Hi! Could I request Enjolras and Courfeyrac, ♟: Patching up a wound? :)

Why, nonny, of course you may!  😀  H/C is my bread and butter!  ^_^

If anyone else would like to send prompts, feel free!  ^_^

(You’ll have to forgive me, though, nonny–I have barricades and social unrest on the brain after this weekend.  ^_~)


Enjolras gripped hard at the hand held tightly in his, putting on another burst of speed.  What should have been a simple trade—a sheaf of proscribed pamphlets for a box of even more proscribed ammunition—had turned into anything but.  Whether they had been spotted, or had been betrayed by a spy in their midst hardly mattered; the result was the same.  The police had arrived, ready to arrest everyone involved.  Enjolras and Courfeyrac had acted to provide a distraction, allowing the others time to scatter.  They’d led the police on a merry chase—down dark alleyways, up a sewage pipe, across a rooftop, and back again—and had only just lost them, when Enjolras saw Courfeyrac falter.  Even in the flickering lamplight, Courfeyrac’s complexion was ashen, his eyes beginning to glaze with pain.  He’d been wounded; he wouldn’t be able to run much longer.  They had to get to safety.

Enjolras eased them further back into the alley, pressing Courfeyrac into the depths of a doorway that was just out of sight.  Ignoring the softly hissed protests—“I’m perfectly fine, my friend; no need to stop on my account!”—Enjolras took a few precious moments for a brusque exam that would have had Joly and Combeferre cringing at his manner.  Courfeyrac thought no more of it than they would have if his indrawn breath and low, creative cursing was any indication.

The difficulty became clear rather quickly.  Courfeyrac’s hand was clutched to his side, his coat rapidly acquiring a deepening red stain just below.  Enjolras winced.  “How bad is it?”  As Courfeyrac’s gaze lowered, darting away from his, Enjolras grabbed his shoulders and gave him a brief shake.  “And don’t think of lying to me, either.  How bad?”

Courfeyrac sighed, shook his head.  “Not as bad as it appears.  It happened as we went over the fence.  One of the pikes had aspirations of being a spear and tore a rather impressive hole in my new coat—the nerve.  It did rather more damage to my coat than it did to me, I think—and do you have any idea what this coat cost me, Enjolras?—but I don’t mind admitting that it doesn’t feel exactly pleasant.”

Enjolras let the flood of words wash over him, more relieved than he could say that Courfeyrac was feeling well enough to be indignant over his coat.  Untying his own cravat to Courfeyrac’s accompanying gasp of dismay and a fresh diatribe over the unseemly behavior, Enjolras pulled Courfeyrac’s hand from the wound and opened his coat to get a better look.  Satisfied that the wound, though bleeding, was relatively superficial, Enjolras pressed his cravat to it.  Though Courfeyrac flinched at the pressure, he replaced Enjolras’ hands with his own readily enough when Enjolras let go to untie Courfeyrac’s cravat, as well.  Another lecture accompanied that action, but minor though the wound was, Courfeyrac had to be feeling its effects, as he made no move to stop him.  Courfeyrac’s cravat ended its fashion life as a bandage to hold the other in place.  With that done, and Courfeyrac in less danger of blood loss, Enjolras stepped back to admire his handiwork.  It wasn’t pretty, nor was it neat, but it would do.

When next they left the wall, it was with Courfeyrac’s arm slung over Enjolras’ shoulders and Enjolras’ arm wrapped firmly around Courfeyrac’s waist, applying added pressure to the wound.  It was slower going now, but for the first time that night, luck was on their side.  They ran into no more patrols on the way to the apartment that Joly occasionally shared with Bossuet, the only casualties of the night being a pair of cravats, a coat, and assorted other garments.  There might come a time when Enjolras would lose his friend in truth, but it was not to be tonight, nor any other night, as long as Enjolras had any say in the matter.

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eirenical:

To Make His Mistress Laugh (5302 words) by eirenical
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Les Misérables – All Media Types, Les Misérables – Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables – Victor Hugo
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Relationship is a Spoiler
Characters: Bahorel (Les Misérables), Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly (Les Misérables)
Additional Tags: Sexual Content, I Have No Idea How To Tag This Without Spoiling The Whole Story, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Bahorel/Bahorel’s Laughing Mistress… sort of, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Unrequited Love, Melancholy, Alcohol, Angry Sex, Wall Sex, Secret Relationship, Canon Era

Summary:
Bahorel wasn’t entirely certain that what they had was love, was even, perhaps, certain that it was not anything of the kind. It was passion. It was hot, furious and single-minded in its intensity of moment. And it was terrible in the way it forced such a binding understanding upon its participants… but it was not love.

Read on AO3
Read on ff.net

November 20, 2013: When I started this story, I thought it was going to be one thing… and then it turned into something else. Mainly, I wished to explore certain characters whose characterizations I’ve been finding lacking in stories I started at the beginning of my foray into the Les Mis fandom. The more I read of them, the more I realize I’ve done them some disservice, especially in earlier chapters. So. My apologies to Joly, in particular. Here’s hoping I’ve done you more justice this time around.

One last fic reblog for Barricade Day.  It’s canon era, but not directly barricade related.  But I figure that after all the heavy angst we’ve been reading today, maybe some less heavy angst might be appropriate?  Also, I still love this fic, even though hardly anyone has read it, and I take every excuse I can to speak for it.  So.  ^_^