#acesius

Rating: T

TW: gun violence, blood

Notes: AU (“His Dark Materials” crossover, daemon-verse)

Even though time itself seemed to slow down, everything still happened way too fast. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw the man reach into his coat and pull out a pistol, aiming its muzzle at Enjolras. There was a loud noise and a bright flash as the powder exploded. Not even a second later, he heard Enjolras scream, his hand flying up to his shoulder as he collapsed. Above them, Kendra let out a shrill screech, the sound almost lost amidst the gasps and screams of the crowd.

The pamphlets he had been holding in his hand scattering on the cobblestones, Combeferre surged forwards, pushing people out of the way in his haste to reach his friend. Oriana, who had kept close to his side all this time, snarled and bounded through the forest of legs surrounding her, making her way towards Kendra, who had spiraled down from the sky, hitting the ground somewhere amongst the crowd.

Enjolras was laying curled up on his side, bright red blood seeping out between his pale fingers and soaking through his shirt and waistcoat.

“Enjolras!”

Combeferre crouched down next to his stricken friend, carefully laying a hand on Enjolras’ uninjured shoulder. Enjolras rolled onto his back, his hand still pressed to the wound, hissing with pain.

Without a second’s thought, Combeferre ripped the sleeve from his shirt, rolling it up and handing it to Enjolras: “Press this to the wound.”

The moment Enjolras removed his hand from his shoulder, Combeferre first gasped, then let the air out with a small sigh of relief.

“Combeferre? How bad is it?”

He had not even noticed Courfeyrac crouching down besides him, but now he looked over to their friend, frowning slightly while shaking his head: “Not as bad as it could have been. It hit too high.” He closed his eyes, drawing a shaking breath: “It hit too high, thank God.”

Courfeyrac reached out and stroked a lock of hair from Enjolras’ face, which was pale and clammy with cold sweat. Then, he swallowed and set his jaw, looking back over his shoulder: “We have to get him away from here. If they see the pamphlets, I doubt they will care about him getting shot.” Courfeyrac snorted, his eyes lighting up with anger: “They might even applaud it.”

Combeferre nodded, never taking his gaze off Enjolras, who echoed both their sentiments with a weak nod, his jaw clenched and eyes glazed over with pain.

“Courfeyrac, where’s Bahorel?” Combeferre said, tearing off his second sleeve and handing the wad of fabric over to Enjolras, who exchanged it for the other. Combeferre frowned once more at the sight of the blood-soaked rag, but it seemed that the flow of blood was slowing down.

“Alexis and him took off after the gunman,” Courfeyrac said, getting up. Fists balling at his sides, he lowered his voice: “I hope she rips the flesh off his bones.”

Combeferre couldn’t fault his friend for the dark sentiment, seeing how angry he felt himself. Still, they needed to keep calm right now: “Courfeyrac, you should go see after Kendra. I could see her fall down. Ori’s with her.”

Courfeyrac nodded: “As is Freya.”

While Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet all helped Enjolras get back on his feet, Courfeyrac hurried over to where their daemons were gathered. Oriana was standing over the stricken kestrel, her tufted ears laid back and the fur on her back raised. The lynx was snarling at everyone who dared come nearer than a few steps, while Freya was standing with her long body half-curled around Kendra, both protecting and supporting her.

As soon as Courfeyrac was by their side, Oriana backed away a little, giving him room to examine the bird. Freya took the chance to run up Courfeyrac’s arm and perch on his shoulder, her watchful eyes never leaving Kendra.

Courfeyrac frowned as he looked down at the kestrel. Kendra was crouching, panting through an open beak, her left wing hanging limply from her body. Courfeyrac reached up to run his hand over his ferret-daemon’s back, trying to calm her.

“We need to go.”

Oriana nodded, then gingerly took Kendra into her mouth to carry her, careful to not hurt the kestrel with her sharp teeth. Kendra didn’t resist, though Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

As quickly as possible, the small group made their retreat. Courfeyrac took the rear, with Freya occasionally standing up on his shoulder or hopping onto his head to keep a lookout for anyone following.

They reached Combeferre’s rooms without further incident. Enjolras had been quiet the whole time, uttering not even as much as a whimper, but one look at his ghostly pale face was enough to see that he was in severe pain.

As soon as they had laid Enjolras down on the bed, Combeferre turned to Courfeyrac: “We need to cut him out of his clothes. There should be a pair of scissors in that drawer over there.”

While Courfeyrac was rummaging for the scissors, Oriana silently slipped through between them and gingerly placed Kendra down near Enjolras’ head. Usually the picture of grace, the kestrel looked almost pathetic as she tried to get closer to him, her wing dragging uselessly behind her.

Enjolras turned his head, looking at his deamon through eyes clouded with pain: “Are you badly hurt?”

“Nothing that won’t heal on its own,” Kendra replied, “so don’t waste any strength worrying about me.”

“Kendra’s right. Leave the worrying to us,” Courfeyrac said, stepping up to the bed, scissors in hand. “I apologize for ruining your garments,” he went on as he cut first through Enjolras’ vest and then through the shirt underneath. “Then again, seeing how there’s a hole in them, they couldn’t be saved anyway.”

Enjolras gave Courfeyrac a weak smile: “I think I’ll survive this part of the procedure.”

“You, my friend, are a much stronger man than me,” Courfeyrac replied with a grin that looked a lot more cheerful than his voice sounded. “And you’re going to survive the rest of this ordeal, too.”

With that, Courfeyrac slowly pulled the fabric away, careful as to not tug too much at the edges of the wound. Then, he turned to Joly and Combeferre: “He’s all yours.”

Combeferre moved to Enjolras’ side, taking a long, careful look at the wound. Enjolras flinched every time his shoulder was touched anywhere near it, but still didn’t utter more than the occasional hiss of pain.

“We need to get the bullet out and wash the wound,” Combeferre finally said, turning to Joly. He bit his lip: “He’s fortunate that it didn’t penetrate too deeply.”

Joly nodded: “And quickly. Do you have your instruments at hand?”

“In the lower left shelf over there. There’s also a bottle of brandy” Combeferre turned back to Enjolras, pushing a few locks of hair out of the other man’s forehead: “You’re going to need it.” Then, he turned to the others: “I would ask everyone else to leave.”

“You heard him,” Oriana growled, herding the other two men and their daemons out of the room.

“Kendra…” Enjolras croaked, looking at Combeferre with an almost pleading gaze.

“I am staying,” the kestrel cut in, her tone harsh. “I will keep my composure, and if I should be unable to, Combeferre may remove me from the room. But until such is the case, I am staying.”

Enjolras smiled weakly: “I guess it is no use arguing with you?”

“No more than it would be if things were the other way around,” the daemon replied fondly.

–

Courfeyrac had spent his time worrying most of the nails on his right hand to the quick and, when the door finally opened, sprang up from the chair so quickly that Freya tumbled out of his lap and to the ground: “How is he?”

Combeferre threw the rag on which he had been haphazardly wiping his bloodied hands into a basket in the corner, then gave his friend a short, relieved smile: “We removed the bullet and debris from the wound.”

Through the door, Courfeyrac could see Oriana pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed, and he turned his gaze to Joly, then to Esmé. The rabbit was keeping close to Joly’s feet, shaking her body to remove the tension. In an instant, Bossuet’s daemon Nia was at her side, and Esmé crouched down to let the sparrow sit on her back.

“If his blood isn’t infected, he should heal in due course,” Joly said. “But he has a few critical days ahead of him. He will most likely develop a fever.”

“Then I will stay,” Courfeyrac said, looking at Combeferre.

Combeferre nodded, then turned to Joly and Bossuet: “You should go home and get some rest. I might have to call on you again, Joly, depending on how it goes.”

“If we hear anything from Bahorel, we will let you know,” Bossuet said, then placed a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder: “Take good care of him. And you, Courfeyrac, take good care of Combeferre. Make sure that he sleeps. I know these medical students, they always think they are impervious to such mundane things as sleep or hunger,” he added with a fond smile in Joly’s direction.

Joly just shook his head and bent down to pick Esmé up, cradling her in the crook of his arm: “You can call on me any time, day or night, my friend.”

After the two men had left, Courfeyrac let himself fall down onto the chair again and ran his hands through his hair, looking up at Combeferre: “Jesus Christ. It’s not as if I’d never thought about that something might happen to us. After all, our ideas are not exactly well-received in some circles. But it’s always been, well, us.” He drew a breath, casting a gaze towards the door to the bedroom, and his voice dropped a little: “Us, not him. He always seems so invulnerable. As if nothing that is of this world could touch him, let alone do him harm.”

Combeferre nodded silently, his eyes following Courfeyrac’s gaze. A little off to the side, Oriana and Freya were lying curled up around each other, with Ori occasionally running her tongue over the ferret’s back.

“I know,” Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose as a wave of exhaustion rose inside of him. But he couldn’t rest. Not right now. He sighed: “In the end, Enjolras is flesh and blood, just like the rest of us. Which might be why his assailant shot him in the first place,” he mused. “Show him, and everyone else, that he’s flesh and blood…”

“Well I’ve seen enough of the blood part today to last me for the rest of my life,” Courfeyrac said, frowning, his brow furrowing in anger: “And if I ever lay my hands on that man, he will get a glimpse of his own mortality, you can be sure of that.”

Combeferre went over to put his hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze: “Don’t think I do not have the same impulse. But we’ve got to focus on Enjolras now. He needs all our strength and care to help him get better.”

Courfeyrac reached up to cover Combeferre’s hand with his own, giving him a smile: “Yes. And we won’t desert him.”

“He’s burning up.” Courfeyrac pushed a lock of damp hair out of Enjolras’ forehead and looked towards Combeferre, his eyes dark with worry. Enjolras’ skin was hot to the touch, even though his body was being wracked by shivers. “Is there nothing more we can do?”

Combeferre shook his head, his mouth a tight line. They were taking turns wrapping Enjolras’ legs with cold, damp strips of cloth, and Joly had come by with a syrup made of herbs and willow bark which they were giving Enjolras, but in the end all they could do was pray and let the fever run its course.

“At least the wound doesn’t seem infected,” Combeferre said, removing the dressing to put on a new one. The flesh around the hole the gunshot had left in Enjolras’ body was swollen, put there was no pus, no necrotic smell or the tell-tale lines of blood poisoning.

Courfeyrac lifted Enjolras’ hand to his lips, kissing it gently, then looked at Combeferre: “He’ll survive, right?”

“He’s strong,” Combeferre said. He would love to be able to reassure Courfeyrac, but he wouldn’t lie to him.

Courfeyrac drew a shaking breath, then focused his attention back on Enjolras. Freya, who seemed to have permanently attached herself to Courfreyrac’s shoulder, chittered soothingly and rubbed her head against Courfeyrac’s neck.

Combeferre finished dressing the wound and, for a moment, laid a hand over Enjolras’ rapidly beating heart, a gesture which seemed to calm the other man a little: “Kendra. Are you hungry?”

The kestrel hadn’t left her perch on the headboard since Joly and Combeferre had extracted the bullet, not even to hunt. She would have to eat something soon. Still, she ruffled her feathers and clicked her beak: “No.”

It was the first thing she had said in almost a day. Usually, she was the chattier of the pair, something that was a bit unusual for a daemon. But then, she was as unique a creature as Enjolras.

“Still, you should eat. Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said, turning to the other man, “do you think you could go to the butcher and get her some meat?” Not only did Kendra need to eat, Courfeyrac needed a spot of fresh air.

Courfeyrac nodded: “Of course.”

When Courfeyrac returned, he found Combeferre dozing in his chair, Oriana laying at his feet. The lynx’ eyes were half closed, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but smile. For the first time since Enjolras had been shot, the pair looked almost peaceful, and he couldn’t really be angry at Combeferre for falling asleep on his watch, not after he had been awake for over a day now. Should something have changed for the worse, Courfeyrac was sure that Kendra would have woken his friend up promptly.

Looking at Enjolras, Courfeyrac gave a quiet sigh. Enjolras’ eyes were open, but glazed and shining with fever, and Courfeyrac was quite sure that his friend didn’t even know he was there.

“Stay here, Freya? I’m going to cut up Kendra’s supper.”

The ferret scurried down his arm and onto the bed, curling up into a ball next to Enjolras’ head.

It didn’t take Courfeyrac long to cut the meat into thin strips. Kendra ate them with relish, her haste betraying her former insistence that she wasn’t hungry. Once she was done, however, she settled back into her watchful position above Enjolras’ head, the only movement an occasional tilt of the head or click of the beak.

Freya slowly loped back to Courfeyrac and began licking his fingers: “Don’t worry. He’ll make it. It would take an army to bring those two down.”

“I hope you’re right.”

–

“We almost had him,” Bahorel said, the anger in his voice echoed in Alexis’ deep growl. “But we lost him in the crowd.”

“Him and his little rat,” Alexis added. She turned her head towards Bahorel: “I could have sniffed them out.”

“Yes, and what good would that have been?” Bahorel retorted with a sigh and picked up his wine to take a deep swig. They were sitting at a table in a corner at the Corinthe, the glum that everyone was feeling like an invisible barrier between them and the rest of the crowd that had gathered in the wine shop.

“Bahorel is right,” Esmé said, looking up from cleaning her face with her paws. “You can hardly maul a man in broad daylight.”

“He shot Enjolras!” Alexis barked back.

“Which would be a good defense if it weren’t for the fact that Enjolras, and you two for that matter, are known for harboring revolutionary sentiments. Which I guess wouldn’t help you with the authorities,” Joly said.

Bahorel reached out to stroke and knead the back of Alexis neck, and slowly, both him and the painted wild dog calmed down.

“And that, gentlemen, is the state of the law in our country,” Grantaire remarked almost flippantly. “Note that I said the law, not justice. I highly doubt that the Lady Justicia would agree with a murderer running free just because his would-be victim is an idealist whose utopian dreams don’t mesh with the general sentiment. Joly, how is he, then? Enjolras?”

At the last bit, Clio, who had been restlessly winding around Grantaire’s legs for as long as they had been sitting here, stilled in her movement.

Joly stroked his chin, then looked down at his hands: “The fever hasn’t broken yet.”

Silence descended over the table, only broken by a sorrowful mewl from Clio. Almost before Grantaire had even moved his chair back, the gray cat had jumped into his lap and pushed her head into the crook of his arm.

Draining his wine, Joly stood up from the table: “But speaking of, it’s time for me to go and check in with them. I shall inform you if anything changes.”

Esmé stretched her limbs and shook herself, then hopped off the table onto the floor. Before following Joly, she turned, lifting herself up on her hind legs and gazing up at the cat that was still crouching in Grantaire’s lap: “Don’t worry, Clio. He’ll be fine.” Loping off behind Joly, she added under her breath: “I hope.”

–

“Courfeyrac?”

“You’re awake!” Courfeyrac whooped, then called over his shoulder: “Combeferre, he’s awake!”

Enjolras’ smile was weak and a little confused, but Courfeyrac would be damned if it wasn’t the most wonderful thing he had ever seen in his life. Bending down, he pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead, noticing that the fever had gone down a bit. Freya had hopped down from his shoulder and was doing an excited little dance on the foot of the bed.

“For how…” Enjolras paused and swallowed, trying to get his voice to rise into a bit more than a pathetic croak, “how long was I…?”

“Three days,” Kendra said softly, hopping down from her perch and landing directly next to Enjolras’ head.

“We were getting really worried,” Courfeyrac added, stroking Enjolras’ hair back.

“Hopefully, that’s behind us now,” Oriana said with a gentle rumble, padding in from the other room, Combeferre at her heels.

“I feel terrible,” Enjolras said, frowning and blinking up at the ceiling. Raising a shaking hand, he reached for his wounded shoulder and gave it a careful poke. The pain that shot through his arm and up his neck made him hiss and drop his arm immediately.

“How about you leave the prodding of wounds to those of us who know what they’re doing,” Combeferre said, shaking his head fondly. “I brought you some water. You need to drink as much as you can, now that you’re once again lucid. And before you get any ideas,” he added, pointing a finger at Enjolras, “even after the fever has receded, which is hasn’t, you’re going to need at least another week of rest before I let you get out of this bed, or do any task that is more strenuous than reading a book. And no arguing.”

“You listen to him,” Kendra said, momentarily interrupting her task of disentangling some of Enjolras’ locks from each other to nip gently at his ear. “Else, you shall find yourself with a hole in your ear as well as your shoulder,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of mischief as well as warning.

–

“Will you at least let me look over Courfeyrac’s pamphlet?”

If Combeferre hadn’t known better, he would have interpreted Enjolras’ expression as a pout. He shook his head fondly and chuckled: “No. You have to rest, and that includes your mind and your soul as well as your body. No working yourself up.”

“Combeferre, I am already worked up. If I do not engage in some kind of useful, productive activity soon, I shall go mad.”

“No.”

Enjolras huffed, but the finality with which the word had been uttered made it clear that Combeferre would not give in to any kind of argument.

“Just for a few more days,” Combeferre amended, “you will be back to your full strength much sooner for it.”

Enjolras nodded, then reached up to gently run a finger over Kendra’s head. The kestrel had just returned from outside, having gone back to hunting or simply hovering above the streets of the city. “I envy you. At least one of us gets to be free to come and go as they please.”

The daemon closed her eyes, tilting her head underneath the gentle touch: “Don’t worry. Trust in your friends’ judgment and soon, your spirit will once again soar alongside me.”

“That I do,” Enjolras replied, but his gaze sought out Combeferre and Courfeyrac, “always.”