Chapter Text
The day he met Joly was the day he almost died.
Or so he was told; he couldn’t remember.
The epidemic started outside the walls of Paris, but spread swiftly and ravaged the city and its people. Within a week the streets in the poorest quarter of the city were rank with disease. The death toll soared; corpses lined the twisted roads and wooden carts were pulled through the streets at night to collect the dead and burn their bodies.
More than a fifth of Paris’s population suffered the symptoms of loose bowels, nausea, and severe dehydration. It was fatal in children and the elderly, but some of the young and strong seemed able to fight it off—a paltry dozen fortunate Parisians to the hundreds of people the epidemic claimed everyday.
Combeferre had watched cart after cart piled high with bodies pass through the streets for days, and each day he saw the wretchedness around him—the streets lined with the dead and the dying, women and children living in squalor, shacks and shanties slowly being gutted of their occupiers as disease ravaged the people’s homes—he heard Enjolras’s voice ring loud and clear in his mind.
Where, he had imagined his Chief’s voice cry out in his mind. Where are the leaders of the land?
Where indeed?
It was a harsh reminder of why he, Enjolras, and Coufeyrac spent hours plotting in the backroom of the Musain and gathering people to their cause. Harsh, yet utterly necessary; he wasn’t likely to forget.
He had only meant to close his eyes for a little while if only to block out the horror around him for a moment. The sight and stench of it all had made his stomach roil and he’d vomited several times already. He was tired and a headache had started brewing at his temples; he was sweating profusely from the heat of the sun. He had closed his eyes to compose himself.
He didn’t open them again for hours.
He awoke in the night with a start, his mind hazy and uncertain. His limbs were leaden and his mouth dry; he didn’t know where he was. His head hurt dreadfully and when he tried to get up the world all but lurched around him and he sank back down with a groan.
Moonlight streamed through an unfamiliar window. He could hear low voices murmuring all around him, growing louder and louder until all of a sudden he was quite aware of the din it was causing—tense and incessant and coming from all directions at once. He was surrounded by people—men, women, children—some flitting in and out of his vision as they walked past. Most were lying on cots much like the one he was on himself.
Then in a sudden moment of clarity everything seemed to snap into place and Combeferre finally realized where he was and why he was there. He was in a hospital. And he was very sick.
A wave of nausea assailed him and he closed his eyes again and groaned, writhing on the small cot he was lying on. He felt horrible; even the thin blanket draped over him seemed to weigh too heavily upon his chest.
“Monsieur?” Asked a voice. “Are you awake?”
Combeferre opened his eyes again and saw a woman leaning over him. She was young and pretty with lovely skin and a kind face. Combeferre blinked up at her wordlessly, and she smiled and turned to call out to someone else.
There was movement from across the room and Combeferre looked past the young woman to see a man quickly making his way toward them. He was young as well, not much older than Combeferre if he was older than him at all. His hair was dark with unruly strands falling over his forehead and he looked very tired, but he smiled kindly when he reached down to lay a cool hand on Combeferre’s brow.
The man sighed with relief. “Your fever is gone,” he said and he turned to the young woman beside him. “Did I not tell you, ‘Chetta? This man has heart.” He reached for Combeferre’s wrist and took his pulse and his grin grew wider. He looked back down at Combeferre with kind blue eyes. “You had us fearful for a while. How do you feel?”
Combeferre could only swallow and cough around the dryness in his throat in response, but the woman called ‘Chetta was quick to lift his head and bring a cup of water to his lips. Combeferre sipped it, then drank it down greedily when he realized how thirsty he was—he suddenly felt as if all the water in the world could not soothe his parched throat.
“It is good that he is drinking,” he heard the man say. “Though his stomach may not welcome more solid foods just yet.”
“I’ll fetch him more water and some broth,” ‘Chetta said.
Combeferre turned his head away from the cup when it was empty and gratefully sank back into the cot. The woman turned to leave before he could thank her and Combeferre could not find the strength to call out as she left. It seemed that the effort it took to drink a cup of water had exhausted him and he turned to look at the other man again in the hope that he could make sense of it all.
“What happened?” he asked. His voice was hoarse from disuse and it made him wonder how long he had been asleep.
“You tell me,” the man said as he took a seat on a chair by Combeferre’s cot. “You were brought here by men who apparently did not know you or how you came to be passed out on the street, though what you were doing there was beyond any of us.” He smiled wryly. “You do not have the look of a man who belongs in the streets of the district they said they found you in.”
Combeferre tried to look as far back into his recent memory as he could. “I went to help the victims of the epidemic. I have been going there each day for weeks now.”
The other man hummed and nodded as if to himself. “That explains how you caught it.”
“Cholera is not catching.”
“Not quite, no. But if you had drunk the water there or eaten any contaminated foods…” The man looked at him pointedly, prompting him, and Combeferre tried to remember if he had.
“In a moment of carelessness I may have done just that at some point,” he muttered to himself and the other man nodded.
The two of them spent the next few minutes discussing Combeferre’s condition, his signs and symptoms, his possible treatment—water with some honey or salt; Combeferre already knew that. As he spoke, Combeferre realized how weak he felt. Without a doubt he had contracted Cholera, but the doctor—for surely that was what the other man had to be—deemed him stable enough and past the worst of the malady.
Combeferre looked around him then—at the stained glass windows, the high ceiling, and the dozens of people lying sick in cots around him—and asked: “Where is this place?”
“You are in the ward of the Hôpital de la Charité and you have been here for two days,” the man explained. “Do you remember any of it?”
Combeferre shook his head no and hissed when the movement made him see stars. The man frowned and drew closer.
“What is your name?”
“Combeferre.”
“Combeferre,” the man repeated. He nodded his head and procured an inked quill and a small pad of paper from one of his pockets. “Is there someone we can send for? Your family and friends need to know you are here.”
The first person Combeferre can think of is Enjolras and he gives the man his friend’s name and address and hopes he will see that mop of curly blond hair and hear his voice soon. They must be worried sick about him—he, the second in command of their little, but growing, ensemble of mavericks so suddenly disappearing from their midst without a word and—
He gasped and tried to sit up in his cot, regretting the movement immediately when his body proved averse to such actions. He double over and held his breath when it seemed as if the contents of his stomach wanted to see the light of day again, but he tried to push it to the back of his mind.
He had forgotten—couldn’t believe he had forgotten even for just a moment—that he was a part of a much larger whole. He did not make the mistake of thinking Enjolras could not do it without him, but his chief needed his guide and what good was the center that was their good friend Coufeyrac if Combeferre was not there on the other side of him to keep them balanced? No, he needed to go home. Two days have passed! He had a lot of work to do.
“I must—”
“You can’t,” The other man said, getting up from his chair to push Combeferre firmly back onto the cot. “You are still very weak from dehydration.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Now see here I am a doctor, you know. Well, a doctor in training but a doctor all the same, and I say that you must rest.” He spoke calmly, but his blue eyes flashed and his voice was laced with an authority that was not there before. His hands were still gentle, though, and his voice soothing. He had what they called in the Collège a therapeutic touch and Combeferre relaxed under it, staying put in his cot when the man pointedly stated that he could barely sit up, much less walk out of the hospital. Combeferre knew he was right, though it annoyed him. It didn’t help that the world started spinning again. Still some matters were more important.
“My friend must know I am here,” he said with an impatience that was not usually in his character. Resigned as he was, he still needed to do what little he could. “It is urgent.” They needed to know he was still alive, that he was not captured—that they weren’t found out. Not this soon; they had only just begun.
“We will find your friend as soon as we can, but that may be some time yet; there is so much to do.” The man sounded apologetic. “I’m sorry, but we’re doing our best.”
“Then I may yet get a hold of my friends sooner myself,” Combeferre snapped.
The man frowned at Combeferre’s petulance, but merely shook his head for which Combeferre was both grateful and sorry for. He didn’t mean to grouse; illness did terrible things to one’s mood.
Just then ‘Chetta appeared at the doctor’s side with a new cup of water and a bowl of broth in hand. Combeferre stared longingly at the water she held; the dryness he felt in his very core made itself known once more. The man looked at her and nodded gratefully before turning back to Combeferre.
“Please try to eat and drink as much as you can,” he instructed gently as he sat back down on the chair beside Combeferre’s bed. “You’ve pulled through the worst of it, but you are far from well enough to be up and about.” Combeferre pursed his lips and said nothing, irritated with his own enfeeblement.
The other man seemed to take that as another show of petulance. “Please,” he said again as he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I…I don’t mean to frighten you, but we have lost so many already.” The corners of his eyes seemed to tighten and he bit his lip before continuing. He suddenly seemed much younger now. “Surely you can afford a day’s rest so as not to add to them?”
‘Chetta gasped and Combeferre was at a loss for words, whether it was from the man’s bluntness regarding the subject of mortality or the abject plea in his eyes he didn’t know. And it hit him, his mortality. He had read about Cholera, had discussed it in depth in the Collège when the University recognized the symptoms and the beginning of an outbreak. He couldn’t count the number of people he had seen die from the disease in the past few weeks alone. The knowledge that he had somehow pulled through 2 days without remembering any of it coupled with the unbearable thirst and weakness he was feeling now made him realize that it had probably been worse than the doctor made it seem.
“Joly…” ‘Chetta said softly from behind the young doctor in quiet reproach and only then did it occur to Combeferre that he had never gotten the man’s name until now.
The man—Joly—started and muttered a quick apology before clearing his throat. “You need rest, Monsieur Combeferre, and plenty of fluids,” he said. He took one look at the broth ‘Chetta held in her hands and gave Combeferre a rather sheepish smile. “It isn’t much, but it’s hot.”
“It’s fine,” Combeferre rasped out contritely and Joly took the cup of water from ‘Chetta and helped Combeferre drink it himself. When the cup was empty again he reached down and took Combeferre’s pulse a second time.
“I know you want nothing more than to be home in your own bed right now,” Joly said. “But I’m afraid we will have to keep you here for at least one more night. Without the proper care your condition could take a turn for the worse.”
Combeferre sighed heavily, but he nodded his assent. “I understand.”
The young doctor seemed relieved and he rose so ‘Chetta could take his place beside Combeferre. He looked up at the way the moonlight shone through the stained glass window and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It is late and I must attend to the other patients,” he said tiredly. “I will leave you now and see you in the morning. Can I trust you not to give dear ‘Chetta a hard time?” He raised a fine brow at Combeferre, but there was a flash of humor in his eyes.
Combeferre nodded and felt his lips quirk in a small smile of his own at the man’s brief show of light-heartedness in the face of their current setting, but his eyes darted to Joly’s breast pocket where he had seen the man slip the piece of paper with Enjolras’s name and address on it in.
Joly caught his gaze and patted the spot Combeferre was staring at. He smiled reassuringly. “I will send for your friend as soon as I can. Perhaps he will be here in the morning before you even wake or perhaps later in the afternoon. I cannot promise you when, Monsieur Combeferre. I can only promise that I will see it done.”
The young physician smiled again and Combeferre nodded and kept his peace. Under the current circumstances he knew he could ask for no more. “Thank you, Docteur.”
Joly nodded and took his leave, and ‘Chetta began the long but uneventful process of getting the broth into Combeferre. For the most part Combeferre was silent, taking in spoonsful of broth as it was fed to him and asking a few questions. He asked about the hospital and its staff, and learned that it relied almost entirely on donations and volunteers like her. He asked about the current outbreak of Cholera and was told that it was finally waning, albeit slowly. He asked about the young doctor Joly and discovered that the man was on the verge of finishing his studies and split his time attending classes and doing hospital work.
‘Chetta told him he was very lucky. He had been in terrible shape when he was brought in and it was a good thing Joly was there to attend to him right away. It wasn’t all the time the hospital had someone so qualified at hand; most of them were healers who could only offer comfort at best.
Combeferre nodded every now and then as he politely listened to ‘Chetta’s light chatter. His eyes and mind wandered. In the corner of his eye he watched Joly moving from one cot to the other as he checked on the other patients. ‘Chetta eventually took her leave when he had taken as much of the broth as his stomach would allow and Combeferre was left alone to rest and recuperate, but he did not sleep.
He stayed awake, for how long he did not know. He watched Joly and ‘Chetta and some other people working around the ward, watched patients sleep or writhe and groan miserably in their cots. He watched the walls of the hospital start to lighten with the dawn of a new day and that was when he finally saw Joly take a piece of paper from his breast pocket and give it to a dark-skinned, balding man who had just arrived.
Joly and the man spoke and Combeferre saw the young doctor glance at his direction, though from that distance Combeferre was sure the man couldn’t tell he was awake and watching them. The newcomer nodded and pocketed the piece of paper before turning and leaving again, and Combeferre knew then that Joly must have finally sent for Enjolras.
Relieved, Combeferre felt the fatigue melt away from his leaden limbs. He would have to wait hours, he was sure, but there was comfort in the knowledge that his friends would find him soon. His mind slowly quieted as he finally allowed himself to relax, and when Joly returned to his bedside to feel his forehead and check his pulse he was already asleep.