Chapter Text
All Grantaire knows is instinct, bursting through him, instinct, and then sharp pain, and then nothing.
He wakes up to the sound of Éponine’s ragged breaths, her arms around him. “R,” she says, rocking him a little. “R, Jesus, if you don’t wake up I’m gonna spill all your dirty secrets, I’m gonna tell Combeferre you’re the one who—”
He groans, blinking up at her. He’s been trying to make noise for minutes, it seems, his body unwilling. “What the fuck?” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut a minute later when the world spins.
She sighs, relief obvious in the way her grip and words soften. “You—do you remember anything?” she asks.
He licks his dry lips. “Mm… you screamed,” he says softly, eyes closed. He can picture it, almost. “We were out drinking. I went to find you, I saw someone grab you, and then—” He can feel without seeing his hands, his fingers still unnaturally long, like they always are after he shifts. “Shit. Is anyone dead?” he asks, words clipped.
She shakes her head. “It was Montparnasse,” she admits softly. “He grabbed me, he tried to…” She shudders. “You scared him off. Not before he grabbed a fucking brick and threw it at your head, though,” she says, cupping his cheek, looking between his eyes. “Look up at me, okay? You got knocked out, and I need you to make a decision.”
He swallows. “No hospitals,” he demands quietly, looking over her face.
“Okay,” she says, breathing more labored, the only real sign of her fear. “Joly, then. He’s a doctor, right?”
“Don’t let him catch you saying that,” he mumbles, trying to sit up, the world swaying under him. “I don’t know that I can walk,” he admits, fumbling for his phone. “Shit. Can he come to us?”
She presses her lips together so hard they nearly disappear. “Yeah,” she whispers, unlocking his phone and calling him.
Grantaire lets himself drift while Éponine talks. He knows it’s a bad idea; he remembers the basics of head injury care, but he can’t help it. He’s tired after a shift no matter what happens, and this… This is definitely not normal. He can’t remember the last time he attacked a person.
(Who is he kidding? Of course he remembers. It hasn’t happened since Éponine asked if she could move in, he realizes, his chest tightening. Not since she called him, those terrifying words, and her parents… Well. They can’t hurt any of them, anymore.)
He comes to later, when Joly’s got a penlight in his hand, and Grantaire groans. “No doctor,” he mumbles, holding up a hand to show him, to try to make him see why. He has to keep his family safe. Éponine, and Gavroche, and Azelma. Les Amis, he allows himself to think. They're family, too, at least on his end.
Joly nods, though his lips tighten much like Éponine’s do when she’s upset, and his eyes catch on his fingers. “If you’re sure,” he says, sounding like he’s forcing the words out.
Grantaire half-smiles. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and then he’s out again.
He remembers being in a car. A taxi, he thinks, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, keeps his eyes closed so his pupils won’t show. He tries to give the impression that he’s just sleeping one off.
The next thing he realizes, he’s in his apartment, on their couch. Joly is talking to Éponine, using words like concussion and careful and a week off, which—
Grantaire sits up, ignoring how the room spins. “I can’t take time off work,” he insists, his voice low. “I already take off for the moon and that’s almost too much.” His boss can look the other way now, but would certainly give a shit if he took any more shifts away from the bar.
Éponine sighs. Joly sighs. People are always sighing at Grantaire, it seems.
Joly’s the one to break the silence. “You have to be careful,” he insists, voice hard. “You have to text me any symptoms that you feel, and sleep as much as you can. And no alcohol,” he insists, looking between both of them.
Grantaire, despite himself, snorts. “That’s gonna be hard,” he mumbles. “Half my paycheck goes right back to the bar.”
“Quit being an asshole,” Éponine insists, her words flat. “I’ll keep him from drinking,” she tells Joly, and gives him a tight smile.
Joly nods. “And… you can rest assured that I will not tell anyone,” he says, soft and earnest. “I know that you never meant for me to find out. I’m honored that you let me know, and none of this will leave this circle. Not even Bossuet or Musichetta will know,” he promises, squeezing Éponine’s hand but looking at Grantaire.
He nods, relaxing back against the couch. “Thank you,” he says softly.
Joly smiles tightly. “You can let him sleep,” he tells Éponine. “I will check in tomorrow. Would you like my phone number, so you don’t have to steal R’s?”
Grantaire lets himself drift off again then, listening to their quiet words. He’s so tired, in a way he doesn’t think he’s been before.
*
Maybe he does need to take some time off, he thinks when he wakes up the next day to the mother of all migraines.
He all but drags himself out of bed, stumbling over his feet and nearly slamming against the wall. “I’m okay!” he yells, so Éponine doesn’t come scrambling toward him and hurt herself.
Ten minutes later, coffee is made and he’s sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. He’s not supposed to use his phone, he knows that much, but it’s sitting next to him. When it vibrates, he can’t resist.
Enjolras: I heard you won’t make it to our next meeting. Will Éponine still be there, or are you going to infect her?
Grantaire frowns. oh did joly tell you i’m sick? yeah she should still be okay to go. you’ll still have the useful half of us there he responds. It’s not the sort of thing he’d usually allow himself to send, but he’s feeling shaky and sorry for himself, the taste of blood still in the back of his mouth.
Enjolras doesn’t respond, and Grantaire doesn’t let himself feel anything about that.
*
The next few days pass in a blur. Azelma and Gavroche are staying with Cosette and her father, and the thought of that makes Grantaire’s head spin. “Is he going to tell them?” he asks Éponine when he finds out.
She purses her lips. “You trust me, you need to trust them too,” is all she says, and that’s enough for him. It isn’t that he’d distrust Cosette, really, but then Marius would know, and then… so would everyone. So would Enjolras, he thinks, because that’s always, pathetically, who his mind gets stuck on.
He nods. “Can I have more coffee?” he asks, and he hopes she hears it as an apology.
“Decaf,” she allows, “I’m not fucking with your head any more than Montparnasse did.” She heads into the kitchen.
Frankly, the fact that she’s willing to make it for him at all is troubling. He’s worse than he feels, he thinks. The fact that the full moon is coming up in a week… That’s troubling, too.
“Does Joly have any advice for how to handle the next shift?” he asks.
In the kitchen, the noises stop. “I haven’t asked,” she tells him, and then she’s walking back through the doorway, wiping her hands. “Do you want him to come over? Maybe we can brainstorm.”
He shrugs, focusing his eyes on his hands. There’s a bruise over one of his nails, spreading down his finger, and when he relaxes his eyes it almost looks like paint, like something that could be washed away. “Maybe,” he admits. “I don’t want to drag him away from his partners, but I…” I’m scared, he doesn’t say, and knows Éponine hears it.
Éponine nods, and goes to make the call. He hears her voice but tries not to focus on the words, instead focusing on his breathing.
Fuck, he wants a drink. It’s nothing new, but everything feels new when the world is this sharp.
“He’ll be here in about an hour,” Éponine says, smiling as she hands him his coffee. “He’s bringing pizza. You’re paying him back.”
Grantaire laughs, dropping his head forward, inhaling the smell of the coffee. “Guess that means I need to go to work this weekend after all,” he murmurs, sighing shakily. “Do you think I have time to shower?”
She nods, gently ruffling his hair. “You’d better. You don’t want him telling Enjolras you stink,” she says fondly.
“I don’t care what Enjolras thinks,” he lies, and her laugh follows him down the hall.
*
He loses a little bit of time in the shower, honestly. By the time he’s out Joly is there, and he and Éponine are eating pizza together, with what looks like an awkward but overall comfortable camaraderie.
He doesn’t bother with a shirt, just a pair of sweatpants. He doesn’t think about what he’s done, showing off his bite, until he hears Joly’s slight intake of breath.
He looks down. “Ah, shit,” he mumbles.
Joly shakes his head. “I’m the one in your space, you should feel comfortable,” he tells him earnestly. “May I…” He gestures toward Grantaire’s side, where the bite is. “Could I look at it? I’ve never seen one in real life,” he admits,
Grantaire’s eyes slide to Éponine. He’s not asking for permission, exactly, just do you think this is a good idea? At her shrug, he nods, stepping closer to Joly. "I've always wanted to be a science experiment," he tells him, because he's still, always, an asshole.
Joly ignores his words and hums as he examines, tilting his head. “It’s healed remarkably well,” he murmurs.
Grantaire half-smiles. “It should have, by now. It happened when I was a kid,” he admits.
Joly’s fingers pause, halfway to his stomach. Werewolves are rare, but werewolves turning children is almost unheard of. “Do you want to share that story with me?” he asks softly.
He shakes his head, and Joly just nods. “So,” he says, when a few seconds have passed. “You’re not sure what to do during the full moon?”
Grantaire nods. “I get the worst migraines,” he admits softly. “If I don’t shift, I mean. And if I do shift, I’m a danger to myself. I don’t want to get hurt again,” he mumbles. “I used to… I mean, I’d just drink a lot to forget the night that way, but…”
Joly nods. “But you can’t drink now.”
Grantaire smirks. “Doctor’s orders,” he agrees.
Joly hums. “Well, I hate to suggest that pain is the right choice, but… I don’t think you should shift, and you definitely shouldn’t drink,” he admits, frowning. “Do you know any, ah. Dealers? I’ve heard that a few drugs can help knock you out…”
Grantaire huffs out a laugh. “Can’t,” he insists firmly, and his voice doesn’t even shake. “‘m an addict. I’m not gonna fuck around with that.”
Next to him, Éponine rubs his shoulder, her sign that she’s proud of him. Grantaire smiles thinly.
Joly nods, frowning in consideration. “I guess that settles it,” he says. “You’ll need someone to keep you company. Éponine?” he guesses.
“No can do,” she admits. “The kids worry too much about him, I take them out every month and we go see a movie and get dinner.”
He smiles softly. “That’s sweet.” He looks at Grantaire. “It’ll be me, then.”
Grantaire blinks. “Don’t you have shit to do other than babysit a concussed werewolf?” he asks.
Joly snorts. “Nope,” he says easily. “My boyfriend and girlfriend can handle themselves for one night, as far as I’m concerned.”
Grantaire softens. “Thank you,” he murmurs. For once, he feels almost prepared.
*
Of course, the calm feeling doesn’t last long. They have a Les Amis meeting the next day, and apart from the day after his fight, Grantaire hasn’t ever been able to keep himself from going.
He looks like shit, he realizes when he walks into the Musain and the room genuinely goes silent.
“What happened, R?” Cosette says, disentangling herself from Marius to run over, cupping his cheek and leading him to a chair.
“Bar fight a couple days ago,” Grantaire mumbles, keeping his eyes on the table. He knows Enjolras is looking at him, though, and that’s enough to drag his eyes up.
He looks… furious, honestly. Grantaire can only assume it’s fury directed at him for interrupting things, and he gives him a smirk before he gets up to get himself a glass of water in an opaque glass. He doesn’t need any one of them to know he’s sober, to ask questions.
Cosette walks over to him, resting a hand on his arm. “I knew you weren't sick! Do you need Marius to ask his firm to represent you?” she asks softly, eyes gentle.
Grantaire has never been so grateful to her, honestly, even as the thought makes him itchy all over. “No,” he promises. “No, I’ll be okay. He’s in worse shape,” he promises, knowing it’s a lie. His eyes travel over to Éponine, who’s listening to Feuilly and Jehan talk about something incomprehensible to Grantaire from this distance.
She licks her lips. “Are…” She trails off, jaw tight. “Your eyes are unfocused,” she says quietly. “Are you—?”
“Concussed,” he finishes for her, giving her a flat smile. “Got a brick thrown at me.”
Her jaw drops. “What?” she asks, staring up at him in horror. “How are you even standing? Was it in the bar fight? Were you alone?”
The number of questions honestly makes his head hurt. Before he can answer any of them, though, Enjolras is calling them to order, and he gives her another little smile and a salute, walking over to Éponine. She gets an arm around him, murmuring, “Your boy looks mad as hell that you got hurt.”
He scoffs, rubbing his face. “He’s mad I’m taking the attention away from his cause,” he says gently.
She pinches him in the arm but otherwise goes silent.
He lets himself drift in and out of the meeting, his brain hurting every time he tries to think of a rebuttal. He's sure everyone will be grateful, especially Combeferte.
But… “Grantaire,” Enjolras is saying, and Grantaire is looking up before he’s given himself permission to do so, eyes heavy, glass held halfway to his mouth. “Would you make us a flyer, trying to attract werewolves to come out and speak at our rally?”
Grantaire sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t…” He trails off, unable to focus his mind enough to work. I would do anything for you, he thinks pathetically. I would rip myself apart and paint with the blood in my veins.
Enjolras scoffs, the words in his mouth before Grantaire can finish a fraction of a thought. “Do you not think that werewolves, some of the most persecuted members of our society, should have a hand in their own liberation?”
Next to him, Éponine stiffens. Grantaire sets a hand on her knee, nails (still just a little this side of too long) pressing into the fabric of her worn jeans. “Of course I do,” he says, his words measured, allowing amusement to creep into his voice, as though his mind isn’t spinning. “I think that, perhaps, werewolves shouldn’t feel that they have to come out, as it were, before they feel safe.”
It’s a well-worn argument between them; Enjolras insists that change never came from cowardice, and Grantaire insists that people being unwilling to out themselves without a fallback is hardly cowardice.
“I don’t understand,” Enjolras snaps, words clipped, a flush high on his cheeks, “why you’re so insistent on this. We could keep them safe, if they wanted. We could offer—”
Grantaire cuts him off. “What can we offer them, really?” he asks. “Sure, they could have a job at the Musain or another do-gooder company, but what about those who have built careers? Who have families to take care of?”
Enjolras glares at him, his jaw set. Any minute now and he’ll scream at him, and Grantaire can storm out.
Grantaire scoffs. “You’re living in a fantasy world. What about lodging? Do you expect anyone, really, to couch-surf between members here while you crowdfund money to find them an apartment, or stay at one of our overcrowded shelters? What legal protections can we offer? Marius’s firm can only do so much.”
Éponine twitches next to him, squeezing his hand, still resting on her knee.
Joly, looking uncomfortable, says, “I think R has a point.”
Enjolras whips his head around, fury on his face. “Oh?” he asks, and that’s his dangerous voice, the one he uses when Grantaire has pushed him past the edge. It’s a shame that he’s looking at Joly now, who’s never had it directed at him before. “You think our cause is useless too, then?”
Joly rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, words measured, implacable in the face of Enjolras’ righteous fury. He looks at Grantaire for a beat too long. “He makes a good point. How can we expect anyone to trust us when what we have to offer in return is tentative, at best?”
Combeferre makes an agreeable sound. “That’s what I have been saying,” he admits. “We should talk to Senator Lamarque, aggressively discuss policy change. Get aggregate data rather than individual.”
Enjolras tilts his head, his face forming back into his mask. “That’s a good point,” he says, face softening. He smiles at Joly, and then Combeferre. “Thank you.” He doesn't look at Grantaire.
And, frankly, there's too much or too little in his brain for Grantaire to deal with this. He squeezes Éponine’s hand in apology and stands up, draining his glass (just water, but appearances matter) and walking out of the café.
He gets a text as he’s heading to the metro, pulling out his phone. It’s Éponine. do you want me to cause a scene? i can do that she offers.
no, just let me know how the rest of the meeting goes. if you cause a scene i’ll want to be there and it’s too close to the full moon for that he admits. im dizzy anyway. the walk will do me good. He probably shouldn’t tell her that, but.
He heads home, letting the sounds of the night try to wash away his thoughts. He’s glad that Gavroche and Azelma aren’t home; for one, it meant that Éponine could come with him in the first place, and for another it means he doesn’t have to worry when he heads straight to his liquor drawer, pulling out the brandy and pouring himself a glass. He shouldn’t do that, either, but he’s never been good at curbing his impulses.
He’s sitting on the couch, watching a shitty action movie with his third tumbler of brandy, when Joly texts him. immm sorry r :( i didnt mean to take ur credit. fwiw he looked sad when u left he’s written.
Grantaire softens. don’t worry about it. everyone knows he doesn’t bother actually listening to me he responds. i won’t be there on saturday, so hopefully you all can get some actual work done
He can all but see the pout on Joly’s face when he responds. you forget that i’m keeping u company he responds. idc how the meeting goes frankly
He sighs out. thank you he responds, rather than any of the other things he’s thinking. He doesn’t get why Joly wants to keep him company, but he can’t complain, really.
He falls asleep between commercial breaks, and when he wakes up it’s to Éponine’s soft cursing, shaking his shoulder. “You idiot,” she snaps out. “You can’t keep drinking, you know what Joly said.”
He groans. “What’s the point of staying sober?” he asks, rubbing his face. “I don’t know that I can sleep without it tonight.” Coward, he thinks to himself. His canines ache. You’re a fucking coward.
She sighs out sharply. “Quit it,” she snaps. “He’s an asshole, and I don’t know what you see in him. It’s been years, don’t you think he’s had ample time to prove he’s worth your love? That he wants it?”
He rubs his face with one hand, letting her tug the brandy glass from him. “Maybe he’s right, you know? What’s the point of this if I’m not doing something to change the perception of werewolves?” His heart isn’t in it, though, and he laughs hollowly. “Maybe I should get up there. Hi, I’m Grantaire. When I was six, my stepdad—”
She sits down heavily next to him, draining his glass in one go. “God, you have the shittiest taste in liquor. Sleep it off,” she commands, instead of answering. “In your bed, R. You’ll be ready to kill someone in the morning if you sleep on this shitty couch.”
He makes a soft sound. The wind goes out of his sails, and he melts into her for a second. “Asshole,” he says, and he means thank you.
She grins. “Dick.” You’re welcome.