Chapter Text
After such a long drive, Enjolras is glad to get out of the car and stretch his legs, which had been steadily cramping for the past half hour. He takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air and looks around. Combeferre had told them not to expect much from the tiny Serbian town he was sending them to, but even then, he’s surprised by just how quiet it is. They’re parked in a small square in the centre of the town, beside the town hall, the houses and buildings around them mostly silent. As he watches, someone emerges from the small corner store across the road, shooting their car a suspicious look, before ducking their head and hurrying to their own car. Enjolras isn’t surprised; they’re strangers here, and right now, this town has a right to be wary.
“If there’s gonna be monsters around,” Grantaire asks as he steps out of the passenger side, stretching his arms over head and briefly exposing a small sliver of his stomach- not that Enjolras is looking- “Why can’t we at least get the cool supernatural shit like teleportation too?”
Given that they can’t explain to an airline why their bags are filled less with spare clothes and more with a wide variety of weapons, and as a consequence their hunting group regularly has to drive the length and breadth of Europe, Enjolras has to admit that teleportation would be a lot more convenient.
He stretches his own arms over his head too, rolling his neck and wincing slightly when it cracks.
“If teleportation did exist, there would probably be a cost not worth paying to do it,” he reminds Grantaire, who smiles and leans his elbows on the top of the car to look over at him.
“Now who’s a pessimist?” he asks, and Enjolras can’t help but smile back even as he rolls his eyes.
Enjolras has parked just across the street from the building they’re looking for, a small inn owned by the town’s watcher, a woman named Eponine. Enjolras points the inn out to Grantaire, and the two of them head towards it. The sign above the door advertises ‘No Vacancies’, which Enjolras finds hard to believe, given how small and sleepy this particular town is, not to mention the current predicament it’s in.
Grantaire looks at the sign, and then at Enjolras, and raises an eyebrow. Enjolras shrugs- they’re definitely in the right place- and tests the doorknob. The door opens with an ominous creak, and the two of them step into the entrance.
The inn is silent and plainly decorated, and for a moment Enjolras thinks they’re the only people there, before he notices a boy sitting behind the concierge desk, his feet propped on top of it. He speaks without looking up from the comic book he’s reading. “No solicitors. And if you’re not solicitors, learn to read.”
“We’re not solicitors,” Enjolras says with a frown.
The boy folds his comic book shut and looks at them with a snarky grin on his face. “Oh, okay. I guess you’re both just stupid, then.”
Enjolras doesn’t know how to respond to that, and instead just exchanges a look with Grantaire.
“No vacancies,” the boy says slowly and clearly.
“We don’t need a room,” Grantaire tells the kid, an eyebrow raised. “But, considering what’s been happening around here recently, I wouldn’t say this town is Serbia’s current top tourist destination. So I’m going to call bullshit on that.”
The boy frowns at that, sitting back in his seat and regarding the two of them with narrow-eyed suspicion.
He doesn’t speak, so Enjolras says, “We need to speak to Eponine, please. Combeferre sent us.”
He’s assuming the boy will be at least somewhat informed of the situation, and he’s proven right when his eyes light up, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline, and his face splits into a wide smile.
“Oh, you’re the hunters!” he says eagerly, dropping his comic book completely and leaning over the concierge desk to better gape at them, like he expects the parts of them he couldn’t see from behind the desk to be covered in monster blood.
The boy points at Enjolras’ left side. “Can I have a knife?”
Enjolras’ instinct is to grip the handle protectively, and say “No, I need this one.” It takes him a moment to remember that that probably isn’t most people’s normal reaction, so he adds lamely, “Also, I don’t think I’m supposed to give knives to children.”
The boy sighs, as if this is all massively inconvenient, and rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” he says, “I’ll take it after the monster gets you then.”
Bold of him to assume Enjolras is going to let a monster get him. Before he can respond with something to that effect, there’s a creak of floorboards from the door marked ‘office’ behind the concierge desk, and a young woman with dark hair steps out of the room, examining Enjolras and Grantaire with a raised eyebrow.
“Gavroche, stop fucking with the hunters,” she says to the kid, stepping up to the edge of the desk.
Gavroche huffs. “I wouldn’t fuck with them if they didn’t make it easy.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes at that, and recoils a moment later when the woman smacks Gavroche on the back of the head. He yelps and rubs it, and looks at Enjolras and Grantaire imploringly.
“Hey,” he says, with another shit-eating grin, the three of them apparently friends now. “Maybe after you deal with the monster, you can deal with my sister.”
“Little shit,” the woman mutters under her breath, and Gavroche rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything else. She looks between the two of them, her hands on her hips. “Enjolras and Grantaire, I assume?”
“Yes,” Enjolras holds his hand across the desk for her to shake, and Grantaire does the same. “I take it you’re Eponine?”
“Yep,” Eponine lifts the partition separating the concierge station from the rest of the lobby, stepping around it. “The two of you couldn’t have come fast enough. Combeferre said you were good, and you better be. We’re dealing with some real shit here.” She nods towards the entrance to the inn. “Our apartment is in the building next door, I can tell you what I know.”
Enjolras and Grantaire nod and start walking towards the entrance, and Eponine turns around and points an accusing finger at Gavroche.
“You,” she tells him sternly. “Stay here, and stay out of trouble.”
Gavroche, in response, waves his middle finger at her, but Enjolras sees him go back to his comic book just before the door swings shut behind the three of them.
“Is that safe?” Grantaire asks as the two of them follow Eponine into the next building over and up a set of stairs to the first floor. “Leaving him there by himself while there’s a monster on the loose?”
Eponine snorts as she fumbles with her key in the door. “Believe me, any monster that tried to take him would soon bring him back.” She opens the door and waves Enjolras and Grantaire into her apartment. “He’s got nothing to worry about though.” She clears her throat, and shuts the door behind her, sliding the deadbolt across. “You’ll see.”
Eponine and Gavroche’s apartment is small and sparsely furnished, but something about the overflowing bookshelf and the ragged-y couch, covered in a wide array of soft looking blankets and quilts, and the old gaming console with two remotes sitting side by side under the TV, makes the place feel homey. Enjolras doesn’t know what had happened to Eponine and Gavroche that meant they had to relocate to Serbia in the first place, but he’s relieved to see that they seem to have been able to carve out a comfortable enough life here, anyway.
Grantaire seems to be thinking along the same lines, telling Eponine she has a nice place.
“It’s home,” she says simply. She leads them to a small dining room, where a myriad of gruesome looking photographs, internet print-outs and files are spread across the table. Enjolras picks a file up at random to examine more closely, and very carefully doesn’t flinch at the crime scene photograph on the first page. The scene is gory and violent and bloody, and he chews the inside of his cheek hard, knowing that they need to kill this thing, whatever it is, as quickly as possible.
He flicks through the rest of the information in the file; documentation from internet forums about supernatural creatures, scanned pages from texts written in Old French, Bible passages that have been highlighted and annotated in cramped writing, presumably Eponine’s, down the margins.
Enjolras has shown up at Watcher’s houses and simply been told “I don’t know what it is, just go kill it” before, so he appreciates the amount of work Eponine has put into this. It’ll make his and Grantaire’s job a lot easier.
“It looks like you’ve done your research,” he says, aiming for complimentary. Once glance at Eponine’s face tells him that it might have verged more on the side of condescending, and he drops his eyes to the file in front of him again. Grantaire makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but Enjolras doesn’t comment.
Eponine reaches for another file and pulls out a series of photographs, laying them out in front of him and Grantaire. They’re crime scene photographs, four different bedrooms. Four innocent people, killed by a monster.
“There have been four murders so far. All gruesome, all in the victim’s bedrooms, all after what appears to have been a sexual encounter.” Eponine’s expression is carefully neutral, which Enjolras appreciates. The only thing worse than a Watcher with no information is a Watcher that can’t hold it together when things get gory. One time, a Watcher had completely fallen apart in the middle of telling him about a case, and Enjolras had to make him tea and rub his back until he calmed down. It had been exceedingly awkward for everyone involved.
“It’s been one attack every couple of weeks; up until this point, it seemed like it could just be a serial killer. But the last crime scene mentioned an odd residue on the body, and the scene, so we pulled a few strings, got it tested, and it came back as sulfur,” Eponine continues.
Enjolras glances at Grantaire, just to find Grantaire already looking back at him.
“Something demonic, then,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire gives a barely perceptible nod of agreement. Eponine nods too.
“We think it’s an incubus,” she says. “Given the sexual nature of the murders. And the sulfur.”
Enjolras nods. It makes sense, and it’s similar to the previous experience Les Amis have had with incubi. It all checks out.
“Well, I mean, we don’t know that it’s an incubus,” Grantaire pipes up. “It could be a succubus. This town doesn’t happen to be a lesbian commune, by any chance?”
Eponine gives Grantaire a blank stare.
“I’m sorry about him,” Enjolras says quickly, shooting a glare at Grantaire, who simply gives him a grin. Enjolras doesn’t know how many times he’s reminded Grantaire that there’s a time and a place for dark humour, but it must be in the hundreds by this point. It must be in his genetic make up, to act contrary to whatever Enjolras says.
Enjolras is capable of having a sense of humour, just…not when it comes to this. He doesn’t know how Grantaire does it. He’s almost envious of his ability to find humour in the fucked up situations they’re confronted with every day.
Eponine shifts a few of the papers on the cramped table around until she unearths a map, opening it and setting it on top of the rest of the mess. She points at the dark green section, circled with red pen, which seems to be denoting a certain section of the forest.
“We think its lair is somewhere in these woods,” she tells them. “There are some tracks, but they’re faint. It seems to have been following the victims back to their homes, rather than taking them to its den.”
“Less cleanup for it that way, I guess,” Grantaire comments, and Enjolras looks at him sharply.
Eponine nods. “And more evidence for us.” Her eyes slide to the crime scene photos briefly, and then she pulls her attention back to the map. “But unfortunately none of it is close to the thing’s actual home base. That’ll be up to you to track down.”
Enjolras and Grantaire lean closer to the map in unison, their heads nearly touching. A curl falls in front of Grantaire’s forehead as he examines it, and Enjolras looks down at the map quickly.
“What are you thinking?” Grantaire mutters.
Enjolras sighs, looking at the section of the forest Eponine has highlighted. “As long as it stays within a specific area, it shouldn’t be too tricky to track down,” he murmurs back, “Especially if we have its tracks as a starting point.”
They step away from the map, and Eponine folds it again and holds it out, Grantaire taking it and slipping it into a jacket pocket.
“You’ve got your directions to the safe house,” she says. Enjolras nods; there’s a small cabin on the border with the forest at the end of the town, which he and Grantaire will be using as a home base until the incubus is dealt with. It won’t be anything impressive, but they don’t need it to be.
“You’ll need these for when you get there, though,” Eponine continues. She pulls a set of keys out of her pocket and throws them at Enjolras, who wasn’t expecting them and so just manages to catch them.
Grantaire snorts and nudges Enjolras in the arm. “You’re losing your edge, Apollo,” he says, “Should I be worried about you?”
Enjolras knows he’s just teasing, but he feels his face flare red with embarrassment despite himself. He looks down at where their arms are still brushing lightly and wishes desperately that this wasn’t the most he was allowed, wishes he could get Grantaire to touch him sincerely.
That line of thought only makes him blush harder, and he looks away from Grantaire quickly, shoving the keys in his pocket and practically running out of the apartment.
Grantaire doesn’t follow him.
Enjolras imagines he’s still talking to Eponine, so he goes to wait by the car, leaning against the edge of the bonnet, unwilling to get into the car to wait after such a long drive. He breathes deeply and looks up at a night sky dotted with stars, wondering how much longer Grantaire is going to be.
The back of his neck prickles.
Enjolras whips around, his hand immediately dropping to his knife. The town is empty and silent, the few stores shuttered and closed for the night, the only light from Eponine and Gavroche’s inn and a few of the apartments.
Enjolras breathes slowly, straining to listen for any unusual sounds, trying to see through the darkness. After a moment, he scoffs at himself and takes his hand off the knife. All the hunting is making him paranoid, apparently.
He turns around again just in time for Grantaire to join him. He frowns when he sees his expression, glancing over Enjolras’ shoulders. “Everything okay?”
“I-” Enjolras starts, and then hesitates and shakes his head. “Yeah. I thought I heard- But no, everything’s okay. I think I’m just tired.”
Grantaire hums thoughtfully, staring around the square with narrowed eyes. He seems to dismiss the thought of danger in the same way Enjolras had, his shoulders losing some tension.
“Want me to drive?” he asks.
Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s only around five minutes away. On the edge of the forest.”
“Fine,” Grantaire opens the door to the passenger side and gets in, Enjolras doing the same on the driver’s side. “Lead us to our luxury five star accommodation, Apollo.”
***
The cabin they pull up outside is definitely not deserving of a five star rating, but it’s also not the worst place they’ve stayed by any means. It’s almost nice, if sparsely furnished, just a sofa and rickety-looking kitchen table and two chairs. There’s two doors, presumably to a bedroom and bathroom.
“You’d think they could at least spare a little time to decorate,” Grantaire says from behind him, and Enjolras can hear the poorly-disguised distaste in his voice. It’s always surprising to Enjolras how much Grantaire likes to focus on the aesthetics of things; Enjolras sees the safehouse as a means to an end, but apparently the cabin has fallen short of Grantaire’s standards.
“It’s a safehouse, R,” he reminds Grantaire, his lips twitching despite himself, because he likes this about Grantaire; likes that he wants to see the beauty in something as inconsequential as their sleeping arrangements.
“That doesn’t mean it can’t look good,” Grantaire responds, and there’s a soft thump as he sets his luggage down. “Honestly, if they didn’t want to spring for the full bearskin rug, they could have at the very least put up some pictures. Don’t even have to be good pictures. Could just be, like, squirrels. Or trees.”
Enjolras casts a pointed look out the window, and then raises an eyebrow at him. “That seems a bit redundant.”
Grantaire waves a hand dramatically around the room. “All I’m saying is, it’s a missed opportunity. Think of the ambiance, Enj.”
Enjolras chooses not to respond to this, in case he blurts out something dumb, like how he much prefers Enj to Apollo. Instead, he walks to one of the other doors, and opens it to find a plain, yet functional, bathroom. He can hear Grantaire checking that the cabin is secured, which he appreciates.
He closes the bathroom door, and walks to the other door, swinging it open, before stopping in his tracks. The room isn’t bad, especially considering some of the hovels he and Grantaire have stayed in before. It looks comfortable and clean and free of pests. The problem lies more with the fact that-
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, “We might have a small problem.”
“Huh?” Grantaire’s voice calls from the living room. There’s the creak of old floorboards as Grantaire joins him.
“Ah,” he says, sounding amused. “One bed.”
“Most hunters work alone, to be fair,” Enjolras says. It’s something unique about Les Amis as a hunting group- They’re a team, and prefer to work and travel in groups of two, or even three, if it’s possible.
You would think the other hunters in the network would have caught on that that’s the reason their death count in their group is so much lower.
“This is true,” Grantaire says. He slaps Enjolras good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Well, don’t worry about it. I can take the couch. Gotta make sure you get your beauty sleep, right?”
“Huh?” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire with confusion. He tries to quirk a smile. “You’re gonna give up on the bed privileges just like that? You’re not even going to debate me for it?” They debate a lot when they’re on the road, about philosophy and history and current events, to pass the time as they move from one city to another, one hunt to another.
But tonight, Grantaire just wrinkles his nose. “Nah, I’m good. It’s pretty late.”
Ah, Enjolras thinks. You’re being annoying.
“Okay,” he says, setting his overnight bag on the floor by the door. “Well. Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Apollo,” Grantaire says, walking back to the couch in the living room. “Get some rest. Big day tomorrow. We’re gonna need it.”
Enjolras gets ready for bed, pleasantly surprised to find an ensuite bathroom behind the other door in the small bedroom, brushing his teeth and eventually climbing between the covers. The bed is cold. It probably hasn’t been used for a while at least, not since the last supernatural creature terrorised the town. He curls onto his side, pulling the covers tight around himself.
Grantaire hadn’t even hesitated when he’d seen the bed. The idea of sharing hadn’t even crossed his mind. It had crossed Enjolras’, not for the first time since they met each other, and he had been about to blurt out the suggestion when Grantaire had intervened and unknowingly shot that idea square in the face.
Or perhaps knowingly.
Enjolras groans and turns onto his stomach. He knows he needs to stop thinking about Grantaire and focus on getting some rest, or he’ll lie awake pining all night and not sleep at all. Hunts on small amounts of sleep don’t tend to go very well.
It’s ironic, he thinks, just before he drifts off. Enjolras fights ghosts and vampires and werewolves and all other kinds of horrible things on a daily basis. And yet, it still seems that the scariest thing in the world would be telling Grantaire just how badly he wants him in here with him, sharing the bed.
***
Considering he and Grantaire had been on the road for nearly two days to get to Serbia, Enjolras would have paid quite a lot of money for a lie-in the morning after. But his responsible hunter instincts win over the version of him that wants to be a lazy bastard, so Enjolras’ alarm goes off at six thirty. He groans into the pillow, batting at it ineffectually with his hand, and eventually rolls himself out of bed, resentful of being awake.
His morning brightens though, when he opens the bedroom door and finds Grantaire sitting at the small kitchen table, carving into the wood with his pen knife, a mug of coffee set beside him. Across from him, another mug sits, steam rising from the surface.
It’s not the best coffee Enjolras has ever had…But he enjoys it nonetheless.
The coffee is also necessary, considering they’ve potentially got a full day of tracking and hunting ahead of them, depending on how elusive the incubus ends up being. After a few minutes of drinking coffee in the quiet of the morning, watching how the sunlight through the window catches in the dark scruff of Grantaire’s beard, Enjolras’ skin starts to itch, the urge to start the hunt too much to ignore, and he drains the rest of his cup before getting to his feet.
Less than an hour later, the two of them are at the start of the trail that leads into the forest, most of their things left back at the cabin, with the exception of their weapons. It’s a nice day, bright and breezy, and Enjolras takes a deep breath in. When he lets it out, he notices Grantaire is looking at him, a bemused expression on his face.
“Well,” Enjolras says, “We’re not going to find it standing here.” He starts walking into the forest, Grantaire falling into step with him a moment later.
“How long do you think it’s going to take?” he asks.
Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Why? Do you have somewhere to be?”
“Nope,” Grantaire smiles brightly. “I’m just wondering how far into ‘One thousand bottles of beer on the wall’ I could get before we find this thing.”
“I have a knife, you know,” is all Enjolras says in response, and the sound of Grantaire’s laugh echoing through the trees makes him smile too, despite the early morning.
***
At this point in their hunting partnership, he and Grantaire have a well established routine. Enjolras can handle himself well enough in a fight with most monsters, especially if he has a knife, but Grantaire is something else entirely- He’s stronger and faster than Enjolras, for one, and his fighting style is often more streamlined, less clumsy, than Enjolras’. It’s actually kind of beautiful to watch him in action, but it’s also generally the wrong time to get distracted, so Enjolras doesn’t see it a lot.
Therefore, it’s Enjolras’ responsibility to find the things in the first place.
Right now, he’s staring, narrow-eyed, at some tracks in the dirt. Annoyingly, this is the forest’s main hiking trail, and so it’s covered in a wide array of footprints, and it’s highly unlikely that all of them have been left by an incubus, even if it was shape-shifting before seeking out its’ victims. There’s too many footprints, and not enough victims.
They keep walking, and when the trail splits, Enjolras leads Grantaire down the less travelled route, deeper into the forest. It’s still covered in some hiker’s footprints, but eventually it proves to be the right call, as, forty-five minutes into this new route, Enjolras spots faint, but distinctive, claw-like shapes on the trail.
He looks at Grantaire, giving him a grim smile, and Grantaire nods, impressed.
“How did you know it was down this trail in the first place?” he asks Enjolras as they step carefully over fallen trees and debris. This path, if it can even be called that, is nowhere near as well maintained as the original route.
“It seemed quieter,” Enjolras says distractedly, too busy examining interesting marks on a nearby tree. He dismisses them a few seconds later; not an incubus.
“Huh?”
Enjolras turns to Grantaire, and nods up at the canopy of trees above them. “Look up.”
Grantaire narrows his eyes at him, but does it. After a moment, he says, “What exactly am I looking for?”
“Exactly,” Enjolras says, and he has to hold back a laugh when Grantaire gives him a skeptical look.
"You know the way people say animals can tell when there's an earthquake or a tsunami coming, and when you see birds flying away you should run in the same direction?" Enjolras says. "It's the same kind of principle here. When there's an apex predator in the forest, all other animals will run from it. And as you get closer to its lair you'll realise there's no animal tracks, no birdsong. It's silent, because the only thing in this part of the forest is you and the monster."
When he looks at Grantaire, he's looking back at him with a bemused expression on his face.
"Well, Apollo, you're a weird one," he says. "But you're fucking good at this."
Enjolras tries and fails not to blush at the compliment. He turns away quickly, so Grantaire won’t see it.
"So," Grantaire asks him, a while later. "Ever hunted one of these bad boys before?"
"Once," Enjolras replies. "There was one a few years ago in Amsterdam. Bahorel and I took care of it." He remembers it well. The thing had been terrorising the red light district, an easy target if ever there was one, and he and Bahorel had ended up spending a lot of their time there. At one point, one of the women in the window had waved at Enjolras, tried to get him to come into her establishment, and Enjolras had gone so red he's rivaled the red lights on the buildings surrounding them. Bahorel had laughed so hard he cried.
There’s a small pause, and then Grantaire breathes deeply and says, “Yikes,” quietly.
That’s an understatement. The memory makes the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, but he manages to give Grantaire the best smile he can manage. “Yes, yikes.” The thought of that hunt makes a wave of exhaustion wash over him suddenly; yes, this is their job, but it had been a tough hunt that time, and he really doesn’t want to deal with anything that complicated and messy again.
Enjolras scrubs a hand across his face, trying to push the stress away. He’s calmer after that, and lowers it, saying simply, “We need to kill it as quickly as possible. It won’t stop until it gets bored, or it’s killed. This town has really gotten the short end of the stick, getting stuck with an incubus in their woods.”
“I dunno,” Grantaire says lightly as they continue along the trail. “Honestly, out of all the things we see on a daily basis, a sex demon kind of feels like one of the best ways to go.”
Enjolras stops in his tracks. Grantaire keeps walking for a second, not seeming to notice that Enjolras is staring, open-mouthed, at his back.
He can’t-
Surely he can’t be serious?
“What?” Grantaire asks casually, as if he hasn’t just said the most batshit insane thing imaginable. Maybe Enjolras has misheard him? It seems more likely than the alternative.
He frowns. “Are you honestly saying you’d like to fall prey to a sex demon?” he asks slowly.
Grantaire turns to look at him, a smirk on his face, and asks, “Are you saying you’d rather be torn apart by a fucking werewolf, or something?”
Enjolras has absolutely no ambitions to be torn apart by a werewolf. He knows, of course he does, that this is what Grantaire does- He makes stupid, off-colour jokes to get a reaction, and Enjolras seems to be his favourite target for this behaviour. It’s been a while since the last time though, and to Enjolras’ great annoyance, he can already feel anger bubbling lowly beneath the surface of his skin. All the time they’ve spent together, and Grantaire can still so easily get a rise from him.
Grantaire seems to have realised that he’s touched a nerve. He’s holding his hands up placatingly, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal.
“Look,” he says, “I’m not trying to, like, minimise the damage the incubus has done, but…at least this way you get something out of your own death, y’know?” He shrugs, and then, to Enjolras’ disbelief, smiles and wiggles his eyebrows, like this is still some joke they’re both in on. “Call it a ‘happy ending’, if you will.”
Enjolras takes a deep breath through his nose, trying to get himself under control.
“I won’t,” he manages to bite out. “And you shouldn’t either.”
He starts walking again, storming past Grantaire in silence before he can say something he’ll regret. His feet crunch leaves and fallen branches under them, and he’s dimly aware he’s making a bit of a racket, but he’ll also make a racket if he yells himself hoarse at Grantaire, so.
“C’mon, Enj,” Enjolras hears Grantaire say, his footsteps hurried as he follows him. “It was a joke. I wasn’t trying to-”
Enjolras stops in the path and whips around, so suddenly that Grantaire nearly crashes full speed into his back. He takes a step back, his eyes wide as he looks at Enjolras.
“How can you say that?!” he shouts, “Four people, dead. How can you possibly want to joke about that?!”
“I was trying to, I don’t know-” Grantaire starts, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I wanted to cheer you up. You looked stressed, and I just thought if I lightened the conversation-”
Enjolras snorts disbelievingly, turning away from Grantaire, back to the trail. “You thought wrong. Nothing new there.” He regrets it the moment he says it, but he’s angry, losing control of his filter and blurting out whatever he thinks will annoy Grantaire, because this goes both ways; if he wants to get a rise out of Grantaire, the same way Grantaire got a rise out of him, he can.
There’s a pause, and then Grantaire says, “Right,” bluntly, the word containing more vitriol than Enjolras has heard from him in a while.
Which is what he wanted. Of course.
The silence between the two of them is frosty as they continue along the trail, their companionship from this morning long gone. Enjolras tries to concentrate on looking for the signs of an incubus, but he’s angry and unfocused. His brain keeps circling back to Grantaire’s words; it feels like one of the best ways to go. He wonders if Grantaire really thinks that, who is special enough to him that he would be happy to die by the hand of a creature masquerading as them.
Enjolras sighs heavily. He has a pretty good idea of who it isn’t, anyway.
“What’s the plan now, Apollo?” Grantaire’s voice cuts through his thoughts, sarcastic and snippy. Enjolras normally doesn’t really mind Apollo, he only ever protests half-heartedly about it, but he hates when Grantaire says it like that; like he’s forcing a false sense of superiority on Enjolras. Like he’s making fun of him.
“What?” he snaps, before he realises what Grantaire is referring to. They’re at the end of the trail now, and it’s split into two separate paths; one continues along their current path, the other is a sort of unofficial secondary path, a hole through the trees, tapering off downhill into the forest.
Enjolras looks between the two, managing to push his annoyance to the side enough that he can actually concentrate. The path into the forest looks largely undisturbed, whereas the trail they’re currently on is covered in old footprints, the surface uneven and messy.
Enjolras inclines his head up the trail, keeping them on their current trajectory. “This way.” He starts walking up the path without another word, adjusting his backpack as he walks.
“Hey! Wait!” Grantaire calls behind him.
Enjolras sighs heavily, just barely resisting the urge to bang his head off the nearest tree trunk. “What, Grantaire?”
When he turns, Grantaire is unmoving, standing still at the place where the two paths separate.
“I think we should go this way,” he says, pointing down the other path.
Enjolras clenches his jaw, unable to understand why exactly Grantaire is making this particular hunt so difficult. “Do you?”
Grantaire raises an eyebrow coolly, maintaining eye contact with Enjolras. “Yeah, I do.”
Enjolras looks down the trail warily. It’s a sharp, downhill drop to the lower part of the forest, littered with heavy debris and fallen trees. Enjolras begrudgingly admits to himself that it would be good for an incubus wishing to remain undetected, but following the path forged by humans would give it the advantage, hunting-wise, allowing it to pick out its next victim from the cover of the trees.
He makes a decision. “Well, I think it’s this way,” he says, pointing up the trail again. Anger curls in his stomach again, and he bites out, “And frankly, I trust my judgement more than yours.”
Grantaire blinks, recoiling slightly from Enjolras’ words. Then suddenly his face settles into a scowl, and he snaps out, “Fine. If you want to go that way, be my fucking guest. But I’m going this way.”
Enjolras scoffs. “Fine. It’s not like you’re going to make yourself useful if you come with me, anyway. So this is probably better.”
The forest is silent then, apart from the rustling of tree leaves. Enjolras instantly wishes he could pull the words he’d said back into his mouth; it was unnecessarily callous and cruel, and Grantaire doesn’t deserve that, even if he is being irritating.
He’s staring at Enjolras, silent, an unreadable expression on his face, and Enjolras feels his own face heat up, the anger inside him giving way to shame and embarrassment.
“Grantaire-” Enjolras starts weakly, but Grantaire interrupts him with a snort, hoisting his backpack higher up his shoulder.
“Whatever, Apollo,” he snaps, turning down the path he’d suggested, into the dense forest. “I’ll see you back at the safe house. Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
Enjolras stares at his retreating figure for a moment, and then scowls at nothing, and says “Fine,” to himself, turning his back to him and starting up the hiking trail again. There’s a small, nagging voice in the back of his head that sounds remarkably like Combeferre, reminding him that the two of them splitting up is a bad idea, that they’re supposed to be a team, they’re supposed to be looking out for each other.
Enjolras sighs, shaking his head to shake Combeferre’s disapproving voice away, reminding himself that Grantaire and he have split up on their hunts plenty of times before, especially in their early days of working together, when they spent most of their time at each other’s throats. They haven’t had a fight like that in a while, and the anger sticks with Enjolras as he continues along the trail. A little at Grantaire, but mostly at himself.
Eventually, he’s able to concentrate on the hunt again, walking along the trail for several more hours, scanning the edge of the forest with his eyes, examining any animal markings he sees, looking for mysterious footprints along the trail, perhaps leading off the path into the trees, where the incubus will undoubtedly be nesting. It’s surprisingly ineffective, not yielding results of any kind, and, to make things worse, heavy storm clouds are forming overhead, a chill in the wind making him shiver and adjust his jacket. He doubles his efforts, knowing that a rainstorm could potentially cause any evidence to wash away. But it’s to no avail. He reaches the end of the trail, the path leading out to a picturesque viewpoint, the whole forest visible, stretching in front of him for miles.
Enjolras sighs, biting his lip in frustration as he stares out at the view. He probably missed something when he was huffing; he’ll have to start back down the path, and be more observant this time.
Enjolras eventually has to admit defeat when the sky gets dark, and before long torrential rain is making it impossible to see five feet in front of him, never mind find an incubus and its lair.
“Seriously?” he grumbles, and there’s a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning moments later. Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns back, heading in the direction of the start of the trail, back to the safehouse. He supposes it’s not cutting that much time off his hunting anyway; night is starting to fall, and Enjolras isn’t stupid enough to hunt by himself in the dark.
Night has truly fallen, and the rain hasn’t eased off by the time he’s squelched his way to the front door of the cabin, and by then all he wants is a hot shower and maybe one of the coffees Grantaire had made that morning before they left.
Admittedly, that coffee had been pretty bad. Enjolras’ enjoyment of it probably had more to do with the fact that Grantaire had made it for him.
To his surprise, when Enjolras opens the door, the cabin looks exactly the same way that they’d left it this morning. Grantaire hasn’t been back yet. He looks around the empty space, and calls out “Grantaire?” hesitantly, even though there’s not really anywhere to hide.
Sure enough, no one answers him. Enjolras looks out the window, still being pelted with rain, with a frown; surely Grantaire isn’t still hunting in this weather? In the dark? Even Enjolras has backed down by now, and he is famously bad at admitting defeat.
Enjolras’ fingers are frozen and clumsy as he takes his phone out of his pocket, calling Grantaire. The phone rings and rings, and eventually goes to voicemail.
Enjolras sighs, rolls his eyes, and tries again. It goes to voicemail again.
God, why is Grantaire like this?
Enjolras huffs in frustration and decides Grantaire’s location can at least wait until he’s had a shower and changed out of his wet clothes.
By the time he’s finished in the shower and changed into the sweatpants and jumper he wears on his hunting downtime, he has a message from Grantaire.
Don’t worry. I’m in the bar. Be back later.
Enjolras sighs, and very bravely sets his phone down on the kitchen counter as opposed to writing back something sarcastic and snippy. Trust Grantaire to find a bar in a town with a population of less than three thousand. Of course, he’s probably just doing it to avoid having to be around Enjolras for a bit longer. Things have been remarkably and wonderfully civil between them for months, and Enjolras can’t help but mourn the loss of that in the face of their most recent fall-out.
As well as that, without Grantaire, Enjolras quickly feels the boredom setting in. He checks their car for their emergency provisions- Spare clothes and backpacks for both of them, spare weapons, extra food and water, a first aid kit. It’s all there, of course, because Combeferre is nothing if not thorough.
After a while, Enjolras unenthusiastically lifts one of the microwave meals they’d brought with them out of the fridge, and eats it while reading a book at the kitchen table in silence. Normally, Grantaire has a lot of comments to make about their microwave meals, sometimes about the flavour profiles but mostly about how they’re both going to end up malnourished due to lack of vitamins. The last time this had happened, Enjolras had quipped that Grantaire could do the cooking if he was so concerned about their diet, and Grantaire had given him a grin and promised to have him round for a gourmet three course meal next time they were in Paris for longer than a day.
Enjolras rolls his eyes to himself. Idiot.
He pulls out his phone and texts Grantaire. Make sure you get something to eat. You can’t hunt on an empty stomach. He’s not expecting a response.
Enjolras cleans up from dinner, and finds himself flicking through the case files on the incubus out of sheer boredom. They don’t tell him anything new, obviously, but he studies the map of the forest for a long time, frowning and trying to work out where exactly he had gone wrong on the trail today. When he eventually stops agonising over it for long enough to check the time, he’s shocked to see that it’s past midnight. Grantaire has been away for hours. If he’s hungover tomorrow, Enjolras is going to kill him.
It’s now late enough that Enjolras is starting to get worried, and considering getting dressed and going out to find whatever bar Grantaire has fallen into himself, when there’s a rattling of the door and Grantaire stumbles his way in.
Their eyes meet. Grantaire looks fine- if soaked to the skin from the rain- not even that drunk, and he smiles at Enjolras as he shuts and bolts the door behind him.
“Hey,” he says casually.
“Hi,” Enjolras says back. And then, because he can’t hold it in any longer. “Where have you been all night?”
Grantaire laughs slightly, shrugging off his jacket and sliding into the chair opposite him.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he says, sounding slightly awed, as though he barely believes it himself. “But I killed the incubus.”
“What?”
“Right? I was just starting to head back here from the forest- I hadn’t found shit on the trail I went down, so you were right, it must live up the one you went on- and the thing fucking attacks me out of no where. Caught me off guard a little bit, but I managed to take it down.”
Enjolras stares at him disbelievingly. “But I- You-” he stutters, and then finally manages to force out, “You should have called me!”
Grantaire laughs. “For what? It was already dead. No point dragging you out of this nice cosy cabin to the rain.”
Enjolras frowns. “I could have helped with the clean up.”
Grantaire smiles, and to Enjolras’ surprise he rests a hand on top of Enjolras’ where it sits on the tabletop.
“Enjolras, it’s fine, ” he insists, “The clean up didn’t take that long. Believe it or not, I am capable of hiding an incubus body.”
Enjolras feels his cheeks going red, as the memories of the shitty things he’d said to Grantaire during their fight come flooding back to him. He pulls his hand away from Grantaire’s, folding his arms and looking away, out of one of the windows.
“I know,” he mumbles. “Of course you are. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Grantaire says.
“But-” Something is nagging at the back of Enjolras’ mind, something about timelines and the late hour that doesn’t quite match up. “I thought you said you went to the bar.”
Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah, after I killed the damn thing. Thought I’d go for a few celebratory drinks, you know?”
And oh, that hurts a bit. Normally, they celebrate the end of a case by going over case notes, calling the town’s watcher, calling Les Amis to let them know they’re officially out of danger, and, if they have time, they’ll get a celebratory takeout and eat it sitting on their respective beds, watching some shitty reality TV in a language neither of them speak to unwind. It’s not as fun or exciting as going to a bar with a bunch of strangers, but…Enjolras had thought Grantaire liked their routine.
You said some horrible things to him earlier, he thinks, Are you really that surprised that he wanted to avoid you?
“Well,” he says after a prolonged pause. “I guess I’ll call Combeferre then. Let him know we’ll be heading back tomorrow.”
Grantaire frowns at Enjolras for a moment, as if he’s confused by what he’s saying. His expression clears after a second, and he shakes his head.
“Nah, just leave it until tomorrow morning,” he says. “It’s late, and the incubus is already dead. It doesn’t matter if we call him now or tomorrow.”
Enjolras hums in agreement. It’s fair enough. Combeferre can wait.
“Are you injured?” he asks. “Need me to look over anything?”
“Nope,” Grantaire says, and, when Enjolras raises an eyebrow in disbelief, he rolls his eyes and elaborates. “A couple of cuts and bruises. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.” He stands, grinning, and Enjolras prays that he hasn’t noticed the blush he can feel rising on his face. “I’m going to have a shower. Are you going to wait here for me?”
Enjolras shakes his head, still stinging slightly with the rejection of not being part of Grantaire’s post-hunt routine. “No, I guess I’ll just head to bed.” He looks Grantaire up and down, and forces a laugh. “I have to say, you look very clean for someone who single-handedly took on an incubus.”
Grantaire shrugs, and there’s something strange about his expression that Enjolras can’t quite place. Maybe his cuts and bruises are hurting more than he’s letting on.
“The rain washed most of the blood and mud away, I guess,” he says, and he grabs his sleep clothes from last night, sitting folded on the couch. Before Enjolras can say anything else, he disappears into the bathroom, and there’s the sound of the shower running.
Huh. Okay. Enjolras shrugs and stands from the table, going to the bedroom and starting to get ready for bed himself.
Enjolras hasn’t been lying in the bed for long, maybe about ten minutes, when the door of his room creaks open, a thin crack of light piercing through the darkness.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras mumbles, half-asleep, as he walks into the bedroom and stands beside Enjolras’ bed.
“Hey,” Grantaire says, and suddenly the covers of the bed are being pulled back, and there’s a dip in the mattress as Grantaire climbs in, and Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat. “You mind if I take the bed? That couch is murder on my back.”
Enjolras has a vague recollection of Grantaire saying it was the comfiest couch he’d ever slept on, but maybe he’d been lying to stop Enjolras from feeling bad for taking the bed. He does things like that.
Either way, Enjolras doesn’t mind. He’s sure his back can handle one night on the couch, although he wishes Grantaire had just asked outright rather than being so weirdly abrupt about it.
“Where are you going?” Grantaire asks when Enjolras pulls the covers back.
Enjolras frowns. “To the couch?”
“Hey, no,” Grantaire’s hand curls around Enjolras’ wrist, gently pulling him back into the bed. “We can share for one night without anything bad happening, right?”
No, if the way Enjolras’ heart feels like it’s going to beat itself out of his chest is any indication. But he leans back against the pillows, turning on his side to face away from Grantaire, staring at the wall, and resigns himself to a night of trying desperately not to let himself get too close.
“Yeah,” he says quietly into the darkness. “Yeah, we can handle one night.”
“Good,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras doesn’t know how long he’s lying there for, but at some point he knows his eyelids are starting to droop, and can feel himself starting to relax, his breathing evening. It had been a long day after all, what with all the hiking.
At first, Enjolras thinks the hand that settles heavy on his hip is an accident as Grantaire shifts. The t-shirt he sleeps in has risen up slightly where he's lying, and Enjolras flinches when Grantaire's hand, surprisingly cold, brushes against his bare skin. He goes still, and waits for Grantaire to move away again.
He doesn't, and Enjolras freezes, because Grantaire's hand has wrapped around him, now caressing his stomach, and Grantaire has shifted closer, his chest against Enjolras' back, his hips pressed tight to him.
He's sleeping. Surely, he has to be sleeping, and hasn't realised how close he's gotten. That's the obvious explanation.
"Enjolras," Grantaire whispers, his voice rough, and there's a press of cold lips to the exposed skin of the back of his neck.
Enjolras wriggles out of Grantaire's grasp, switching the bedside light on. Grantaire squints at the sudden bright light, blinking up at him. He's wearing a loose shirt as well, the fabric pulled down to expose one collar bone, and the sight is very distracting.
Enjolras swallows. "Grantaire, what are you doing?"
Grantaire blinks against the light again, looking confused, and then he smirks slightly, leaning up on one elbow.
"C'mon, Enj," he says, sounding exasperated. "I've just single-handedly killed an incubus."
"So?" Enjolras says, confused.
" So ," Grantaire says, as if it's obvious. "Haven't you ever wanted to blow off some steam after a hunt? Work some of the tension out? There must have been one of our friends you’ve slept with after, surely."
No. I haven’t slept with anyone else because I’ve never wanted anyone else. It's always been you. Only you.
"I-" Enjolras starts. Of course he’s ‘worked some tension out’, as Grantaire puts it, after a hunt. But alone , in bed or in the shower. Never with anyone. "I mean, I guess. But- But we don't do that."
"Oh," Grantaire blinks, and for a second Enjolras is sure he looks hurt by that. "Have you never thought about it? Doing that with me?"
God. Sometimes it feels like it's the only thing he thinks about, as he tightens a hand around himself and bites his lip so he doesn't accidentally yell out Grantaire's name as he comes. And then reality sets in again, and he tries not to think about the impossibility of it all while he cleans himself up.
"I'm not saying that," Enjolras' mouth says without permission.
Grantaire blinks, and then he grins. He sits up properly in bed, and shifts somehow closer to Enjolras, reaching up with one hand and curling his fingers into Enjolras' hair. They're so close their foreheads are almost touching, breathing shallowly into each other's mouths.
"Do you want me?" Grantaire asks, and his lips brush against Enjolras' with every word.
" Yes ," Enjolras breathes, heady with how close Grantaire is to him. He's wanted for so long, and Grantaire is right there in front of him, looking at him with those blue eyes, and-
He swallows thickly as common sense kicks in again. "I just- I don't think this is a good idea-"
"Oh darling," Grantaire says, his fingers tightening in Enjolras' hair, sending shivers up and down his spine. "Stop thinking for a while. Just let me make you feel good."
He closes the distance, their lips meeting. Enjolras has thought about kissing these lips so many times that he's lost count. They feel different than he expected- They're cold, like his hands, and slightly chapped.
The kiss turns hungry almost immediately. Grantaire takes his hand from Enjolras' hair and caresses his jaw line, before tightening his thumb on the hinge and making his mouth open. Enjolras makes a frankly embarrassing sound as Grantaire's tongue snakes inside, his hands gripping hard to his shoulders as the two of them slide down the bed together, Grantaire's weight heavy on top of him. Grantaire forces a leg between both of Enjolras', and the friction of their two bodies together feels wonderful. Enjolras whimpers into Grantaire's mouth as they move together slowly, thinking only Yes yes yes. Finally.
Grantaire breaks the kiss, and there's a small noise of loss from Enjolras' throat as he moves away. Grantaire grins down at him, the pupils of his eyes so wide they look almost completely black, just a thin ring of blue around the pupil.
"Sorry, honey," he says, before tugging purposefully at the edge of Enjolras' t-shirt, "But sit up, and I'll make it worth your while."
Enjolras sits up and helps Grantaire pull his t-shirt over his head, chucking it to a far corner of the room. Grantaire kisses him hungrily again, and this time Enjolras pulls away first, reaching for Grantaire's shirt.
"You too," he says, but Grantaire says "Ah ah ah," quickly, and wraps his hands around Enjolras' wrists before he can get his hands on the shirt.
"Relax," he says, pressing Enjolras back against the cushions again, his weight back on top, still holding Enjolras’ wrists. His nose trails along the skin of his cheek, and goosebumps break out all over Enjolras' skin when he whispers in his ear, "This is all about you, darling. I’ll have my fun later. Let’s make you feel good first, hm?”
“I-okay,” Enjolras breathes. Grantaire’s teeth nip lightly at his neck, and Enjolras jolts a little in his arms. It’s not like he has a wide pool of reference, but Enjolras doesn’t know if teeth always feel that…sharp.
Despite the wonderful feeling of Grantaire’s ministrations on his neck, his jaw, his ears and chest, there’s a dark sense of foreboding creeping up Enjolras’ spine, an undeniable feeling of wrongness.
Why now? Grantaire and he have been on hundreds of hunts together at this point, gone through their post-hunt rituals completely separately night after night. There’s never even been so much as a suggestion of something like this between them, no long looks or skin-on-skin contact that lasted a bit too long.
Because Grantaire doesn’t feel that way about him. Grantaire is his friend, and Enjolras will love him from a distance, and that’s the way it’s always been, the way it’s always going to be.
Enjolras’ blood freezes in his veins.
It’s so obvious.
This isn’t Grantaire.
This isn’t Grantaire.
You were hunting an incubus, you fucking idiot.
Grantaire- Not Grantaire, the thing posing as Grantaire- pauses, where he’d been sucking a mark into the skin below Enjolras’ collar bone. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Enjolras says, proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake. He makes a physical effort to unfurl himself, where his body has tensed automatically against the danger, while he tries to think about how he can possibly get out of this alive.
The incubus makes a satisfied noise, almost a purr, into Enjolras’ shoulder.
“That’s it, just relax for me,” it whispers. “I’m going to make you feel so good.” Its hands, Grantaire’s wonderful artist hands, except they’re not, run lightly down his sides, making him shiver for an entirely different reason.
That’s why it won’t let you take off its shirt, he thinks chillingly, It knows Grantaire’s anti-possession tattoo is on his hip. It knows you would notice.
Oh God, Grantaire. Where is he? Is he even still alive? Is Grantaire lying in a ditch in the forest somewhere, bleeding out, injured, wondering where Enjolras is, wondering if he’s looking for him, while Enjolras lies in bed and grinds against the creature that’s posing as him?
Enjolras’ breaths start coming in frantic huffs, despite strictly telling himself to calm down, and it’s enough to make the incubus pause again. It draws away, looking down at him suspiciously, the same concerned frown Grantaire gets when he’s worried on his face.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” it asks. “You seem a bit-”
“Yeah,” Enjolras interrupts, seizing onto the idea that has just occurred to him, hoping that the breathless tone of his voice can be mistaken for arousal, rather than panic. “I just- I want to try something? If that’s okay?”
The incubus blinks, and then it smirks, that same smirk Grantaire gets on his face when teasing Enjolras.
“Yeah, of course,” it says, voice smooth like honey, “We can try anything you want.”
Enjolras nods, and tries not to think too hard about what he has to do next. Smoothly, like he does it every day, he wraps one leg around the incubus’ waist and flips the two of them, so he’s on top, straddling its lap. Enjolras has thought about doing this exact thing, this reversing of their positions, with Grantaire before. But of course the context is wildly different there, and doesn’t quite inspire the same fear and urge to vomit that he’s feeling right now.
The incubus looks up at him, mirth in its eyes and a teasing grin on its face.
“Wow,” it says with just a hint of laughter in its voice, “I didn’t expect you to be so-”
Before it can finish its sentence, Enjolras reaches out to the bedside table for his knife, his hunter instincts knowing where it is without him having to look for it, and, lightening fast, holds it tightly to the incubus’ throat.
“Where is he?” he hisses.
The incubus’ eyes widen, trying to struggle out from underneath him but unable to get far with the knife pressed so hard against it. “What the fuck? Enjolras, get off me. Stop fucking around.”
If possible, Enjolras tightens his grip on the knife, pressing it even closer against the creature’s throat. “ Where. Is. He .” he grits out, his voice shaky with anger.
Enjolras expects more denial, more lies and deception, so he’s surprised when the incubus simply relaxes in his hold, smiling up at him serenely.
“If you kill me,” it tells him calmly, “You’ll never find him.”
Enjolras feels goosebumps break out on the skin of his arms and the back of his neck. He ignores them, taking a steadying breath and clenching his jaw.
“I will,” he promises. “We were close today, right? That’s how you were able to find us. And then when we were alone, you-” He has to pause then, swallowing. Why the fuck did the two of them split up, even if they were fighting? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The incubus snorts. “Oh, please. I’d been following the two of you since you started out on your little hike this morning. But I will admit, one of you did eventually start stumbling in the right direction.” It grins, and the sight of Grantaire’s bright, easy smile has Enjolras grinding his teeth together. “Poor Grantaire, he practically walked right into my lair. I guess he’s not as useless as you think after all.”
“I don’t think that,” Enjolras spits, and he doesn’t want to ask the next question, but he needs to know, he has to, even if the answer might tear his heart to pieces. “Have you killed him already?”
The incubus shakes its head, and Enjolras feels weak with relief.
“Not yet,” it says. “I had to…incapacitate him, so he couldn’t burst in on us in the middle of all the fun we were having.” It smiles wider, and Enjolras has to resist the urge to stab the thing in the throat. "I wanted to make sure you and I could get acquainted first. Grantaire is nice, but you…" The incubus reaches up and trails a finger slowly down Enjolras' neck, and Enjolras shoves it away forcibly.
"Don't fucking touch me," he snaps. He's coldly aware that he's still shirtless, that there's a bruise blooming on his collarbone and probably more on his neck. He pushes the thoughts away- he can deal with all that later- and grabs a fistful of the incubus' hair, forcing it to look up and meet his eyes. "Just tell me where Grantaire is, so I don't have to deal with you anymore."
The incubus' eyes glint. "Why do you even want him back?" It asks, totally relaxed, its voice almost languid. It draws its- Grantaire's - bottom lip into its mouth, and then releases. "I could be him for you, if you want. Look at me, Enjolras. I look just like him, I sound just like him." It brings its hand up again, and Enjolras, frozen in terror, doesn't move as it runs it lightly down his side, stopping at his hip bone, tracing small circles back and forth on his bare skin with his thumb.
"I can be anything you want," the incubus says, "I can do anything you want." It smiles, Grantaire's soft, crooked smile, but there's something sinister about it now. "You need only ask."
Enjolras shakes his head, forcing himself to snap out of it. He doesn't know if the incubus has some sort of magic, or if it's just very persuasive, but he isn't going to be fooled by it a second time.
He grabs the incubus' wrist, yanking its hand off of him and pinning it under his knee, and digs in deeper with the knife at its neck.
“Shut the fuck up,” Enjolras hisses, furious and confused and terrified, although he hopes the incubus doesn’t know that. “You’ll never be him, stop pretending you could ever be him. You’re not even human .” He remembers again, the soft feeling of the thing’s lips on his own, and has to push down the urge to gag.
“I could be useful to you,” it says now, “I could help you with your cause. Who better to hunt monsters than a monster?”
“Why would you ever want to help me?” Enjolras asks, “What could you possibly gain from hunting monsters?”
The incubus doesn’t say anything, just smirks up at him.
Impatient now, Enjolras presses the knife against its throat for emphasis. “Stop wasting my time. Tell me where Grantaire is so I can kill you.”
"And tell me, Enjolras, what could I possibly gain from doing that?" it asks. "I've already told you, if you kill me you'll never find him. You're going to kill me anyway, so why would I make your job easier?" It grins, savage, and for a moment, even with its convincing disguise, it doesn't look wholly human. "Or make Grantaire's death any less painful?"
"I can find him whether you tell me or not," Enjolras says, not sure if he believes it. "So the sooner you tell me, the sooner this is over for all of us." He digs the knife harder into the incubus' throat, beads of blood appearing and rolling sluggishly down its neck. It seems largely unbothered by this, its eyes- a solid black mass now, rather than Grantaire's usual blue, because why try to hide what Enjolras has already unmasked?- focused solely on Enjolras.
"What makes you so sure you can find him?" It asks, and it sounds as though it's curious despite itself.
"I'm stubborn," Enjolras snaps, and the incubus smiles. It looks a lot like it's enjoying itself.
"But it would be easier if I told you, wouldn't it?" It asks, and Enjolras frowns. "It would save time. Get you back to Grantaire that little bit faster. I'm sure you're eager to be reunited with him. You must be worried, considering how much you love him."
The creature seems to be cooperating now, and it puts Enjolras on his guard instantly.
"Yes," he says warily, wondering exactly where the incubus is going with this.
“If you really want to find Grantaire,” it says, “Maybe we can make a deal?”
“I don’t make deals with demons,” Enjolras spits.
To his surprise, the incubus throws its head back and laughs. It laughs long, and hard, and it sends chills down Enjolras’ spine.
Finally, when it stops laughing, it looks back down at Enjolras, grinning.
“Do you normally kiss demons, Enjolras?” it asks, its grin too wide and inhuman for Grantaire’s handsome face. “Do you normally let them fuck you? Because you were going to, if you hadn’t worked it out before then, weren’t you? You wanted it so badly, you almost begged for it. One could say it’s a day of firsts for you, you could add a deal with a demon to the list.”
“I don’t need to make a deal with you,” Enjolras snaps, purposely ignoring any references to sex he may or may not have wanted. “Because you’re going to tell me where Grantaire is, now .”
“I’m not going to tell you,” the incubus responds, almost calm.
“I’ll make you tell me,” he snarls, pressing the knife harder than ever into the incubus’ throat. There's a steady stream of blood pouring down its neck now- if Enjolras cuts any deeper, he would cause some serious damage. But he still wouldn't know where Grantaire is.
“Hm,” it says, like it's discussing the weather. “Torture tends to be pretty time consuming. Are you sure Grantaire has the time for that?”
"What did you do to him?" Enjolras asks, and he has to focus hard on keeping his voice steady.
"A little of this, a little of that. Like I said, he's incapacitated. He won't be going far any time soon." The incubus shrugs. "He's not in any immediate danger, but it's a big forest. And he doesn't have any food or water. Who knows what state he would be in by the time you found him yourself? It might be too late."
So Grantaire isn't in danger of bleeding out any time soon. That's good. That gives Enjolras more time to work with. But it is a big forest, and the incubus seems pretty confident that Enjolras won't find him quickly. He tries not to picture Grantaire holed up in a cave somewhere, in pain and unable to move, starving and becoming more dehydrated by the second. How long can people survive without water? Two days? Three?
He swallows. "What would be the nature of this deal?"
The incubus smiles up at him. "I have a couple of ideas in mind. I would just need some time to decide which is my favourite. But there'd be plenty of time to think about it while I brought you to Grantaire."
Enjolras takes a second just to breathe in deeply, biting the inside of his cheek. He could lie, he figures. He could lie, and promise the incubus some sort of deal so it will take him to Grantaire, and then find a way to worm out of it. He doesn’t need to feel bad or weird or guilty about going back on the deal. The thing was planning on having sex with him and then killing and eating him, after all.
Enjolras feels like he can almost hear Grantaire’s voice in his head. Goddammit, Apollo, it’s a fucking incubus. You don’t have to keep your promises to a literal demon. Tell it you’re going to honor the deal, and then stab the thing in the throat.
“Fine,” Enjolras says, “Fine. I’ll make a deal with you. When, ” he says, because the incubus had started grinning when Enjolras spoke. “ When you take me to Grantaire. You take me to him, let me make sure he’s safe, and then we can make a deal.”
The incubus scowls. When Grantaire scowls, his nose always scrunches up in a way that Enjolras has always found very endearing, and he has to strictly tell himself to stay focused. This isn’t really Grantaire, after all.
“What makes you think you’re in a position to make demands?” it asks, its voice flinty.
“What makes you think you are?” Enjolras counters. “I’m the one holding a knife to your throat.”
The incubus glares up at him for a few more seconds, and then it sighs, resigned. “Fine. I’ll take you to your Grantaire. Then we’ll make a deal.”
"Great," Enjolras says. It isn't really, it's a fucking nightmare scenario right now, but it's the best he can do. He becomes aware that he's still straddling the incubus, and scrambles off it with as much dignity as he can muster, standing and glaring at it from the side of the bed. He feels like he lost his dignity a while ago, but he's determined not to think about it right now. "Let's go."
The incubus sits up on the bed, leaning its forearms against its knees. It wipes the back of its hand across its neck, smearing the blood from the wound caused by Enjolras' knife. It looks Enjolras up and down in amusement.
"Are you planning to go for a midnight walk through the forest looking like that?" It asks, its eyes catching on Enjolras' bare chest. "Don't get me wrong, it's a very pretty sight, but-"
"Stand." Enjolras interrupts with a scowl. When the incubus stands, he motions with the point of his knife to the bedroom door. "Living room, now."
The incubus nods calmly, and Enjolras keeps his eyes trained on its back as he follows it out of the room, keeping his distance. He's relieved once they're both in the living room and he's within reach of his knife belt, with his silver knife. A regular steel knife is enough to incapacitate a demon, but silver will kill it. He tries not to look too eager when he snatches the belt up.
"Well?" The incubus asks.
Enjolras ignores it in favour of walking to the kitchen cupboards, starting to rummage through with one hand while keeping his knife secure in the other, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. Hunter safe house kitchens don't tend to be very well stocked, but one thing you are always guaranteed to find is-
The incubus scowls when Enjolras comes back to stand in front of it, holding a container of table salt, and Enjolras can't help but smirk the slightest bit as he draws the smallest possible circle around it, so it's forced to stand in one place.
"I'll be right back," he says. "Until then, it looks like you can't go anywhere."
Enjolras maintains his composure until he makes it back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The incubus can't go anywhere with the salt barrier, so he has ample time to get changed back into his proper hunting clothes, strap on his knife belt, splash some cold water on his face and try to stop his hands from trembling.
You just need to keep it together until you find Grantaire, he thinks at his own pale, worn expression in the mirror. Then you can kill this thing together, and all of this will just feel like a horrible dream.
He splashes his face once more, squares his shoulders and his jaw and leaves the sanctity of the bedroom. The incubus is obviously standing exactly where he left it- If it had tried to step over the salt barrier it would have burst into flame- and it raises an eyebrow coolly when Enjolras comes into the living room.
“Are you finally ready?” it asks.
Enjolras doesn’t answer, just strides forward and kicks the salt at its feet away, creating an opening for it to exit. He has his silver knife clutched tight in his hands, and he takes a sort of cruel, petty pleasure in jabbing the incubus in the lower back with the handle, and seeing it flinch. They really don’t like silver.
“What are you going to ask for?” Enjolras asks, the question borne from a place of morbid curiosity. He’s a short distance behind the incubus, who has its hand on the latch of the front door.
“What?” the incubus asks, and its voice sounds strange, like it’s focused more on something else, like it isn’t paying attention to Enjolras at all.
“What are you going to ask for?” he repeats. “For your deal?”
“What makes you think you’re going to make it that far?” the incubus says.
“Wha-” Enjolras starts, but his words are cut off by the incubus suddenly whirling round and punching him square in the jaw. His head snaps sideways, and there’s a burst of blood and a rattling feeling in his mouth as one of his teeth comes loose. He stumbles, blindsided, but manages not to fall, and his forearm automatically comes up just in time to block a second punch. There’s lights dancing in front of his eyes from the force of the punch, but he ignores them and tries to focus on jabbing his knee into the incubus’ stomach. He’s disorientated, and actually ends up hitting somewhat lower, but the incubus gives a grunt of pain anyway.
It reaches out, eyes flashing, and grabs a fistful of Enjolras’ hair. Without thinking, he sweeps his leg under both of the incubus’, and they fall together, the incubus landing hard on the floor and Enjolras landing hard on top of it.
His knife falls out of his hand in the struggle and skids a few feet away. Fuck.
He maneuvers so he’s straddling the incubus, and before he can think he slams the flat of his palm up and into its nose, feeling the crunch of breaking cartilage under his hand, and then curls the same hand into a fist and slams it into its cheek. Its head snaps sideways, its eyes closed, and Enjolras stares down at it with a kind of savage triumph.
His silver knife is on the floor where he dropped it, a few feet away, and Enjolras reaches for it-
“Enjolras, please,” Grantaire’s voice says.
Enjolras pauses despite himself, looking back at the body under him. The lower half of Grantaire’s face is covered in blood pouring from his nose, and the skin around his left eye is already swelling. But Enjolras can still see the bright blue of both eyes, looking up at him, pleading and wet.
“Enjolras, you’re hurting me,” he says, “Please. I’m sorry.”
Enjolras stares down at him, his hand still frozen in its reach for the knife.
Grantaire looks up at him, and then suddenly he- not he, it- smiles through bloody teeth, and it reaches up, lightening fast, grabbing the hair at the back of Enjolras’ head and smashing its head forward into his nose.
Enjolras gasps as he feels it breaking, and before he has time to react the incubus has flipped their positions, winding him as his back and head slam into the floor hard. It still has an iron grip on Enjolras’ hair, and slams his head backwards into the floor, three times in quick succession. Enjolras sucks air in desperately, trying to ignore the pain. His head snaps sideways to the silver knife, and he lunges for it, but before he can close his hand around it the incubus is on top of him, pinning his wrist to the floor with one foot while hands Enjolras has spent far too long thinking about wrap around his neck and starts squeezing.
He tries desperately to suck in a breath, but he can’t, and the incubus is smiling down at him, blood from his nose dripping onto Enjolras’ face, and he thinks no no no.
“It’s disappointing,” Enjolras hears it say over the sound of his own panicked scrambling on the ground and struggling gasps of air, cut off before he can get it into his lungs, “You are very pretty, and I was looking forward to having you.”
His attempts to unpeel the incubus’ hands from around his neck are useless, so he abandons that, yanking his hand out from under the demon’s foot and trying desperately to reach his knife. His fingers brush it, but it’s not enough to get a solid grab. The edges of his world are starting to go grey.
“Don’t worry,” Enjolras hears the incubus’ voice as though from very far away, “I’ll make sure he knows how much fun I had with you. I’ll come back as you, so he can see your face one more time. Do you think he’d like that, Enjolras?”
Why would you do that, Enjolras thinks over the sound of an echoing roar in his ears, You couldn’t take my form. Grantaire doesn’t want me that way.
His fingers close around the handle of his knife.
Enjolras gathers the last of his strength, and his right hand rears around in an arc and stabs the incubus between the shoulder blades.
The hands are suddenly gone from around his throat as the creature makes an inhuman-sounding scream, and the world rushes back in a surge of technicolour. Enjolras curls onto his side and allows himself ten seconds of hacking, choking gasps and coughs.
Only ten seconds though.
He forces himself into more or less a sitting position. The incubus is on the ground on all fours, growling, the knife sticking up from between its shoulder blades, and the wound is smoking, as is standard for silver knife wounds. The creature keeps lifting one hand off the ground and trying to pull the knife out, but with the angle Enjolras had thrust it in at, it can’t reach it.
It looks up at Enjolras as he gets unsteadily to his feet, and its eyes are completely black and soulless.
“You fucking little whore, ” it snarls, its voice not sounding so much like Grantaire’s anymore. It sounds almost animalistic. “I’m going to rip your heart out and eat it. I’m going to-”
Enjolras doesn’t let it finish its sentence. He strides forward, yanks the knife from between the shoulder blades and ignoring the spray of blood that follows, and kicks the thing square in the face to shut it up.
It yelps, falling onto its back with a gasp of pain that sounds similar to Grantaire’s own. Enjolras tries to ignore this as he climbs onto its abdomen. The incubus struggles under him, but it's weakened by the silver, and Enjolras’ stance is steady and strong as he holds the knife above his head.
The incubus’ eyes are blue again, all of a sudden, and filled with panic and something that looks like fear. When it speaks, it’s loud and frantic and with Grantaire’s voice.
“No, Enjolras, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please, you’re hurting me. Why are you hurting me?” it says desperately.
Enjolras stares down at it, and when the incubus blinks, a few tears roll down its cheeks.
“Enjolras, please don’t do this,” it says, “I love you.”
Enjolras clenches his jaw, and brings the knife down in an arc, stabbing the incubus in the chest. Blood spurts out, hitting him in the face, the wound starts smoking, and the incubus is screaming in agony, long and desperate and not entirely human.
And somehow, the thing still manages to speak in Grantaire’s voice.
“It hurts,” it says, Grantaire’s normally smooth voice coming out as a ragged croak, “Why are you hurting me? Why do you hate me so much? I love you, Enjolras. Please. Please, stop hurting me. I love you, Enj-”
Enjolras makes a noise he doesn’t even know how to describe- Some kind of hoarse, horrible, wordless scream, and yanks the knife out of the incubus’ chest, and brings it down again. And again. And again. He can still hear Grantaire’s voice, screaming and telling him he loves him and begging him to stop as though from very far away. But he doesn’t. Enjolras can hear himself screaming too, a mix of inaudible words and “Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!” over and over again.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts- probably less than five minutes, really- but eventually he stabs the knife downward one final time, and then all at once his energy and adrenaline leaves him, and he lets go of the knife, sitting backward on the incubus’ stomach.
It’s dead.
It still looks like Grantaire. There’s smoke rising steadily from its chest, but Enjolras can’t look away from its face. Its mouth is frozen open in a scream, its eyes- Grantaire’s eyes- are wide and blue and staring and dead.
You did that, Enjolras thinks. You killed him.
There’s a horrible ringing silence in his ears, the room too big and too claustrophobically small at the same time. It smells of blood. There’s blood everywhere. Enjolras can feel it in his hair, feel slow drips of it running down his face. His mouth is full of the taste of it.
He needs to get the blood off him. He needs to get Grantaire's blood off of him right now.
He stands clumsily, scrabbling desperately away from the incubus' body, because suddenly any and all contact with it makes his skin burn and itch like it's three times too small for him. He walks unsteadily to the bedroom with the ensuite, and his knees buckle a few times on the way, but he just about manages to stay on his feet.
He turns the shower on and only realises after he's stepped under the water that he's forgotten to get undressed. The shower is hot, probably too hot in all honesty, but Enjolras’ teeth are chattering regardless, goosebumps all over the skin of his arms.
He leans his forehead against the cool tile of the wall, closing his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. He feels a bit like he’s going to be sick, and when he opens his eyes, the water running down the shower drain is pink instead of clear.
It’s pink with blood.
There’s a strange, swooping sensation in Enjolras’ body, and everything goes dark.