
“What would you have me do?” he says finally, the words tumbling out of him, and Combeferre’s expression warms enough that Bahorel can hardly hold his gaze.
“Only be still,” Combeferre says calmly, but firmly, too. Bahorel huffs in annoyance but Combeferre leans forward to quiet him, pushing gently at his chest until Bahorel falls back-retreats as he so rarely does-groaning softly with unexpected relief. “Be still and sleep,” Combeferre murmurs, and though Bahorel can feel the cloth and the sting and the warmth of Combeferre’s touch and breath too near his skin, he gives way, closing his eyes but smiling again, too.
::
To watch another man sleep does not come naturally to Combeferre, no matter how often he’s had occasion to do so at the hospital or in Enjolras’ or Joly’s rooms. His friends typically fall to rest much later than he does, notwithstanding his attempts to stay awake with them as they study in near silence, and the patients under his watch, whatever his compassionate and scientific interest in their welfare, do not make comfortable viewing.
As friend and patient, however, Bahorel in his sleep is compelling; the bruises mottling his arms, chest, and stomach seem less alarming than simply well-earned, and his features have softened to a degree Combeferre cannot recall seeing before, leaving Bahorel looking younger than some of their friends. Even the man’s breathing is more peaceful than it sounds when Bahorel has allegedly been at ease, watching and listening in the café rather than clenching his fists, itching for every fight to come.
This peace will not last, Combeferre thinks, leaning forward and tenting his fingers in front of his face to frame Bahorel’s sleeping form; it cannot, if for no other reason than how much pleasure he takes in it, and Bahorel, too. If asked, Combeferre would not deny that his attention has been diverted on many levels by Bahorel’s presence, but he has never given anyone cause to ask, and regardless of the fact that the man is now sprawled down the length of Combeferre’s mattress, bared to his waist and as pliant as Combeferre imagines he could or would ever be, Combeferre will not take advantage of this or him. He will keep watch, he will honour his intention and see Bahorel safe tonight and to his injuries in the morning, but he will do nothing more, unless-
Well. Unless he is indeed asked.
Hours pass, and Combeferre is caught enough in his own thoughts and the battered vision before him that he does not notice the prickle in his flesh as his back and arms begin to ache from holding themselves still for so long. Only when Bahorel stirs in the darkness does Combeferre move, too, tching under his breath as that prickling becomes more intense. He fears even that small sound might startle Bahorel fully awake and lead to questions he is not certain now he wants to hear asked, but Bahorel does not leave his dreams as loudly or frighteningly as one would expect. Rather, he stretches like a large cat and not the wolf Combeferre had called him before, soft noises accompanying the slow tense and release of his muscles, and exhales low and easy before he curls back into himself, back arching as he turns onto his side and reaches for something, someone, and finds only air. The question in his murmur can’t possibly make sense even to him, not if the expression under his still-closed eyes means anything, and Combeferre smiles in spite of himself, at least until Bahorel reaches out again and this time finds his prize.
“You are in no danger,” Combeferre says quickly, keeping his voice rather level, considering the crushing grip around his wrist and the wild stare Bahorel throws him. “These are my rooms, and you are injured, Bahorel; do not make yourself worse-”
“I haven’t slept or drunk anywhere enough to make me lose that much of my bearings,” Bahorel huffs. “I know where you’ve brought me and why.”
“Then it is not confusion that has you bent on breaking my wrist.” Bahorel’s fingers around him loosen slightly, and Combeferre exhales deeply before he continues. “Please remember I am trying to look after you, and release your violence on someone a bit more deserving-”
Combeferre’s next breath leaves him in a gust of surprise when he’s pulled forward, only just able to brace himself with one hand on the mattress as the rest of his body covers Bahorel’s. Bahorel’s smile is fierce and perhaps frightening, if Combeferre is honest, its sudden appearance creasing Bahorel’s face enough that a fresh scar on his cheek tears itself open again. Bahorel doesn’t notice, not even when Combeferre visibly does; his focus is on Combeferre alone.
“Your rooms are cold,” he says, peevish under his grin. “You must draw a parade of humanity to share this bed if you can live without a proper fire.”
“I have learned to exist with neither fire nor partner, you ingrate-”
“I can see it’s done you no harm; you flare up pretty enough without.” Bahorel’s fingers move from around Combeferre’s wrist to press against his lips. “You swore no lectures.”
“And you have received none,” Combeferre spits back, smacking Bahorel’s hand back to the mattress and forcing the other down as well, shocking himself with the vehemence of both words and action. “God himself could try, to no purpose.”
“I’m not interested in what the Lord could do to or for me,” Bahorel laughs. “Not him bent on breaking me now, is it?”
Combeferre inhales sharply but doesn’t release him; Bahorel relaxes under his grasp and shifts his hips upward, dragging them against Combeferre’s, holding their stare when Combeferre stutters out invectives. He cannot think, not when Bahorel’s hunger is this plain in his eyes and the rushing pulse Combeferre can feel under his fingers, and not when his own blood thunders in his ears. Yes, he had denied himself the relief of this sort of touch, these urges, earlier tonight before he’d found Bahorel, and yes, he has learned to exist without them, but perhaps not to live.
Bahorel twitches beneath him, rolling his hips again, and Combeferre hears himself groan first and then nearly growl, tugging at Bahorel’s wrists to force him higher on the mattress. Bahorel hisses, and Combeferre sees the smear of blood at his side, rusty on linen.
“You will make an inexplicable mess of my bedding,” Combeferre sighs irritably, and Bahorel laughs, tilting his chin up in bright challenge.
“Burn it for your bloody fire, then, and thank me another time.”
::
Combeferre is upon him hard and fast at first, and Bahorel's head spins with delight and need; he has never doubted that given reason Combeferre’s blood would run hot, leaving his everyday calm in the dust. He can imagine this Combeferre moving in darkness through streets he would shrink from in daylight, eager for something he could receive nowhere else.
“Is this what you sought tonight?” Bahorel gets out from between clenched teeth again. “You are clever, Combeferre; find it on streets not your own and let the scent of it live on you a little-”
“Better that than the scent of blood,” Combeferre says, bending to bite down hard at the join of Bahorel’s neck and shoulder. Bahorel bucks against him, and Combeferre pulls back a little, his stubbled cheek scoring Bahorel’s, before he checks himself, still holding Bahorel’s wrists down as his eyes fall to Bahorel’s chest and stomach. Impatient as ever, Bahorel shifts beneath him, nodding as if to assure Combeferre he wants more of whatever the man’s willing to give, and Combeferre shakes his head, his smile returning.
“Your desire has already been noted, my friend.”
“Then bloody well act on it,” Bahorel snaps, then smiles, too, relaxing his hands. “I am under your command.”
“You are not,” Combeferre sighs. “But you will be.”
The threat’s still echoing between them when Bahorel feels his arms tugged upward again, harder now that Combeferre’s as much beyond caring about his more minor injuries as Bahorel has been all night. Combeferre wraps one hand around both of Bahorel’s wrists, not quite circling them but leaving enough of the impression to work, and Bahorel watches as Combeferre tears his cravat loose and turns it in his free hand, staring down Bahorel as if to offer him opportunity for another retreat. Bahorel smirks and turns his chin to drag the tip of his tongue hot and quick along Combeferre’s skin, and Combeferre tilts his head in approval.
Combeferre is good at this, Bahorel finds, and once the material’s been tested, Bahorel relaxes again, ignoring the different ache in his shoulders and staring at his wrists, fastened now by the cravat to the strongest of the spindles in Combeferre’s ancient headboard. He’s fascinated enough by the turn of fabric and the precise knot that he doesn’t notice Combeferre’s dragged the trousers from his waist and hips until Combeferre’s freed his cock and wrapped his fingers around it, the touch making Bahorel release a stream of curses as he digs his heels into the bedding.
“That took but little,” Combeferre murmurs, flattening his hand above the curls between Bahorel’s legs, and another curse flies from Bahorel’s lips before he recovers.
“It is novelty more than talent.”
“So you say.” Combeferre’s smile is terrifying now, and Bahorel swallows hard under the weight of it rather than fire back some childish return. “Would you offer a complaint now?”
Bahorel shakes his head wildly. “Only that you are stalling.”
“I could do worse.”
Combeferre leaves it there, and Bahorel takes a deep breath before he brings his knees back and higher, spreading his thighs in a manner he knows few could resist. Combeferre proves his theory, moving to stroke Bahorel’s cock with a pretty, practiced cruelty that makes Bahorel shiver.
“I say again, bastard.”
“You talk too much-”
“If you wanted me silenced, you would have acted upon that at least.” Bahorel’s petulance is answered by Combeferre’s broader grin, but then both vanish as Combeferre moves on him again, covering Bahorel’s body with his own and pressing down this time, heavy and warm. Combeferre is hard, shockingly so, and Bahorel rises to meet him as much as Combeferre’s weight will allow. He pushes the heel of one foot into Combeferre’s back, hissing when Combeferre shoves against him in response, and they both chatter out breaths, all too suddenly aware there is only so much more they can draw this out.
“Get those-”
“-bloody clothes off,” Combeferre finishes it, nodding as he pushes at Bahorel’s knee and sits back, shucking waistcoat and shirt in a flurry of movement. Combeferre’s trousers follow the rest of his clothing to the floor, and then he’s reaching for the small pot of oil Bahorel hadn’t noticed in his earlier stumble toward the bed; its existence might have distracted him beyond help, and there has already been too much tonight he would have hated to miss.
Combeferre slicks his fingers as easily as he might perform any other small procedure, with the knowledge of experience and the confidence of a careful man. Bahorel spreads his thighs as far as they’ll go without causing himself more pain, and Combeferre lets out a low, eager breath at the curve of Bahorel’s cock against his stomach. They take rapid measure of each other before either moves again, Combeferre with a nod and Bahorel with another groan as Combeferre’s fingers press inside him, two at once; there is little time for preliminaries, and Bahorel hardly wants them now in any case. He grinds down on Combeferre’s hand, laughing breathlessly at the expression on Combeferre’s face and urging more from him.
Combeferre does not tease him beyond endurance. He drags his fingers from Bahorel only to slick himself now, closing his eyes as he strokes his own cock and opening them to find Bahorel’s gaze locked on him. Neither risks talking when there is happier danger to be found, and Combeferre moves on Bahorel again, sinking inside him more quickly than he might with a less greedy partner, nearly choking on the relief when Bahorel yields, his legs trembling at Combeferre’s sides.
Bahorel recovers himself faster than Combeferre expects, meeting every challenge Combeferre presents him, straining against the fabric holding his wrists even as he lifts his chin for the bruising kiss Combeferre sets upon it. At this pace, Combeferre will come apart before he does, and they both know it; that knowledge leads Combeferre to reach between them and stroke Bahorel hard, breathing words Bahorel can’t properly hear but thrill him nonetheless with their intensity and heat. A particular turn of Combeferre’s wrist forces a strangled gasp from him, and then Bahorel comes with enough of a shout that it startles Combeferre, who presses the hand covered with Bahorel’s release to Bahorel’s mouth the moment he’s recovered from it. Bahorel groans again, too exhausted to pretend shock, and his body clenches around Combeferre, catching him out enough that Combeferre has no choice but to surrender, coming with a hiss more violent than any Bahorel’s heard in even the hardest of this sport.
::
The weight of Combeferre on him is less enjoyable after several minutes have passed; Combeferre’s body burns against Bahorel’s broken skin, but Bahorel has no heart to urge him away. Combeferre mouths distracted kisses over Bahorel’s chest until he finds the strength to move and release Bahorel’s hands, and Bahorel counts those kisses off as he would the wages of a good bet, with smug internal grace and a new rush in his blood.
“You are an unholy thing,” Combeferre sighs as he gets to his hands and knees on the mattress. Bahorel laughs and reaches for him, but Combeferre pushes his hand away. “No, you will end this night better served by letting me go.”
“And you would break the heart of the most jaded whore, leaving so abruptly,” Bahorel mutters, and Combeferre laughs then, too.
“You forget this is my bed, Bahorel; I have every intention of returning to it.”
Bahorel releases him, but his eyes follow Combeferre around the small space keenly. When Combeferre returns to the bed, Bahorel offers an open hand Combeferre takes and brushes against his own cheek before he kisses Bahorel’s palm. The tenderness of it surprises and pleases Bahorel, but he says nothing, just continues to watch as Combeferre tends to him in a strictly non-medical fashion. Bahorel stretches under his touch, exhaling on a sound no sane man would dare call a sigh in his presence. When his kinder work is done, Combeferre falls to the mattress, placing a hand on what little space there is between bruises on Bahorel’s stomach.
“You should rest,” Combeferre says when Bahorel turns to him, and Bahorel stares as him as if he’s run mad.
“I hardly have other options.”
“You do, but none as appealing, I should think. Sleep, Bahorel. For my sake as much as your own.” Bahorel’s mouth works as he looks for words of protest, but after a moment he shrugs as much as his aching shoulder will allow, and closes his eyes.
An hour more passes before Combeferre sleeps, but the rest he finally finds is deeper than he’s felt in months. When he wakes, he’s relieved to discover that he has not done so wrapped around Bahorel, or Bahorel around him. He tests his muscles, as careful with himself as he might be with a patient in shock much worse than he’s taken, and feels no urge to rise from the bed, out of shame or anything else. Eventually sleep takes him again, into dreams that fade only when Combeferre feels Bahorel stir first beside him, then against him.
Combeferre makes to speak, but Bahorel’s mouth falls on his, tasting strangely sweet for the hour and occasion; it comes then to Combeferre that Bahorel’s woken at least once as well, and has left the bed to find what provisions he could. Combeferre’s rooms may be cold, but his larder is well-kept, by himself and his landlady’s good heart. When Bahorel moves to sit back, Combeferre catches him by the scruff of his neck, smiling under still-closed eyes as Bahorel releases a sound between pleasure and warning.
“You are under a doctor’s care,” Combeferre reminds him. “And I have not given you leave to run off and get yourself beaten again.”
Bahorel snorts, but doesn’t pull away. “If you serve all your patients so well it’s a wonder they are not queued outside your door.”
“My hours are not posted; they know not when to come.”
“I will make a secret of it, then, and keep those hours occupied. Christ knows I will need seeing to again soon enough.” Bahorel lowers his head, his lips following a path Combeferre would gratefully have him take when he could better enjoy it.
“Bahorel,” he murmurs, tugging at his hair again. “There is no need.”
“For you, perhaps.” Combeferre opens his eyes finally, waiting for them to focus on Bahorel’s searing little smirk. “But I have been awake some time, and your books don’t interest me. Grant me some amusement, Combeferre.”
“Another time,” Combeferre sighs, and Bahorel shrugs, agreeable enough. Combeferre yawns, reaching out to touch Bahorel’s chest, and it’s then that his focus fully returns, his eyes and hands finding Bahorel’s bandages torn and bled through in most places, gone entirely from others. “God above, Bahorel-”
“You flatter me-”
“I should murder you. Have you undone all my work?”
“I had not a little assistance,” Bahorel says hotly, batting at Combeferre’s hands when they travel over the scars and bruises. Combeferre guides him to his back, ignoring Bahorel’s muttered argument, but when a more curious touch leaves Bahorel groaning softly and not in pleasure, Combeferre looks up, apology only in his eyes.
“Perhaps we should pay a visit to Joly-”
“Murder would be preferable.” Bahorel’s hand finds Combeferre’s, lacing their fingers together again. “He would not believe you would have done such a poor job unless I had distracted you, and this is a tale I am not certain you would have told. I am, however, sure I could bear another round of you swaddling me like an infant, but you should get about it before more of this ends all over you.”
“What do you-” Combeferre looks down again, at Bahorel and at his own skin, flecked and smeared with blood, and swallows his gasp. It is a poor doctor who fears the wounds more than his patient, and Combeferre squeezes Bahorel’s hand before he rises, stealing a little of the man’s strength for himself. Bahorel closes his eyes, and Combeferre takes the chance to dress himself before his work begins again; the less his skin touches Bahorel’s, the safer they both might be.
“This may go worse for you than even last night,” he warns Bahorel when he returns with more cloths and the bottle, and Bahorel opens his eyes, frowning at Combeferre fully dressed, but resigned to his fate, drawing his stomach in tightly once more.
“May that God above it grant it be so.”
::
It is a strange joy to help Bahorel into fresh clothes once the bandages are replaced and the wounds clean again, stranger still to see how Combeferre’s own shirt falls on Bahorel’s body and how grateful he seems to wear it rather this his own, stained and torn beyond repair and now destined for rags or rubbish. Bahorel is quiet as they work, lost in thought until Combeferre absently tugs at one of the shirtcuffs to catch his attention.
“I’ll have it laundered,” Bahorel says, shaking his head when Combeferre scoffs. “No, it’s a promise. And you must offer me one as well.”
“You do not seem one to demand such from a partner,” Combeferre laughs. “What would you have from me?”
“Your word that I will not find you again as I did last night.”
Combeferre stares at him, floored by the lack of tease in Bahorel’s voice or expression. “I would hardly dare ask the same of you; what prompts this?”
“There are pretty thieves down there, Combeferre, not all willing to bed you before they bargain over your wallet and your life.”
Combeferre takes a deep breath and forces the smile back on his face, handing Bahorel his cravat. “You said yourself I am more careful than that.”
“You may not always be. There are distractions that can overcome one-”
“I would not run from a fight, Bahorel,” Combeferre says sharply. “And I do not look for them, in any case, but for those begun and ended in a desire for pleasure.”
“Would that I could have you for a mistress.”
Combeferre can feel the heat rise up in his face as Bahorel steps forward three paces, just out of their mutual reach, and sighs.
“You risk little taking a bit of violence out on me,” Bahorel tells him. “I am perhaps too frequently deserving. And if the opposite urge should come to you-”
“It will not.”
“Don’t limit yourself, doctor.” Bahorel’s tone is harder now. “Or believe yourself above or beyond what desire might bring you. If it does, I am at your service then as well.”
Combeferre breaks their held stare first. “You offer me remedies more dangerous than anything I would have faced last night, Bahorel.”
“Because I would see you safe.” Combeferre looks up to catch the warmth of affection in Bahorel’s face before it vanishes. “That is all.”
Combeferre nods, flexing his fingers at his sides. “We seem to understand one another, then.”
“I understand little to nothing about you,” Bahorel laughs raucously, as if they are simply arguing in the café again, and Combeferre almost flinches at the sound of it. Bahorel reaches for him, and Combeferre does not fight being gathered in the roughest embrace they have shared. “But that is enough. You know where to find me, Combeferre; until you have need of me, I shall find my amusement elsewhere.”
“Of course you will,” Combeferre sighs, but smiles, too, pushing him gently toward the door. “Go on.”