Someone would have called out a warning if there was science on the loose! Probably. Unless they all forgot.

At any rate, Combeferre is nowhere to be seen, and his specimens and experiments and mysterious bits of glassware are all as tidily situated on the shelves as they ever are.

"Not at all."

He's looking freshly scrubbed and a little damp around the hairline, and has just finished buttoning his waistcoat, which for Enjolras in the middle of the day is a telltale for recent sparring or something similarly athletic. (Or possibly some minor but spattering explosion of scientific materials, but that would involve more mess, more friends, and some tolerant exasperation around the edges.)

"How are you, my friend?"