Catch-All Open Post

He is nothing out of the ordinary. His gait is slow and bow-legged, putting a little more weight on one leg than another. It makes for a well-placed diversion of evidence if ever he's ever identified by witnesses, which he won't be because he's perfectly ordinary. Walking down the muddy back streets he looks like everyone else around him, skirting drunken revelry with ease as if he's simply a lucky bystander.

His face is nothing memorable either. Long brown hair tied in the back, bangs caught forward by a dark cap and getting in the way of dead brown eyes. He's dirty and so are his clothes. Not from his own work, though. His worn coat and cotton pants, his suspenders and thin shirt are from the last man to meet an unfortunate end, and in his size too. But even the ordinary can't stay faceless when the crowds begin to thin, when the man you are hounding leads you into avenues neither of them should rightly be wandering through. So he starts skirting through tenements and alleys to disappear and appear at random.

He's been watching this man, Stephen Day, for the last two weeks to learn his routine. Even since the man's started digging where he shouldn't, he's been digging into Stephen. The world is much bigger than Stephen's narrow-minded reach, as his handler told him, bigger than an ordinary man of course, and so the death of one small piece is nothing in the grand scheme of things. But this isn't his usual mission this time. His handler doesn't want him killed. That would only lead to another justiciar picking up the torch from where he fell and continuing on. That does no one any good, his handlers told him. So he must defame Stephen, break him and disrepute him, make him sorry he ever suspected something was amiss in the underbelly of his city.

Tonight is the night to do just that. He would kidnap him and violate him inside-out, would remold him in the image of Hydra.

Edited 2015-06-23 08:29 (UTC)

[ this is the problem with secret occult societies bent on ruling the world: there's so many of them. they're like gentlemen's clubs but more irritating, every single one convinced that their goal is purer or more worthy or just more likely to succeed than last week's edition.

of course, some of them aren't just for show. the magpie lord had been in several and left several more as unworthy of his principles, and they remembered the man who had spurned them to found the justiciary.

stephen's current missing persons case involved a whiff of international occult society, of which he was already thoroughly sick, and instead of properly going home he'd bid Esther a weary goodnight and gone off to the nearest discreet club. it wasn't his normal habit to indulge during cases but he knew he needed the distraction. no witnesses, no overt signs of struggle, no ransom notes, nothing at all to indicate that a crime had even occurred except for three men missing, all of them practitioners, and some hazy gossip about them doing under the table work for some out of town men. work that the justiciary wouldn't like. it was crumbs to go on, although stephen had already privately decided that all three were likely dead, and after four days of dead ends he knew he wasn't making any progress shuffling and reshuffling the reports. he needed to clear his head. he needed a dark anonymous corner and someone's hands in his hair, holding him still, giving him something purely physical to focus on.

the coffeehouse was crowded, which suited stephen fine as they were all too cheerfully occupied with each other to take note of his height or his hair. he wore a faint glamor anyway, just a hint of don't-notice-me, enough to give him some cover while he cast a jaded eye on the night's crop, wondering if it was worth expending the effort of erasing the memories afterwards if he asked to be fucked. all too often that led to violence he was interested in but couldn't bring himself to tolerate, knowing that it usually came from the type of men that looked at him and saw a schoolboy. ]

[ It's been some time since Ariadne has let herself linger near people. Some appear friendly enough, but most -- most she can't let herself linger around, even though she wants to. Trusting too much gets you hurt out here, and there's a scar through her stomach to remind her of that fact. Luckily she'd been stabbed, not shot; she'd survived, and the heat-crazed woman who'd done it had not.

It's not that she doesn't like people. She loves people, always has. It's just that she has to be careful and it's difficult when she wants to open up to them, to trust them. It's easier to try and stay away. But it's dangerous alone, too; she has her knives, some guns and ammo, her bike -- but she's still a short, petite woman alone out in the wastes.

She's managed to bag a large lizard; there's no fire, her bike hidden in the rocks. The roar of a car engine is unmistakable though, and Ariadne hisses, abandoning her half-skinned kill to scramble out of sight. ]

[ after everything, they’d given him back his interceptor.

furiosa ruled the citadel now, or rather claimed to be an imperator for the new council of mothers while everyone tacitly acknowledged that she had final say on anything. he’d sorta figured she would. it was why he hadn’t stuck around for the aftermath, instead going back to the canyon to see what he could salvage. supplies, ammo, nux’s body. he’d given him a warrior’s pyre and brought back his wheel and his belt for capable, so she would remember him as she’d seen him last. he’d brought a handful of ashes, too, to seed in the citadel’s garden or to scatter from the clifftop or to decorate her room as she saw fit. the rest of the bodies he’d left for the desert.

the interceptor was as badly mangled. he’d paused beside it on the bike he’d been given by the vulvalini, and then moved on.

except then he was back within a month, the voices and instincts that drove him sweeping him back like the tide, and maybe the women had known, because the interceptor, gleaming and reborn, was waiting for him on the road up to the great lift.

they didn’t expect him to stay long, and he didn’t. but he swung by when the wind took him in that direction.

the interceptor is more visible than a bike, always had been, so he’s used to the hazards of travel with it. sometimes he’s ambushed by people that had seen him coming. sometimes he chases, and is glad of the bigger engine and the protection from snipers.

he edges up the approach to the small clearing amidst the rocks and kills the engine, letting it cool. whether he knows there’s someone present or he’s just scoping out a camping site behind his windshield is anyone’s guess. ]

[ One man alone. A threat, of course, but if he's a hunting or raiding party then he's far away from them. There are no sounds of other engines once his is off, nothing but the wind and the sand.

A scout maybe, she concedes, but he's not moving. Ariadne isn't about to approach while he's still behind the wheel, not on level ground, but he can't drive up the rocks. After a few more moments of watching, she creeps out, hand on her belt -- just in case. ]

Are you just going to sit there all day?

[ Get a move on if you're here to murder her, she was in the middle of something. ]

[ his window is cracked so he can hear her fine, though he doesn’t answer. he cocks his head at her from behind the glass, silently sizing her up, and pushes his door open with a squeal of hinges, moving slowly and keeping his hands in plain sight at much as possible. he doesn’t get out. he pulls a waterskin from where it had been sitting atop his dashboard and takes a drink, letting her know it’s not poisoned, and then extends his arm over the top of the open door and wiggles the skin at her, letting the door act as his shield. his eyebrows go up.

‘You want?’ he’s asking without asking. the waterskin is nearly full. ]

[ Water.

Ariadne can't stop herself from swallowing, from licking her dry, chapped lips at the thought. This could very easily be a trap; there could be someone else just out of sight in the car, or he could suddenly twist and grab her.

But... water.

She's frozen for a moment before she moves down the rocks, pausing just long enough to grab her dead lizard. If he has water then he might have meat, but she can be civilized enough to trade. Meat offered in one hand, her other hand reaching for the waterskin; it means she won't be able to grab her weapons without dropping something, but it's a risk that's worth it for water. ]

[ To be completely, perfectly fair, it’s not like he does this often. Curtis is as counter-culture as they come but he’s not into excess of any kind: booze, drugs, sex. Weaning himself off the pain medication after his surgeries had been shitty on its own, and he’d spent enough time in the dark places of the world to see how chemical escape weighed on people who already had nothing. He’s spent most of his time avoiding the drunken orgies and drug parties that seem to happen every weekend at St. Augustine and has earned the reputation of a funsucker, especially since he’s actually old enough to drink legally and refuses to share the wealth.

But there are bad days and worse nights, every now and again, and the amputation site acts up whenever he makes a change to the prosthetic (and sometimes even when he doesn’t), and Wilford checks up on him out of the blue, and he needs the escape. He knows a couple people in town. He does not, as a rule, buy anything directly from students.

All the dealers in the area know each other, though, or know of each other, so it takes Griffin all of three phone calls to get Johnny Storm's cell number, and texts him from an unknown number. ]

i've got your cousin here

you should come get him i can't stay here all night

[ the world goes to hell on a tuesday.

it's not how HYDRA had always claimed it would happen, it's not how anyone planned (except for crazy AI that caused it, of course), but one week there's civilization and the next week there's chaos, and HYDRA scrambles to protect itself, utilizing all its assets, even the ones that probably weren't ready to be back out in the world.

it's not the first time curtis has slipped his leash. there's a hole in his head where memories should be, but he knows the shape their absence makes. he left, once. he tried to leave, and something happened. something awful.

he knows he asked for the chair. he knows because they remind him, whenever he hesitates. he wants to be here. this is what he's made for.

they send him to help move supplies out of a ruined city, and he does that, he helps them load the train (though he hates trains, and can't remember why), and there's an accident. an explosion. the train derails. people die. he doesn't, and no one comes to get him. he guards a bunch of metal boxes in ruined boxcars and no one even comes to investigate the accident, because everyone has their own problems by then.

he haunts the wreckage like a ghost, trying to decide if today is the day he should just... leave. there's something that pulls at him like a magnet, the thing that prompted him to try and escape the first time, the second time. they've told him it's a sense of connection with the Original Copy, and that it will serve him well in a future mission, but there's no one now to tell him anything. if he should try and follow that tenuous thread, or stay where he is, safe inside the metal with the other transients that don't mind a ghost in favor of shelter. ]

[ Steve should have died when the train derailed. It was almost preferable, the idea of dying over living in Hydra's custody, over spending the rest of his life pierced with needles and tubes, kept alive only so that his blood, his cells could be harvested over and over to make more Copies. His muscles were near atrophy from the weeks spent mostly sealed in a metal coffin, let out only for food and for a few stumbling moments of motion as the train raced on and on into oblivion. When it derails he's thrown from the car; his world fades into blank, muffled white and he imagines this to be the end, but when he wakes up he's with a group of refugees, taking shelter in the boxcars. The needle marks marching up and down his arms and legs are nearly faded, though the bruises will take a while longer. For days he can't sit up, but then he manages it, sweating and trembling; it's days longer before he can stand, and more than a week before a walk through the cars doesn't leave him gasping, near collapse.

The Hydra officers on the train are dead. For a while Steve has nightmares, waking with screams choked in his throat from dreams of being buried alive, but knowing they're dead helps; he feeds on a wrathful satisfaction and heals in the care of refugees who don't know who he is or what he was used for.

He feels the thread too, though he doesn't recognize it at first; Hydra never let him see any of the Copies, let him be anywhere near them, because of the bond. But he puzzles at it, worries it like a loose tooth, and then a moment comes when understanding dawns in him: one of them is here, very near him. He was on the train, he survived the crash. Once he knows that, Steve goes looking for him; he never met any of them before, but even so, with Hydra dead, isn't he responsible for them now? They were made from him.

He knows him when he finds him. The stranger is tall, almost impossibly taller than he is, unmistakably bulked up under layers of clothing, with a dark beard and snapping eyes, but Steve knows him like he knows himself. ]

It's okay. [ he tells him in a steady voice. He isn't as weak as he was. He's nearly recovered, in fact, nearly as strong as anyone his size could hope to be. ] You're one of the Copies, aren't you?

[ his handlers had never told him what was so special about the Original that he needed to be recreated, and curtis had never asked. there were plenty of things he’d wanted to know that he understood he’d never be told if his superiors didn’t want him informed. that rankled, but he wasn’t the type to invite beatings for no reason the way some of the other assets did. better to keep his mouth shut and observe. the quieter he was, the more people talked around him, over him, seeming to forget that he was there or that he might be listening.

which is why his mouth stays firmly shut now, half-hidden in the shadows of the ruined boxcar’s corner, even while his grip tightens on his axe and his eyes dart all over the stranger. he’s never seen him before in his life, dressed like one of the harmless transients that curtis had taken to haunting and avoiding like a feral cat unable to make up its mind, and yet…

he doesn’t understand how he could have been made from something so small, but the blue of the eyes is the same. the shape of the face, the determined set of the mouth. the hair is different. even lank and unkempt it’s a brighter shade than curtis’s ordinary brown, and his shoulders are so tiny compared to curtis’s own. he looked almost like a child in the sagging clothes, wiry instead of strapping. curtis feels almost ridiculous in front of him, wearing things that strained at the seams no matter how carefully he moves. hydra used to give him sleek fitting things that had to have been made specially for his measurements, but they made him look almost inhuman, drawing too much attention. he preferred his wool caps and his gloves and the long coats that made him look at least a little bit like a normal person.

of course he’s one of the Copies. he doesn’t respond to that question, instead drawing back warily in response to being told ‘it’s okay.’ the connection between them is a heartbeat in the back of his head, but its strangeness makes him want to back away rather than reach out. ]

What are you doing here? [ he asks instead, finally tearing his gaze away to check their surroundings. is he being collected after his absence? ]

[ No one tells her why they bring him to her, but enough people have been brought to her by now that Ariadne can guess. She's gentle but firm, kind but stubborn; she expects certain things but accepts others. She does well with the difficult kinds, soothes and strokes and gets them to warm up a little for her. It doesn't happen overnight, not usually, but it tends to happen. She's observant; she can find the right spots to push or the right spots to stay away from. It helps that none of them think of her as a threat, this tiny little thing built almost like a bird.

The first things she does for Curtis are simple. Food, water, clean clothing, no bindings, medical supplies in case he needs them, and all of it in his own space. He's allowed to wander through her home, of course, even out into the walled-in garden; she would let him go further, but they'll know. He can't go past that, not without her, and even she's watched when she leaves. It makes her teeth grind, makes the small scars from needles on the inside of her arm ache. But better her than others; better her than those who would fight fire with fire instead of trying to direct it.

There have been gentle touches, so far, but nothing more; a hand against his arm or side or, more rarely, run through his hair. But she has a deadline; they want more progress or they'll relocate him, send him to someone else. Ariadne has asked for their patience but they tend to not have it, and so tonight she goes to find him, hair down around the straps of her sundress. She's quiet on bare feet but she tries to make sure to make noise, to step where she knows the boards will creak, to knock against doors as she enters rooms. ]

Curtis? [ And when she finds him, she goes to gently take his hand, to run a finger over his knuckles. She is, technically, his punisher for noncompliance -- even if she's also a captive here. That doesn't mean she has to be cruel. ] Come sit with me.

[ ‘difficult’ is a catch all word, he’s found. it encompasses ‘violent, antisocial, and traumatized’ without giving those words as warnings in their own right, and even though everyone here has been gentle with him so far it’s the gentleness of people attempting to delicately handle a venomous creature. or a rabid one. it’s worse to think of being coaxed than forced, sometimes, but he hasn’t had to kill anyone. he would rather not have to kill anyone.

it does help that he knows ariadne as a fellow captive. everything she does is out of a concern for him, even when he’d rather she leave him to rot in the corner. she doesn’t remind him of anyone specific. she’s bits of pieces of the people from the train: yona’s naive fearlessness, tanya’s iron determination, edgar’s curiosity, grey’s selflessness. gilliam’s empathy.

he’s not asleep when she comes to him, though the lights are off in the room. he’s sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his knees, but he uncurls obediently enough when she asks. he’s a problem for her. he didn’t ask to be, but he is, and he can guess why she’s here. ]

What’s wrong?

[ The worst part of all of this is that they know. Each of them know what she's doing, that she's doing it out of at least some sense of self-preservation. She does it for them, too, but- ultimately, it is because if she doesn't, she'll be punished too. Her punishment won't be anywhere near as nice as a young woman in her own house, brings mingled feelings of shame and guilt afterward.

Then again, the more she does this, the more it does the same.

Curtis knows something is wrong and she won't lie to him. She sighs, keeps her hold on his hand more for herself than for him. He's a large man and it's horribly, horribly tempting to just burrow her face in his chest -- but she isn't really certain he'd know what to do if she did, and it wouldn't help. It isn't what they are after. ]

They're getting impatient, [ she breathes, quiet, as if that will somehow help. ] They want- results, or they're going to move you somewhere else. To "someone who will work faster", apparently.

What, someone who’s going to tie me down?

[ let them try, he doesn’t say. ]

I doubt that's all they'd do. But they didn't share specifics, just- implied. They know my imagination is good enough to fill in the blanks.

[ Better even than theirs, sometimes. ]

They didn't give specifics on what they'd do to me, either.

[ Because if his fate doesn't concern him... well. Maybe hers will, and that way she can try to help them both, even if he doesn't want it for his sake. ]

[ that, unfortunately, is a better chain than anything physical, and a better incentive than any tangible reward. he's silent for a long moment.

it's one of those things that gilliam used to say, actually. you come to an impossible choice and you've already made it, you just don't understand why until the moment comes.

quiet, ]

What do you need me to do?

[ She doesn't want to ask this of him. She really doesn't. But she has to, for the both of them, and Ariadne grips his hand a little tighter for a moment. ]

Well. I imagine saying that we're supposed to have sex is pointing out the obvious.

[ But she's never actually said it explicitly to him. ]

[ YES WELL. he winces away a little, more at the bluntness than at the words. it’s not as though he’s being asked to do something horrific, in the grand scheme of things, but still…

it would be easier if ariadne were a man, or older than him, so he wouldn’t have to feel like he was transgressing. repeating old sins. girls like her on the train (tiny, sweet, young) had been the worst victimized during the bad years, making easy targets twice over after they’d gotten pregnant. edgar’s mother had been young. all of her strength and mass had gone into her belly, leaving her cheeks hollowed and her arms skeletal. she’d been too malnourished to produce milk. everyone knew that her baby would die of starvation even if it survived being born.

it was why curtis had chosen her.

none of that is ariadne’s fault, of course. the fact that he can’t sustain an erection isn’t her fault, but it’ll get them both punished. he shifts uncomfortably. ]

What do you think they consider sex?

[ it’s probably a weird question, but he doesn’t want to explain why old-fashioned penetration is going to be beyond him. even if his dick was in perfect working order, no mutilated limbs involved at all, he doesn’t think he’d be able to go through with this. ]

[ Her grip relaxes and then disappears, her hand moving up his arm and into his hair. She's gentle, careful not to press too firmly; she strokes him like she might pet a skittish animal, ready to pull her hand back if necessary.

This isn't his fault. This isn't either of their faults. It's this place, it's the ones who run it. It's not them. Ariadne has to repeat it to herself, too. ]

I think as long as someone gets off, they'll be happy. But they'll want it to be... intimate, or at least they'll need to think it is. More than just a professional transaction.

[ Otherwise this really would be much easier for all of them. ]

[ 'that's your job'

it wasn't, it hadn't been, not back in brooklyn-- this was something he hadn't figured out until he got to europe, until the first night he spent alone with steve in a tent and it was too cold for pretending. they hadn't really talked about it, maybe steve thought it was the war that had changed something in him, but they'd been frantic with each other that night and every chance they got after, stealing time. it hadn't changed the fact that he still wanted steve to go on and marry peggy carter, after the war. it hadn't changed anything about how they were in the daylight. they didn't trade 'i love you's,' or talk about what would've happened if bucky had been dead on that table. maybe they should have. maybe this steve did, with his bucky.

but it brings the situation into clarity, at last. he knows how to do this. this is an old, easy mission, and he wouldn't have thought future-steve needed it, but apparently he was wrong. ]

You'll get better, [ he says softly, kindly, the voice of experience, leaning forward to show him how it's done. as much as he wants to haul him in, bite his mouth raw, pour all his terror and bitterness out into steve he holds back, kissing him gentle and coaxing. this steve is somehow more fragile than brooklyn steve, he realizes, despite everything, and he wonders furiously why the hell no one's been taking care of him.

he pulls back enough to rest their foreheads together, sharing breath. he really ought to ask if steve's done this before, with his bucky or anyone else. ]

Hey. You want to get out of here?

[ Steve feels selfish and small in the face of this man's kindness, the one he loved above all else but failed, all the same. He doesn't know what happens, and Steve -- well, he can't bring himself to tell him all of it, not if he can somehow stop it before it takes the light out of this Bucky's eyes.

He remembers all that they've done together in private, in the quiet of their bunkrooms when they both fell into each other, young and desperate and in love, and maybe he should have told him that, before everything went to hell (would it have changed a thing? he doesn't know). He grips him a little tighter, because this is what he needs, who he needs even if his heart aches and the bittersweetness clings to their kiss.

He doesn't let go of him, eyes lidded as he breathes him in, acutely aware of how much he's changed, how far he's come, guilt coiling in his gut like a terrible, awful thing. He's tired, wounded, but at least, at least Bucky is here with him. Borrowed time, stolen from fate, but if this means Bucky is saved, he'd happily be branded a thief.

Steve musters a smile, before he takes his hand. ] As long as you're coming with me. Your room or mine?

[ A snort. ]

Your ghost assassin likes to sleep in your bed when you’re not there. I think we’d be better off trying out mine.

[ maybe it’s cruel of him, but he can’t bring himself to call the other bucky by his name. it’s “that guy” or “him” or “your shadow” if it’s anything at all. anything he can do to disassociate, because there’s nothing at all that he recognizes in the other man.

also bucky had pretty much moved in with brooklyn steve the very first night, so his own room is still relatively pristine-- and well-stocked with things like lubricant and condoms, which bucky had been getting ready to be offended about until he started checking all the empty rooms and found most of them were set up the same way on the occupied floors, like it was just ordinary politeness to provide things like that for guests.

he squeezes steve’s hand a little shyly, though. they’re not being very discreet in a semi-public space and it’s bothering him less than it should. ]

‘Course I’m coming with you.

[ Steve has the grace to look embarrassed at that comment, although not entirely guilty; after all, it's a part of why Steve is out of his room so often, having picked up on his Bucky's sleeping habits and is quietly encouraging it.

If it gives him the rest he so desperately needs, why not? But he feels guilty all the same, like he's doing his Bucky a great wrong by wanting to go with this one (this one is his, too; Steve stubbornly thinks). Cruelty, he supposes, runs both ways. He doesn't miss the way Bucky doesn't say his name, doesn't acknowledge that it's him, and for tonight Steve is all too willing to play along.

He smiles, discretion be damned as they walk towards Bucky's place, Steve's heart hammering in his chest. He wants to kiss him again, take him in his arms and steal his breath away, remember everything about what his Bucky used to be.

And once they reach his door, that's exactly what Steve does. ]

[ so that was a thing that had happened.

grantaire didn't do protests anymore. he didn't do rallies, he didn't do riots, he didn't do street brawls (although bahorel still managed to drag him into bar fights every now and then), he didn't actively take part in things where there was a high likelihood of his face getting beaten in by a nightstick or stabbed by a homophobic asshole. he'd done a lot of stupid shit when he was younger and he understood now what a miracle it was that he'd survived.

pride on its own wasn't a protest, of course, but enjolras had a way of turning any opportunity into a soapbox, complete with inevitable police retaliation and tv crews swarming the place and then internet fallout propelling his too-pretty face further along its path of tumblr stardom. marriage equality was the new battlefield, he'd said at the last meeting, while grantaire kept his head down over his sketchbook and pretended not to listen. everyone else had pledged to go. grantaire had not, and enjolras had glanced over him like he wasn't there, clearly not expecting anything different.

the resolution to not get involved lasted until he saw enjolras pulled down off his impromptu dais by hostile hands, combeferre and courfeyrac pulled from his side, and bahorel had nudged him with a feral smile before diving in. enjolras was too tempting a target with his red jacket and bright gold hair. he went down under a pile of bodies and grantaire went after him.

it wasn't much of a rescue. he didn't know if enjolras even saw who hauled him up by his collar, kept his back clear and pushed him in the right direction to get out of the thick of it, because then there were police and handcuffs and squad cars and grantaire had to keep blinking blood out of his eyes. bahorel and feuilly were around somewhere, but he wasn't worried about them. they weren't idiot kids like all the rest of the ABC. he punched a uniform that had a screaming girl by her hair. things went about as expected after that.

he was still laughing when they shoved him in a holding cell, calling abuse and filthy jokes about contaminated blood after them. ]

Edited 2015-07-05 22:54 (UTC)

Starting a fight, or even engaging anyone, hadn't been part of the plan. Not technically. There'd been rumors that a super conservative group would be there in protest of the festivities. The plan was to be there just in case something happened. To be on alert. To provide counter tactics if need be, but otherwise to just be there for support.

But then Enjolras had spotted an opportunity. The conservatives were in much higher numbers than had been expected, heckling and harassing the revelers and anyone who might even be vaguely related to the festivities. He'd had enough. He couldn't just sit by and let them do this. With no thought to the cameras--professional or amateur--that might be present, he acted. He snagged one of the many rainbow flags on display, bundling it up and tucking it under his jacket. Head ducked down, he managed to circle around the protesters. Toward the back was his perfect podium. Somewhere he could get above them and be seen by all. Draw their attention away from the festival proper. Apart from being told to get down, he couldn't get much attention at first. Words of equality and acceptance fell on deaf ears. But yanking that flag out and letting the breeze unfurl it? That got their attention. He was still yelling his message as he was pulled down.

He didn't see much of anyone specific in the fight. And he certainly wasn't aware of who it was that grabbed his jacket to haul him out of the worst of it. Mostly because it didn't KEEP him out of the worst of it. He hadn't even realized the cops were involved until he felt the cuff around his wrist. Even then, he tried to pull free. He had a point to prove. He was still shouting at protesters and cops alike as they shoved him into the back of the squad car. And the two who drove him to the station got an earful about violating his basic rights.

He hadn't been in the holding cell when Grantaire was shoved in. He looked the other over, looking for the time being that all energy had gone from him. But he just needed a moment to recover. However, the look might have something to do with the blossoming black eye and the blood he wiped from his nose.

"Where were you?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Grantaire didn't look up immediately when the door opened, by this point all the aches and bruises making themselves known past the adrenaline. He could feel blood drying in his hair from the cut on his forehead and his face probably looked like a Halloween mask, blood-caked and bruise-shadowed, but his hands were the worst off. He'd be lucky if he could hold a pencil or a paintbrush for the next week, and was now thoroughly annoyed with himself for getting involved.

Enjolras's voice, though, brought his head up with a snap.

"Well shit, Apollo." Somehow even blood and bruises managed to flatter Enjolras, making him look dirty and heroic instead of like hamburger, which was how Grantaire felt. "Where was I when?"

A sort of alarmed concern started to settle over Enjolras. Subtle at first, as he took in the extent of the other's injuries. The bruises more of a concern than the blood. Grantaire was one who he never really expected to see bloodied and beaten. At least not this bad. Of course, that growing feeling of concern was quickly wiped away under a surge of irritation at that name.

"To get yourself in here," he said, confused. What else would he be asking. His assumption was that the other had mouthed off at whatever hole he'd been drinking in and got a bottle cracked over his head. He didn't even suspect that Grantaire had been anywhere near the protest.

No good deed goes unpunished. Grantaire felt his smile become fixed as he realized Enjolras hadn't the first fucking clue what had happened, and if he wanted any recognition for it (any gratitude) he'd have to give his own stumbling explanation. The words were already shriveled on his tongue. What would he say anyway? 'Oh I got arrested at the protest because I followed you there like a pathetic creeper and then I got into a fight on your behalf but you didn't even notice because even in an actual Hollywood set up street brawl you don't look at me.'

"Oh, well," he faltered, and slid a mask on as bright and cheerful and empty as a fluorescent light, despite the way it hurt to move his face. "Argument over a girl. You know how it is. Some asshole giving her shit, suddenly you're spitting blood and there's a cop sitting on your back. Whatever happened to chivalry, right?"

Edited 2015-07-13 02:54 (UTC)

"Oh," was all Enjolras said at first. The tale made a little bit of sense, at least. Grantaire getting into a drunken brawl made far more sense than being recklessly wading into a protest turned ugly. And he seemed preoccupied with the state of his nose for a moment. He touched it gingerly, wincing slightly. He still couldn't quite tell if it was broken or just badly bruised. At least the bleeding seemed to have slowed.

"I suppose then you didn't see what happened," he started, once his eye stopped watering. "I would have been in a far worse state had someone not hauled me from the thick of it. It's very possible I owe that stranger my life." He tried to smile, but it looked pained and faded quickly, as it moved far too many bruised portions of his face.

Yeah the smiling didn't do anyone any favors. "Jesus christ get over here and sit, I've got a cold pack thingy." He tried to sound authoritative and logical about it, the way Combeferre would, but 'thingy' probably ruined the attempt. He patted the bench beside him anyway. If he asked nice in about ten minutes the guy at the desk (it was probably Larry or Nico) would probably bring them some shit to clean off all the blood.

Also Grantaire getting into a drunken brawl definitely made more sense, except for the fact that he was one hundred per cent completely sober right now and Enjolras was distracted enough not to have noticed. Or maybe he just assumed that Grantaire was perpetually in some state of inebriation, someway and somehow.

"Bahorel and Feuilly were there." Of course they were, they'd pledged to go and Enjolras knew that, and he winced internally. "I, uh, went too. Later. I did see the end of it. You started a whole goddamn riot."

The tone was a surprise. He only ever heard that out of Grantaire when he got into one of his rants before someone could properly stop him. Why couldn't he ever apply that in the proper places? It wasn't the offer of the cold pack or the invitation that got him to move, he told himself. It was simply that he needed to sit down. And it was either beside Grantaire or the floor.

He certainly did assume the other was at least somewhat inebriated. But he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Grantaire truly sober. The rare occasions where it did occur, it never lasted long, it seemed.

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac were there, as well," he offered, not at all masking his shock at the admission of Grantaire having been there. But of course he'd been late. Come to mock them, no doubt. Or cause problems. "I saw an opportunity, is all. I'd suggest you be there with us from the start next time, but I'd only be wasting my breath." There it was. That usual disdain he reserved from the drunk that had attached himself to their group.

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