Chapter Text
Chapter One
It’s no surprise to anyone that Enjolras is completely incapable of keeping a partner, himself included. Throughout his childhood he alienated most of the children he met when he buried himself in layers of literature and philosophy, and his unique perspective on politics and justice had the same effect in the police training program he attended after getting a pre-law degree. He had some friends—Combeferre, who was equal parts patient and sarcastic, along with Courfeyrac, who had taken a long look at his near opposite with similar ideals and patted him on the back. There was Feuilly, with whom Enjolras shared a mutual, platonic adoration, and Joly. Partners, however, were impossible.
For a brief period of time, his boss, Cosette Fauchelevent, had paired him with a wide variety of people, bouncing him around different divisions as she went.
When he was with traffic, she had put him with Bahorel, which had disastrous results. The two remained gruff acquaintances, however.
When Enjolras was with missing persons, he was paired first with Jehan, who was far too compassionate for Enjolras’ blunt style of interviewing. They were still friends, but Cosette was aware she had made a gamble on that one. Secondly, she had put him with Feuilly, but they had become distracted with political conversations and had gone off topic too regularly to get work done.
When he was with robbery and theft, she had paired him with Bossuet. For a while, she had thought it was going quite well, until Bossuet politely informed her he had a medical note requesting that he switch partners. She had thought he had been kidding, but when it was clear that it had been written by someone other than Joly, she let him switch.
Enjolras found his niche in homicide, where corpses rarely required shared political opinions or basic tact. The problem there had been finding him a partner. Once he made Courfeyrac cry she switched him to Eponine, assuming her strong will could handle Enjolras’ personality. After finding herself ordering a new chair and finding herself worried for the safety of the suspects, Cosette turned to Combeferre, doing her best not to plead.
The answer had been clear, “No.”
“No?”
“I value him as a friend, Mlle. Fauchelevent. In fact, I consider him my best friend, and I’m not willing to sacrifice that friendship for the sake of ‘no one else can handle him’.”
“You’ve worked together before, Combeferre,” Cosette pleaded.
“Not as partners, but on joint operations.”
Cosette sat down behind her desk, winding her hands into her hair. Combeferre patted her lightly on the back, then took a seat across from her, adjusting his glasses. She let out a deep groan of a woman who was overworked and underpaid for putting up with difficult employees, and then rose slightly, looking up at Combeferre with bright blue eyes.
“I’m not firing him. No one closes cases like Enjolras.”
“I’m aware,” said Combeferre. “He’s very…driven. He sees only black and white in terms of right and wrong, which doesn’t necessarily coincide with the law, all the time. Makes it hard to put him with anyone—but this isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with this. What else is bothering you?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about it—“
“—I have a degree in psychology.”
“Grantaire,” Cosette sighed, leaning back against her chair, a blonde curl escaping her bun.
“Isn’t he in rehab?”
“Not anymore. Passed with flying colours, but you know the man. He was trained for undercover, he’s a talented enough actor to put anyone of those plastic Americans to shame.”
“Oh,” Combeferre replied. “Are you putting him back with Narcotics?”
“It would make sense, but he’s burnt out. Says he wants to go back undercover, but there’s no way his body can handle that much abuse, not for the fifth time around. I tried to talk him into taking a desk job, but he threatened to quit,” she stated. “Needs the excitement, apparently.”
Combeferre opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, there was a quiet knock at the door. “Come in!” Cosette called, and Marius stumbled in, coffee on a cardboard tray in hand. A slight smile played on his lips, but he frowned when he saw Combeferre. “Oh, hey Pontmercy. How’s the suspect in interrogation room 7?”
“She keeps switching between Mandarin, Cantonese and Thai, as if I can’t tell the difference,” Marius smiled broadly again, passing Cosette the coffee and then backing out of the room. “Have a good day!” the translator said, closing the door behind him.
“Poor soul,” Combeferre murmured.
“What was that?” Cosette asked.
“Nothing. Anyway, have you considered switching Grantaire to something more laid back, but still exciting? Missing Persons can be stressful, so maybe Homicide? No pressure, but with excitement.”
“There’s no openings in homicide.”
“You say that, and yet Enjolras needs a partner.”
Cosette fell silent, her jaw dropping incredulously. “You want me to pair a recovering addict with Enjolras? Jesus, it might be better to put him with White Collar crimes—“
“—no, think this through. I remember the two of them from the Academy—they argued, but it was productive. They’ll work well.”
“Neither of them follows the rules—“
“—Enjolras is a robot when it comes to people, and Grantaire over empathises to the point that he becomes cynical. Grantaire breaks procedure, Enjolras follows it, whereas Enjolras will swear at a judge and Grantaire charms them.”
“Enjolras won’t be able to help Grantaire though. He’s not compassionate enough. And Grantaire won’t be able to keep Enjolras calm. He’ll provoke him for the hell of it.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Cosette repeated. “I don’t have a lot of other options, do I?”
Combeferre shrugged, standing up and pushing his chair in politely, adjusting his holster before he pulled his suit jacket back on. He was glad the precinct was well air-conditioned, as the heat of summer seemed to permeate every inch of the world outside. Returning to his desk, he propped his feet up and tried not to feel smug when Eponine asked him how he got out of being stuck with Enjolras as a partner.
“Five bucks says he told her he was in love with Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, pulling out his wallet.
Combeferre smiled benignly. “I’d tell you, but I already know you have half the precinct in on a bet about my sexuality, and I wouldn’t want you to lose your money. Besides, you’ll find out in, oh, maybe a week.”
“About your sexuality?”
“No, Enjolras.”
“Enjolras’ sexuality?” Courfeyrac asked.
“Liberty,” Enjolras remarked, standing behind Courfeyrac, coffee cup in hand. His expression was stony, and Courfeyrac’s flipped to one of absolute terror. Courfeyrac half-slid away back to his desk, his eyes glued to Combeferre and his fingers silently communicating the fear that ran through his veins.
“Really, Enj? Last week it was Patria,” Combeferre said, raising an eyebrow coolly.
“Why are they bringing another desk into homicide?” he asked Combeferre.
“Why do you think I know?”
“Not only do I think you know, I think you caused it.”
Eponine smiled, sitting on the edge of Combeferre’s desk, crossing her legs. “No, don’t say anything Combeferre. I like to see him look confused. No one tell him anything. There needs to be a mystery he can’t solve.”
“I’m getting a new partner, obviously,” Enjolras said. “I just don’t know who.”
“You’re a detective,” Eponine said, arching an eyebrow, and Combeferre found himself appreciating every hair that seemed to stay in that perfect shape. This was a very difficult thing to do when she was wearing skin-tight jeans and a loose, white shirt that suggested she had spent the night at someone else’s house, but he was well aware it was not his place to say anything. “Detect.”
Enjolras retreated to his own desk, a frown deeply set into his face. Eponine patted Combeferre affectionately on the shoulder,
and he smiled softly up at her.
“You know, you’re the only man who I know that I’ve never seen wear black. Not even your socks, or your shoes.”
“I’m a homicide detective, not a mortician,” he replied. “I don’t think it should be a staple clothing item.” Eponine returned the smile, but left without any form of goodbye, presumably in search of lunch.
Courfeyrac whistled. “Buddy, you got it bad.”
“What does he have?” Enjolras asked.
“Look at the stars in his eyes,” Courfeyrac said. “The way his skin glowed just then, and now looks so grey in comparison. He looks tired, too. All the symptoms.”
“Does he have the flu?” Enjolras asked, his eyebrows scrunched together.
“Clueless,” Combeferre said, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling to himself, wondering whether his estimate of a week would be accurate.
OoOoO
“Six and a half days, to be accurate,” Combeferre muttered, mentally recording it in the back of his head as the jean-clad, unshaven figure stumbled into the precinct. At first, it was hard to recognise Grantaire without the faint smirk that traced his lips, but he wore the distinctive beanie Combeferre had come to recognise from when they were at the Academy. There was nothing about him that wasn’t dishevelled, from the pressed shirt hidden under his hoodie to the dark curls that weren’t hidden. He wore faint dark circles under his eyes, but other than that Combeferre thought he seemed to be in fairly good condition for someone recovering from an undercover drug smuggling operation.
Grantaire wandered towards the coffee machine first, a smile pricking his lips when he saw it as if he had come across an old friend, and then glancing around the office when he realised people were staring at him. He turned his back to them pouring himself a cup of coffee into one of the paper cups Enjolras had spent weeks begrudging and complaining about, and then leaned against a wall, returning the glances he had been fixed with.
He took a sip of coffee, wrinkled his face in disgust, then put it aside. “I see that hasn’t improved,” he remarked, easing some of the tension. Most people still regarded him with a sense of awe, however. Combeferre leaned against the doorframe he stood by, watching the situation unfold from a distance. “What do you expect, a speech?” he asked. “Go back to work, people are dying.”
Combeferre felt Enjolras flatten behind him, his hand brushing up against Combeferre’s back. Rolling his eyes, Combeferre stepped to the side, making sure Enjolras was clearly visible. Enjolras coughed awkwardly, then took two steps back.
“I—uh—assume he’s recovered?” he asked, his arms folded over his chest.
“It would seem that way,” Combeferre replied.
“He shouldn’t go back to work so soon. Narcotics is too stressful, Fauchelevent shouldn’t let him—“ Courfeyrac began, but was silenced when Grantaire strode past them into Cosette’s office. Enjolras made himself invisible, sitting down at his own desk again, ducking his head and continuing with what resembled paperwork, although Combeferre could easily see half the sheet had been left empty.
Everyone tentatively resumed work, although Combeferre found himself unable to focus with Courfeyrac jittering next to him and Enjolras brooding across from them, and he could feel Eponine’s concern over the horizon. He sighed, regarding his watch carefully and waiting.
There was two minutes of silence from the office, one minute of quiet murmuring, another minute of silence, and then heated dialogue. Marius popped his head into Homicide, doing his best to appear to have something else to do, but Combeferre thought it was quite clear he was concerned for Cosette. Eponine followed him, and Combeferre glanced away as she peered over Pontmercy’s shoulder.
Grantaire burst out of the office, nearly sending Eponine and Marius sprawling, striding towards Homicide with a dark expression on his face. Enjolras briefly adopted a deer in the headlights expression before opting back to his carefully neutral one, returning to his statuesque stoicism. Grantaire stopped when he saw Enjolras, his features softening slightly, and Combeferre felt his heart leap in joy.
“Hey, Apollo,” he said, and there was no anger or melancholy in his tone. His voice was still gruff, but the blue in his eyes reflected the light more than they had before. His lips quirked up into his signature smirk, and a weight of burden had been lifted off of Combeferre. “Made your way up to Homicide, huh?”
“You already knew that,” Enjolras said bluntly, and Combeferre wants to smash his forehead into his desk. Politely, of course.
“Niceties,” Grantaire shrugged. “But you’re bad at those, apparently, because no one wants to be your partner.”
“I don’t want a partner.”
“They are mandated.”
“Your point?”
Grantaire grimaced. “They gave you me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Silence filled the room, and Combeferre shifted uncomfortably, doing his best not to cough to break the tension. Courfeyrac made no pretense, and was watching the entire interaction raptly, his eyes focused on their dialogue.
Enjolras swallowed, then pointed to the empty desk next to him. “You can have that one.”
“Why thank you, gracious Orestes.”
“Lot of Greek classics in rehab?”
“Lot of sticks up your ass?”
“My ass is none of your business.”
“And rehab isn’t any of yours,” Grantaire stated, sitting in the old chair provided for him, pulling out several of the drawers in the equally archaic desk. The bottom right one stuck, and Grantaire kicked at it once, hoping to pry it open.
“Uh, the gum guy had that desk last,” Marius peeped up. “Would you like me to get you a letter opener?”
“Yeah, I’d appreciate that,” Grantaire replied, and Marius darted off. Resolutely, Grantaire began pulling out the other drawers, rooting around for any contents—he pulled out a paperclip in the top right one, and an empty stapler on the other side. He put them on top of his desk and then dropped to his knees on the floor, rooting underneath.
Enjolras sighed, his eyes darting over from time to time. He tried his best to focus on his paperwork, but the rustling was distinct and Grantaire let out an occasional grunt or murmur in surprise. He clenched his jaw, determined to focus, clutching his pen.
“Oh!” Grantaire exclaimed.
The pen snapped in half in Enjolras’ hand, ink spilling all over his hand. He hissed, grabbing a handful of tissues and mopping up the mess, throwing it in the trash next to his desk.
“Whatever you are doing, stop,” Enjolras growled. “I need to focus.”
Grantaire ducked his head out from under the desk, grinning from ear to ear. In his hands were three magazines, each with
explicit covers.
“The desk was made in the 80’s,” he explained to Enjolras. “Figured it’s been passed off a few times, and look! I found porn! Man, this stuff is borderline vintage.”
“Seriously?” Courfeyrac replied, sitting up abruptly.
“Congratulations, you found someone’s thirty year old spunk,” Enjolras stated, scowling.
With that, Marius returned, carrying both a letter opener and a desktop light, much to Grantaire’s pleasure. “Man, I love this guy—what’s your name? Division?” he asked when Marius passed him the light and letter opener.
“I don’t have a division, I’m a translator. And I’m Marius,” he added, beaming at Grantaire, then frowning abruptly. “Is that 80’s porn?”
“See, Apollo? Some people can appreciate art!’
“Be his partner, then,” Enjolras replied bluntly, not looking up. “And like I told you countless times before, don’t call me that.”
“You’ve told me sixty seven times,” Grantaire replied. “If that’s countless—“
Enjolras looked up. “—I don’t count our interactions—“
“—disappointing—“ Grantaire replied snidely.
“—my world does not revolve around you—“
“—you were the one who assumed I knew all about your career—“
“—you’ve counted the number of times I’ve told you not to call me Apollo!”
“Case!” Cosette called out. “Enjolras, Grantaire, for the sake of everyone, just go.”
Enjolras stood, wiping his hand with a sort of finality, then stacking and stapling his papers before scowling at Grantaire. Cosette looked down at the porn on Grantaire’s desk, sighed dramatically and scooped it into the trash, much to Courfeyrac’s protest and Marius’ guilty look. Grantaire grumbled at her.
“Bank on the East side. Get going,” Cosette instructed, and Grantaire took off his hoodie, leaving it draped over the back of his chair.
Once the two of them had left the room, Cosette whirled around to face Combeferre. “This better work.”
Combeferre smiled slightly, and Eponine, Marius and Courfeyrac turned to gape at him.
“You sneaky bastard,” Courfeyrac stated as Cosette returned to her office. “You know they hate each other! Well, Enjolras hates R, at least.”
“Enjolras is my best friend,” Combeferre said. “Just…trust me, okay? It’ll work.”
OoOoO
“You aren’t driving,” Enjolras said clearly as Grantaire approached the side of the car, and he groaned, going around to the side and slipping into the passenger’s side.
Enjolras climbed in after him, sliding the key into the ignition and adjusting the mirror. A small French flag was draped beneath the rear-view mirror, and Grantaire snickered, reaching for it. Enjolras batted his hand away quickly, and was distracted for a moment by the thick scarring on R’s hand. Grantaire noticed the direction of his stare and turned his head downwards, then raised his hands to the mid-afternoon light that shone in through the windshield. It became quickly apparent that his hands had been through several ordeals.
For a moment, Enjolras said nothing, strapping himself against the seat, chewing the inside of his lip as Grantaire did the same, then sliding into drive and pulling out from the car park. He waited for a block before asking, “Can you still paint?”
“Yeah, just skin damage.”
Enjolras was quiet again for a beat before throwing in, “Good. Do you even own an iron?”
“Didn’t need it for my cover,” Grantaire said, shrugging down at his shirt. “Looks okay to me, though.”
“Yeah, buy an iron.”
“Rude. Cosette said I didn’t have to impress dead people. I assumed that was why you’re here.”
“I’m here because it’s the most challenging place for me.”
“You never worked Narcotics,” Grantaire stated. “The people you deal with, they’re dead. Their suffering is over. You bring them ‘justice’ and console their families, and all is right with the world, minus that one person. In Narcotics you look at them. The people you are trying to protect are the criminals, and then who is at fault? An arrest changes nothing. I brought down one of the biggest drug smuggling rings this century has seen, and for what? Nothing. They just switched suppliers. No, Homicide is a walk in the park.”
“In principle. It’s different in practice,” Enjolras said. “I don’t put a value on human lives, even if the person who died was a hindrance to society. A life lost is a life lost. A crime has been committed.”
“Very—egalitarian of you. Complete bullshit, of course, but great in theory. If you start to see things like that, you’ll end up like Javert.”
“I am not—“ with that, Enjolras saw the crime scene tape outside a building and cut himself off, pulling over. “You know what? New rule. We are only going to talk about the case.”
“Okay,” Grantaire said, glancing hesitantly out the window at the yellow crime scene tape, attempting to peer through the thick crowd of people. Enjolras tapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on,” he said, his lips close to Grantaire’s ear, much to Grantaire’s chagrin.
Grantaire shifted further towards the door, waving off Enjolras, who scoffed and got out of the car, walking around to the other side. Angrily, he yanked open Grantaire’s door, eliciting a grin from the other man.
“Such a gentleman!” Grantaire said, leaning forward as if to kiss Enjolras on the cheek, which made him pull back, an affronted look on his face. “Oh, grumpy.”
“You smell like whiskey.”
“That’s because I had some,” Grantaire stated.
“You aren’t fit to work—“
“—the doctors disagree,” he finished, gesturing for Enjolras to lead the way through the crowd of people. Enjolras pulled out his badge and parted the crowd with it, while Grantaire lazily held up the badge hanging around his neck with an indifferent facial expression, only raising an eyebrow when they reached the yellow tape, taking in the body that was spread eagled across the sidewalk, covered neatly with a white sheet.
A man in a coroner’s uniform and a medical mask strapped across his face was waiting for them. Joly stood above the body, neatly making notes on a pad of paper, glancing up once at Enjolras with an indifferent expression, but did a double take when he saw Grantaire.
“Hey, R! I had no idea you were back!” Joly said, shielding his smile from the crowd with the pad of paper, reaching forward to pat Grantaire on the arm. “How are you doing?”
“He’s had whiskey,” Enjolras stated, scowling.
“Nothing new there, then,” Joly said jovially. “I had no idea Narcotics had anything to do with this case.”
“I’m Homicide now,” Grantaire said, obvious displeasure on his face. “What’s with the dead guy?”
“No, you’re supposed to say, ‘What have you got, Joly?’” Enjolras said. Grantaire took a step towards Enjolras, and the two of them stood inches apart, staring at each other intently. Both of them silently bristled, although there was a hint of a smile on the edges of Grantaire’s mouth.
“Well, uh, he is definitely deceased,” Joly said. “Caucasian male, around fifty six years of age, was walking out of the bank and he just collapsed, reportedly.”
Enjolras turned away from Grantaire, leaving his partner to stare at his ear. “Sounds like a heart attack.”
“The paramedics thought so too, but I when I got here to take a look,” Joly passed them each a medical mask and gestured for them to bend down. Enjolras and Grantaire held them up to their faces, Enjolras reaching for a pair of rubber gloves whereas Grantaire just watched Joly’s gloved fingers lift up the white plastic sheet.
The man underneath wore a nice suit and kept a fairly trim figure, although Grantaire decidedly did not take in the salt and pepper beard or the nice gold ring strapped to his finger. He was slightly taken aback by how dead the man really was—his skin had gone blue around the fingertips and his jaw was slack, his eyes open but somehow having had rolled up into the back of his head. Enjolras looked on, utterly indifferent as Grantaire shuffled back awkwardly, still crouching.
“Blue fingers,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras picked up the digits for himself, rolling them around in gloved hands. “Fuck, man, don’t do that. I get that you don’t exactly get a lot of dates but at least make a OK Cupid account before you start resorting to dead men.”
“Hilarious,” Enjolras deadpanned.
“I don’t know, R, he does seem to have quite a bit of money,” Joly pointed out, picking up the wallet in the dead man’s right hand.
“Ah, a rich, dead capitalist. Definitely Enjolras’ type,” Grantaire said, although he gestured for the wallet. Joly held it back, pointing to the gloves, which Grantaire sighed and put on, snapping them like a surgeon and grinning. “We’re ready to begin the cavity search!” he declared, and Joly snorted. Grantaire attached the mask properly to his face, hooking the strings behind his ears and then thumbing through the contents.
“Francois Abelard,” he read aloud, taking out the driver’s license from the clear pocket, then thumbing through the card slots. “One national debit card, the other an international one, and two credit cards. No health care indicators. And—woah, that is a lot of hundreds. Uh, twenty? Oh, weird, they’re wet.”
“Wet?” Enjolras asked, moving his search up the man’s arm.
“Uh, yeah, more along the lines of damp. Makes sense though, it’s hot out and he’s in a three piece suit, I’d be sweaty too.”
“Blue this early on means poisoning, for sure,” Joly said. “I am fairly sure it isn’t airborne, since he was the only victim, but I’m not taking any chances. Anyway, the way he dropped was apparently very rigid.”
“Instant?”
“Yeah, no way in hell is that a heart attack. Or an overdose,” Grantaire tacked on. “No kids’ pictures, or anything wife related in his wallet. Wearing a blue tooth, expensive shoes—Francois was living the high life.”
“You are supposed to call them by their surnames,” Enjolras corrected. “This is Monsieur Abelard.”
“He’s dead, he doesn’t give a shit,” Grantaire said, leaning forward to pat him on the cheek. The man’s head rolled to the side, and a small amount of foam dripping out from his parted lips. Grantaire leaped back a meter, while Enjolras merely pursed his lips behind the mask, and Joly sighed, reaching for a Q-tip and an evidence vial.