fic: an ember all but out
Title: An Ember All But Out
Fandom: Les Miserables (book and film)
Pairing: Bahorel/Combeferre
Other Characters: Grantaire, Joly
Notes: Follows a few nights after the events of Snap the Branches Off Me.
No immediate notice is made of Bahorel’s slightly uncharacteristic silence during their meeting. He is as prone as any of them to moments, days even, of melancholy or extended thoughtfulness, and though it is rare that he will not rise to even Grantaire or Courfeyrac’s mild baiting, it does happen, and his friends are not the sort to push him, for reasons that go well beyond those others who do not know him as well might have. But when Grantaire’s gaze catches Bahorel’s eyes closing, his breath quickening, and his hand shaking beneath the table, there is no more avoidance or be had, benign or otherwise.
“It is a shame I have no philosophical quarrel with you at the moment,” Grantaire says simply, easing into the chair beside Bahorel with a glance that sweeps from the man’s head to booted toes. “You are clearly in poor shape for a fight of any kind, and it would benefit me to win one off you for once.”
“I’m sure we could think of something if you’re desperate,” Bahorel rasps back at him. “If you promised me quiet I’d cede you that win without another word.”
“You are beyond banter,” Grantaire sighs, then nods shortly at Bahorel’s chest before he leans in closer, lowering his voice but keeping it firm, clear in the way he reserves for these all-too-frequent conversations he and Bahorel share. “You are also bleeding. Would you rather a moment’s time to leave now to find help, or the assistance of one of our fine doctors here?”
“I would rather you bring me something more to drink.”
Grantaire smiles pleasantly, pressing both hands to the table and standing. “Right. Joly, then.”
Bahorel groans, but the sound goes unheard beneath the shift of Grantaire’s shoes on the floor. Grantaire plants himself to shield Bahorel from the view of others, but raises his voice to call for Joly, beckoning him with another smile but deep concern in his eyes. Joly nods in acknowledgment and pats Feuilly’s shoulder as he steps away from their mild debate, and before he’s crossed the room, he’s read every line of hidden fear in Grantaire’s face.
“Not for me,” Grantaire says quietly as soon as Joly is within small earshot. “We have an unwilling patient who, were he half as well as he would like to pretend he is, would both know better and be considerably more concerned about the current state of his waistcoat.” There is a noise behind Grantaire, an annoyed growl as Bahorel shifts in his chair, and Grantaire’s smile widens as he gestures Joly forward. “At your leisure, doctor.”
“Please do not call me that,” Joly sighs, but he moves to his knees quickly, already reaching for the buttons of Bahorel’s waistcoat and ignoring his dark mutters in response. “What have you done, Bahorel?”
“What have I done? Clearly I have done nothing to myself, Joly; clearly what is in question is what someone else has done-” A press of Joly’s hand to damp, sticky cloth and overheated skin beneath it silences Bahorel effectively but for another groan, and Joly’s eyebrows rise.
“Bahorel-”
“For the love of God, Joly,” Bahorel hisses, fingers scrabbling to open the waistcoat fully. “Do what you must but don’t bring any more attention over here.”
“Attention-?” Joly swallows the rest of his sentence and simply nods again, angling his body so that between himself and Grantaire, Bahorel remains mostly hidden from view. The noise of the café as he works does not lessen, and all three imagine they will get away with this rapid triage mostly unnoticed. Bahorel’s breathing is shallow but wild as Joly works, his brow furrowed in nervous confusion.
“This has been seen to already,” he starts quietly, and Bahorel nods. “But not well.”
“No. No, it was well done; I have not-looked after it, that is all.”
“You are beyond lies, too,” Grantaire tells him gently. “I am the last to force you in the direction of reason, Bahorel, but you must get yourself to a proper doctor-”
“Or at least one in more than name only,” Joly sighs. All three flinch slightly at the sound of footsteps nearing them, but Joly moves in close again, inspecting Bahorel a bit more kindly now. “I suppose whoever attempted this did what he could in poor circumstances, but it is distracted work at best.”
“You are correct,” Combeferre says quietly, and Bahorel’s eyes flit toward him just as Combeferre rests his hand on Joly’s shoulder. “It is also mine, and I will make amends as necessary.”
Joly looks up, confused again, then holds his breath as he watches the wordless exchange between Bahorel and Combeferre. “I meant no insult.”
“And there is none taken.” Combeferre’s smile is easy, calm as ever, but he does not release Joly. “If I could just-”
Joly rises, stepping back to make room for Combeferre, but Combeferre does not settle into the crouch Joly’s left; instead he reaches for Bahorel’s left arm with the same placid smile on his face and lifts, pulling Bahorel to his feet while Joly’s eyes widen and he chokes back a warning against this, whatever this is or could become. It is enough that Combeferre seems to have no particular interest in whether Bahorel is in specific pain; that Bahorel doesn’t protest even faintly or in jest is almost too much to witness. There is a ghost of a smile on the man’s face, true, but it vanishes when Bahorel takes his first step, and Combeferre’s grip on him loosens, only to rise higher on his bicep.
“Steady,” Combeferre says softly enough that Joly barely hears it, can barely recognize the sound of his friend’s voice in the mingled gentleness and threat. Bahorel nods, a darkness creeping over his face that signals pain and unhappy surprise. Joly has seen that expression before, but never without the immediate change after, the narrowed eyes and long breath hissed between bared teeth that typically serve as the only warning an opponent receives from Bahorel.
“I’ve given my regrets to Enjolras,” Combeferre tells Joly, and behind them Grantaire glances Enjolras’ way, but the man’s engaged in deep conversation with Courfeyrac now, paying no attention to anyone or anything else. When Grantaire turns back, Combeferre is pressing his free hand to Joly’s shoulder again, his smile tight and thin now as he holds Joly back. “No, your offer is one I would accept on any other occasion, Joly, but as you have noticed, this is my error to correct.”
“I swear I meant nothing, Combeferre; it was concern, nothing more-”
“And I swear I believe you,” Combeferre laughs, then gathers Bahorel more closely to his side. “We must go. When next we meet, let us hope the only further damage done is to me, hmm?”
As he turns to leave, Combeferre sees Grantaire reach for Joly when he makes to follow them at least to the door, but Grantaire holds himself in check as well, unnerved enough by the events of the last several minutes that he can only stare. The weight of it is heavier on Combeferre’s back than Bahorel at his hip, but Combeferre keeps his chin and eyes up until they have cleared one full street and are safe from most eyes, concerned or wary.
“In the future,” Combeferre says lightly as he leans Bahorel against a wall, “should you wish to make a fool of me, please do so among your own who will laugh rather than fear the results.”
“I would never-” Bahorel inhales sharply, curling into himself and not resisting when Combeferre pulls him back into his arms again. “You insult me, Combeferre.”
“It was a poor jest,” Combeferre says quickly. “I am sorry for it. You will not allow me to take you to a hospital, I know it; are your rooms nearer than mine?” Bahorel nods, grimacing. “Where are they? Bahorel?”
“You do not know?”
“Would I-” Combeferre pauses. “Would I have reason to?”
Bahorel’s laughter is exhausted, as broken as it had been only a few nights before. “You would not. They are behind Grantaire’s, for better or for worse for the both of us. Do you know them at least?”
“I do,” Combeferre murmurs. “But do you have anything I can-use, Bahorel? Shall I take you there and then fetch my bag?”
“No, you will only bring that vile bottle back with you,” Bahorel sighs. “Please, Combeferre, I would like nothing more than to simply sleep now.” His fingers curl into the fabric of Combeferre’s coat tightly. “You would make-excellent company again if you would stay, we need not speak of it to anyone-”
“You have not re-injured yourself merely to lure me to your bed, whatever form of flattery you are prone to offer,” Combeferre laughs again, but gently this time. “We will go to your rooms. But if I cannot find what I need there and you are further weakened by morning, then you will go where you are taken, without protest. Are we in accord?”
Bahorel nods so easily Combeferre swallows down renewed fear, then hitches Bahorel against him again and begins to walk. By the time they have reached his door Bahorel is tired enough that he might be asleep on his feet. He does not question how Combeferre works the latch open with no key, and does not fight it when Combeferre marches them forward into the darkness and the direction of the bed, larger than Combeferre’s and softer, too.
“To think you had fetched Joly before me,” Combeferre murmurs affectionately, and Bahorel’s eyes fly open, then close again in pain.
“I fetched no one, and wanted no one fetched; Grantaire encouraged him, not I.”
Combeferre laughs, and Bahorel cracks his eyes open just enough to see him rolling his sleeves to the elbows, a man at work and play at once. Combeferre leans over him, watching Bahorel shift on the mattress in strange anticipation of pain and pleasure both, before he pushes Bahorel’s waistcoat aside and probes his stomach gently with careful fingers and amusement in his lowered voice. “Then it was less concern than antagonism. You’ve taught him well.”
“We have taught each other, much like you and Enjolras-” Bahorel coughs at a stronger press of Combeferre’s fingers, a painful spark behind his eyes until he recovers to find Combeferre’s smile gone terrible and sweet above him.
“It will go easier this time if you do not spend your breath on speaking, my friend,” he says, then softens his expression. “At least not now. After I have fixed this and after you have slept, Bahorel, we will speak. We must speak.”
Bahorel stares at him, then nods slowly. “And so we will.”
Fandom: Les Miserables (book and film)
Pairing: Bahorel/Combeferre
Other Characters: Grantaire, Joly
Notes: Follows a few nights after the events of Snap the Branches Off Me.
No immediate notice is made of Bahorel’s slightly uncharacteristic silence during their meeting. He is as prone as any of them to moments, days even, of melancholy or extended thoughtfulness, and though it is rare that he will not rise to even Grantaire or Courfeyrac’s mild baiting, it does happen, and his friends are not the sort to push him, for reasons that go well beyond those others who do not know him as well might have. But when Grantaire’s gaze catches Bahorel’s eyes closing, his breath quickening, and his hand shaking beneath the table, there is no more avoidance or be had, benign or otherwise.
“It is a shame I have no philosophical quarrel with you at the moment,” Grantaire says simply, easing into the chair beside Bahorel with a glance that sweeps from the man’s head to booted toes. “You are clearly in poor shape for a fight of any kind, and it would benefit me to win one off you for once.”
“I’m sure we could think of something if you’re desperate,” Bahorel rasps back at him. “If you promised me quiet I’d cede you that win without another word.”
“You are beyond banter,” Grantaire sighs, then nods shortly at Bahorel’s chest before he leans in closer, lowering his voice but keeping it firm, clear in the way he reserves for these all-too-frequent conversations he and Bahorel share. “You are also bleeding. Would you rather a moment’s time to leave now to find help, or the assistance of one of our fine doctors here?”
“I would rather you bring me something more to drink.”
Grantaire smiles pleasantly, pressing both hands to the table and standing. “Right. Joly, then.”
Bahorel groans, but the sound goes unheard beneath the shift of Grantaire’s shoes on the floor. Grantaire plants himself to shield Bahorel from the view of others, but raises his voice to call for Joly, beckoning him with another smile but deep concern in his eyes. Joly nods in acknowledgment and pats Feuilly’s shoulder as he steps away from their mild debate, and before he’s crossed the room, he’s read every line of hidden fear in Grantaire’s face.
“Not for me,” Grantaire says quietly as soon as Joly is within small earshot. “We have an unwilling patient who, were he half as well as he would like to pretend he is, would both know better and be considerably more concerned about the current state of his waistcoat.” There is a noise behind Grantaire, an annoyed growl as Bahorel shifts in his chair, and Grantaire’s smile widens as he gestures Joly forward. “At your leisure, doctor.”
“Please do not call me that,” Joly sighs, but he moves to his knees quickly, already reaching for the buttons of Bahorel’s waistcoat and ignoring his dark mutters in response. “What have you done, Bahorel?”
“What have I done? Clearly I have done nothing to myself, Joly; clearly what is in question is what someone else has done-” A press of Joly’s hand to damp, sticky cloth and overheated skin beneath it silences Bahorel effectively but for another groan, and Joly’s eyebrows rise.
“Bahorel-”
“For the love of God, Joly,” Bahorel hisses, fingers scrabbling to open the waistcoat fully. “Do what you must but don’t bring any more attention over here.”
“Attention-?” Joly swallows the rest of his sentence and simply nods again, angling his body so that between himself and Grantaire, Bahorel remains mostly hidden from view. The noise of the café as he works does not lessen, and all three imagine they will get away with this rapid triage mostly unnoticed. Bahorel’s breathing is shallow but wild as Joly works, his brow furrowed in nervous confusion.
“This has been seen to already,” he starts quietly, and Bahorel nods. “But not well.”
“No. No, it was well done; I have not-looked after it, that is all.”
“You are beyond lies, too,” Grantaire tells him gently. “I am the last to force you in the direction of reason, Bahorel, but you must get yourself to a proper doctor-”
“Or at least one in more than name only,” Joly sighs. All three flinch slightly at the sound of footsteps nearing them, but Joly moves in close again, inspecting Bahorel a bit more kindly now. “I suppose whoever attempted this did what he could in poor circumstances, but it is distracted work at best.”
“You are correct,” Combeferre says quietly, and Bahorel’s eyes flit toward him just as Combeferre rests his hand on Joly’s shoulder. “It is also mine, and I will make amends as necessary.”
Joly looks up, confused again, then holds his breath as he watches the wordless exchange between Bahorel and Combeferre. “I meant no insult.”
“And there is none taken.” Combeferre’s smile is easy, calm as ever, but he does not release Joly. “If I could just-”
Joly rises, stepping back to make room for Combeferre, but Combeferre does not settle into the crouch Joly’s left; instead he reaches for Bahorel’s left arm with the same placid smile on his face and lifts, pulling Bahorel to his feet while Joly’s eyes widen and he chokes back a warning against this, whatever this is or could become. It is enough that Combeferre seems to have no particular interest in whether Bahorel is in specific pain; that Bahorel doesn’t protest even faintly or in jest is almost too much to witness. There is a ghost of a smile on the man’s face, true, but it vanishes when Bahorel takes his first step, and Combeferre’s grip on him loosens, only to rise higher on his bicep.
“Steady,” Combeferre says softly enough that Joly barely hears it, can barely recognize the sound of his friend’s voice in the mingled gentleness and threat. Bahorel nods, a darkness creeping over his face that signals pain and unhappy surprise. Joly has seen that expression before, but never without the immediate change after, the narrowed eyes and long breath hissed between bared teeth that typically serve as the only warning an opponent receives from Bahorel.
“I’ve given my regrets to Enjolras,” Combeferre tells Joly, and behind them Grantaire glances Enjolras’ way, but the man’s engaged in deep conversation with Courfeyrac now, paying no attention to anyone or anything else. When Grantaire turns back, Combeferre is pressing his free hand to Joly’s shoulder again, his smile tight and thin now as he holds Joly back. “No, your offer is one I would accept on any other occasion, Joly, but as you have noticed, this is my error to correct.”
“I swear I meant nothing, Combeferre; it was concern, nothing more-”
“And I swear I believe you,” Combeferre laughs, then gathers Bahorel more closely to his side. “We must go. When next we meet, let us hope the only further damage done is to me, hmm?”
As he turns to leave, Combeferre sees Grantaire reach for Joly when he makes to follow them at least to the door, but Grantaire holds himself in check as well, unnerved enough by the events of the last several minutes that he can only stare. The weight of it is heavier on Combeferre’s back than Bahorel at his hip, but Combeferre keeps his chin and eyes up until they have cleared one full street and are safe from most eyes, concerned or wary.
“In the future,” Combeferre says lightly as he leans Bahorel against a wall, “should you wish to make a fool of me, please do so among your own who will laugh rather than fear the results.”
“I would never-” Bahorel inhales sharply, curling into himself and not resisting when Combeferre pulls him back into his arms again. “You insult me, Combeferre.”
“It was a poor jest,” Combeferre says quickly. “I am sorry for it. You will not allow me to take you to a hospital, I know it; are your rooms nearer than mine?” Bahorel nods, grimacing. “Where are they? Bahorel?”
“You do not know?”
“Would I-” Combeferre pauses. “Would I have reason to?”
Bahorel’s laughter is exhausted, as broken as it had been only a few nights before. “You would not. They are behind Grantaire’s, for better or for worse for the both of us. Do you know them at least?”
“I do,” Combeferre murmurs. “But do you have anything I can-use, Bahorel? Shall I take you there and then fetch my bag?”
“No, you will only bring that vile bottle back with you,” Bahorel sighs. “Please, Combeferre, I would like nothing more than to simply sleep now.” His fingers curl into the fabric of Combeferre’s coat tightly. “You would make-excellent company again if you would stay, we need not speak of it to anyone-”
“You have not re-injured yourself merely to lure me to your bed, whatever form of flattery you are prone to offer,” Combeferre laughs again, but gently this time. “We will go to your rooms. But if I cannot find what I need there and you are further weakened by morning, then you will go where you are taken, without protest. Are we in accord?”
Bahorel nods so easily Combeferre swallows down renewed fear, then hitches Bahorel against him again and begins to walk. By the time they have reached his door Bahorel is tired enough that he might be asleep on his feet. He does not question how Combeferre works the latch open with no key, and does not fight it when Combeferre marches them forward into the darkness and the direction of the bed, larger than Combeferre’s and softer, too.
“To think you had fetched Joly before me,” Combeferre murmurs affectionately, and Bahorel’s eyes fly open, then close again in pain.
“I fetched no one, and wanted no one fetched; Grantaire encouraged him, not I.”
Combeferre laughs, and Bahorel cracks his eyes open just enough to see him rolling his sleeves to the elbows, a man at work and play at once. Combeferre leans over him, watching Bahorel shift on the mattress in strange anticipation of pain and pleasure both, before he pushes Bahorel’s waistcoat aside and probes his stomach gently with careful fingers and amusement in his lowered voice. “Then it was less concern than antagonism. You’ve taught him well.”
“We have taught each other, much like you and Enjolras-” Bahorel coughs at a stronger press of Combeferre’s fingers, a painful spark behind his eyes until he recovers to find Combeferre’s smile gone terrible and sweet above him.
“It will go easier this time if you do not spend your breath on speaking, my friend,” he says, then softens his expression. “At least not now. After I have fixed this and after you have slept, Bahorel, we will speak. We must speak.”
Bahorel stares at him, then nods slowly. “And so we will.”