pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

[Just before: bringing unwelcome news to Valjean.]

It's very warm indoors, after the chill and quiet of the lake and the tension of that conversation. The café hubbub is like a heavy weight in the air. Enjolras stops by Bar to retrieve his note to Valjean. It's irrelevant now.

Then he goes upstairs to room 89.

Combeferre is in the bathroom doing something probably experimental with the still's piping, to judge by the clank of metal and the way the copper boiler is currently gurgling. Good. Enjolras would have gone in search of him or Courfeyrac or Feuilly before long, otherwise. But he doesn't need to disturb his friend immediately. His presence nearby is comfort.

He hangs up overcoat, hat, coat. Removes his gloves, props his walking stick against a table. There's a fire lit; this room is warm too, but it's cozy now rather than oppressive.

He drops into a chair with a weariness he didn't let himself acknowledge around Valjean. The old man's pain and fear and weariness mattered far more, then. Now Enjolras rests his elbows on his knees and, just for a few moments, his forehead on folded hands, and breathes out.

It's done, at least.

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The knock on the door is loud and perfunctory, an announcement rather than a request. Bahorel carries his second knock through to push the door open and strolls in, grinning with amusement. "There you are! I have been deployed in the interest of science--"

The mood of the room is obvious. Obvious, and familiar, and potentially aggravating. He raises an eyebrow. "What dire calamity has come on us now?"

Ah. Hello, Bahorel.

"No calamity," says Enjolras. Still gravely, it must be admitted, but Bahorel's entrance does lighten his sober expression with a greeting hint of a smile.

"No," says Combeferre gloomily, still staring into the fire. "There's no calamity."

In a moment, he'll rouse himself to ask what precisely Bahorel was doing in the interests of science. For now, he keeps silent.

"And yet here you both sit in mourning. Or is the fire revealing grim portents?" Bahorel leans between Enjolras and Combeferre with an arm around each of them, very pointedly trying to look into the fire. There's probably at least a chance that the fire really is showing dramatic portents. But it is, sadly, not the most likely reason for the current mood in the room. "Or are you determined to argue with it until it does?"

Enjolras accepts the arm and the mild teasing placidly. (He reached over to press Combeferre's hand at his gloomy tone a moment ago. The sudden acquisition of a Bahorel between them in no way prevents this gesture.)

"I spoke with Valjean."

This has the air of less a direct answer than a partial subject change. If Bahorel wants to know what exactly they were discussing, he's welcome to ask directly.

"A little while ago."

Combeferre scowls perfunctorily at the teasing. He's not actually irritated and can't muster up the energy for a proper scowl. But it's the principle of the thing.

At Enjolras's gesture of comfort, Combeferre attempts a smile.

"Enjolras told him about Hugo's book," he says, to Bahorel. "It seems Valjean didn't react well."

That is news, a matter of practical and perhaps immediate concern. There's no obvious change in posture, but Bahorel's attitude shifts. "Not well--how? Do we need to do anything about it?"

Heavily, "His pain, primarily."

So: only if they see a remedy for that. It seems unlikely.

"As for the question of the spy, he feels it's unjust to keep such a thing secret from him, but also sees the justice of our position, and the reasons for it. He asked for time to think about it."

"Valjean helped us save an extra man at the barricade, and fought without killing--hopefully he won't wish to endanger the survivors' lives and their families. Even though he has no political opinions. Otherwise..."

Combeferre trails off.