Chapter Text
“Pontmercy? Marius Pontmercy?”
Courfeyrac’s contact in D.C. had mentioned the new guy had freckles, but he was wholly unprepared for the strawberry-blond kid who spun toward him. His face was covered in freckles; they even dotted his neck all the way down to where his shirt was buttoned (one button short of way too high). Courfeyrac would never admit it, but he’d always kind of had a thing for freckles. This feeling did not extend, however, to preppy Quantico grads who didn’t think twice about answering to their given name in a public place when they were supposed to be starting an undercover assignment.
They made eye contact, and Courfeyrac noticed Pontmercy’s puzzled expression. Okay, so Courf knew he didn’t exactly meet traditional G-man standards. His low v-neck, too-tight skinny jeans, and ironic $90 fedora were a stark contrast to this guy’s blue button-down/khakis combo. But Courfeyrac also knew that, in this line of work, not fitting the traditional image of an FBI agent was one of the biggest advantages he could have.
“Agent Pontmercy, I presume?” he joked, stepping close so he could lower his voice. “Name’s Courfeyrac, but you can call me Courf.” Marius blinked at him, but Courfeyrac took it in stride, grabbing one of his bags and leading the way out of the crowded terminal. “So your flight was early then. That’s unusual. Short trip, though.”
Nodding, Marius caught up at the door. “Do flights usually get in late here or...?”
“I mean, it’s an airport.” Courfeyrac gestured across the parking lot. “Didn’t feel like paying to park, so it’s a bit of a walk. Let’s put that hardcore physical training to good use, yeah?”
Pontmercy raised an eyebrow but followed without complaint as Courfeyrac took off at a jog.
Courfeyrac drove like a crazy person (or, as he explained to Marius, someone who didn’t want to get steamrolled by a cab driver), and they made it to the safehouse in under an hour. Courf escorted Marius inside--and even helped him get his bags upstairs--before pointing to an empty room and waving goodbye.
Thursday was supposed to be his day off, and he had standing plans with “the guys” (which really just included whoever was available and willing to let Courfeyrac drag them to the newest clubs).
He felt a little bit bad for abandoning Pontmercy, so he turned at the top of the stairs to shout back. “Hey, I’m going out--wanna come?”
“Um, I think I actually...it’s kind of late, isn’t it? I have to unpack.” Marius looked wildly uncomfortable at the idea, so Courfeyrac dropped it.
“Cool. Bathroom’s down the hall, and there’s beer in the fridge.” Courfeyrac pointed as he spoke, and then winked before heading down the stairs. “Don’t get too crazy.”
No one else was home, and Courfeyrac still felt kind of bad for ditching the new guy, but he was almost fully recovered by the time he grabbed his jacket off the couch and was jogging out the door to hail a cab.
He, Feuilly, and Grantaire were basically the only regulars at the dive near Grantaire’s flat, as it was where they always started their evenings (and frequently ended their mornings). It was only about a fifteen minute cab ride, but Grantaire had beaten him there.
Grantaire was Courfeyrac’s one exception to his personal rule. Grantaire was a journalist (if you could really call it that), who usually covered political scandals and also did favors for his friends at Neverland now and then. No one could remember exactly when Grantaire had become a permanent fixture in their tight-knit little club (and he still wasn’t allowed upstairs), but Courfeyrac thought it was nice to have one friend who didn’t want to always talk shop.
“‘Sup, bro? Who’s coming out tonight?”
Grantaire gave him a dirty look. “Next time you call me ‘bro’, I’m starting a bar fight. Not today, though, since Bahorel’s working. Just you, me, and Feuilly. Which means we’re staying right here.” He raised his glass to the bartender, who just shook her head and filled a pint for Courfeyrac.
“Is the cute one coming tonight?” she asked, winking at Grantaire.
Affronted, Courfeyrac took the beer and sat with his back to her, but he still waved enthusiastically as Feuilly entered the bar a moment later.
Nodding his head in acknowledgement, Feuilly took the empty seat on the other side of Grantaire and gratefully accepted his beer. Another housemate, Feuilly worked for the DEA along with Jehan and Eponine, who were out on a job tonight. Although Feuilly would bristle whenever anyone called him cute to his face, Eponine, Grantaire, and Bahorel seemed to particularly enjoy doing so (and it wasn’t untrue).
“That asshole called me today while I was at lunch with the number two guy in this--”
“Which asshole?” Grantaire interrupted. “Courf and I are both here.”
Feuilly glared at him. “Which asshole do you think?”
“Did you answer it?” Courfeyrac demanded.
“Of course not! So he called three more times and then texted to say Oh shit you must be working. Sorry. Talk later.” He took a gulp. “Needless to say, we did not talk later.”
Grantaire shrugged and pulled out his phone. “In much better news, have you guys seen the new French ambassador? He’s fucking hot. And single. And almost 100% gay.”
“So clearly you’ll have to seduce him,” Courfeyrac said, while Feuilly, at the exact same moment, shot Grantaire a confused stare and asked, “How is a person ‘almost 100% gay’?”
Grantaire announced, “Pics!” and Courfeyrac leaned across his lap to explain things to Feuilly. “Well, no one is actually quite sure because he’s incredibly private about his personal life, but the dude almost single-handedly passed that gay marriage legislation in France, and he’s speaking at the whats-it event next week, so R,” he leaned back to make eye-contact, “you should definitely go for it.”
By two, Feuilly had already pointed out at least four times that it was getting late and they should head home. Courfeyrac finally relented, so they awkwardly bro-hugged Grantaire and flagged down a taxi.
Courfeyrac had the cab drop them off two blocks away, out of careful habit, and they stumbled home just in time to meet Eponine and Jehan, who looked for all the world like a couple of dangerous meth-heads. Courf dragged them all into a group hug before they continued inside, where Bahorel and Bossuet had fallen asleep to Whose Line reruns, and Marius was nowhere to be seen.
Courf shook Bossuet awake and whispered “Bahorel” from a safe distance, gesturing for Eponine and Jehan to stay downstairs.
“Guys. Guys. Remember how there was a new guy coming? He’s here! Pondmerry or whatever. I put him in the empty room and he’s probably asleep so be quiet or you’ll wake him, and for god’s sake everyone go to bed or ‘Ferre will find out and stare us all down until we apologize!”
Eponine laughed and let Courfeyrac drag her up the stairs; Bossuet and Jehan were close behind.
But Bahorel grabbed Feuilly by the arm. “Look, man, I just wanted t--”
Feuilly jerked away. “I’m too tired for this shit.” He stormed up the stairs, leaving Bahorel to sprawl on the couch and wonder what the hell he’d done wrong this time.