#the groundhog day fic

There’s a party of Municipal Guard in the rear of the barroom. This must be the usual haunt of the regiment barracked on the site of the old convent of Sisters of Mercy. They are at their ease here—stocks unfastened, blue sleeves rolled up, the white tunic fronts that tomorrow will be crimson with blood standing half-open. Officers all, heedless of their curfew, they dice lazily over the dregs of their wine. 

Grantaire calls for a bottle, grabs a chair in his other hand, sets it down and straddles it at the end of the officers’ table. The one with the dice in his hand looks up, shrugs, throws a pair of sixes. 

“Gentlemen!” Grantaire says. “A toast to tomorrow!”