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By the time they get back into the city Nightingale and Lark are gone.
The boys look around for them and it's Courfeyrac who finds the dagger pinning a note to the front door of the house Enjolras was so fond of. He calls everyone over and reads it aloud. "Dear pretty boys," it begins. "We're sorry we couldn't stay for dinner, but we figured we'd be better safe than sorry concerning your invitation. Have a pleasant vacation here either way."
It's signed by the outline of a bird (Lark, Enjolras is assuming) and a second one filled in (and Nightingtale). He sighs and turns back to his friends.
"We're only staying here for a night," he tells them, pitching his voice loud enough that everyone can hear. "So get comfortable, but don't expect to stay."
He organizes small teams to comb the town and check for the undead, and accompanies a trio himself assigned to clear the house he's chosen as theirs. Grantaire disappears; Enjolras tries not to be too worried about it, and soothes himself by asking Jehan to join them (he knows without a doubt that Grantaire would not leave without his friend, and this is the easiest way to keep an eye on his departure).
The reports back are good; there were only five zombies found, and all easily dispatched. The boys are starting to relax a little, laughing carelessly like they haven't in a long time, with their heads thrown back and their hands at their waist. Enjolras lives to see it, and sits on the front porch of a house to watch as Bahorel demonstrates to Joly the proper way to decapitate.
He smiles and cleans his gun and tries not to think of Grantaire, even when everyone exhausts themselves and settles on the floor to sleep. Jehan smiles at him in the dark and nods as though to say, 'He's fine.' Enjolras can do nothing but trust him, and folds an arm under his head in order to sleep.
+++++
Boom. Thud. Boom. Thud. Boom.
A momentary lull, a smothered, "Fuck."
Boom.
Thud.
Enjolras wakes peacefully to the methodical sound of gunfire, and his eyes flutter open. He regards the black ceiling in silence for a moment, gauging how close the gun is, knowing it's Grantaire's rifle as it does not sound like any of the weapons his boys usually wield. He sits up and can just barely make out Joly and Bossuet in the corner, crouched together against the wall.
They wave him over but that motion isn't frantic either, and rather than running across the other prone forms he consciously picks a way over to them, carefully stepping between his friends. He kneels next to Joly, who whispers, "It's Grantaire."
He nods--he knew that already. "Does he not need help?" He asks instead, and Bossuet shakes his head.
"No," he replies. "He said he had these ones covered." He points at a small crack in the wall that they're gathered around, and when Enjolras leans forward he realizes one can see the street outside. There are more than a few bodies on the ground out there, one of them twitching; another boom takes care of that, and the zombie reflexively flops before it dies.
"I think you may have upset him earlier," Joly remarks, and Enjolras sighs because it's quite clear he has. Grantaire is going genocidal on the zombie population around here, and Enjolras really can't blame that on anyone but himself (and honestly, it's rather embarrassing that absolutely everyone has apparently noticed).
"I'll go talk to him," he volunteers and Bossuet squeezes his knee for good luck. Joly whispers, "Be careful," and Enjolras nods to confirm he's heard.
He eases the front door open (the back is barricaded and while easy to tear down from this side to allow for a quick escape, not very quiet) and closes it with his foot. The ladder that leads to the roof is on the side of the house; he's silent as he walks across the grass, holding a borrowed hunting knife loosely in one hand.
But Enjolras encounters no resistence and he scales the ladder with the long blade tucked in his armpit, lifting himself elegantly over the lip of the roof. It's lighter out here, dawn's colors tickling the belly of the sky, and he can make out Grantaire where he lays.
"What are you doing up here?" He asks, and Enjolras is honestly impressed; sniper's usually get rather invested in their distant work and oftentimes tune out from their immediate surroundings. They're used to focusing on things yards away, not a potential threat right next to them.
"I wanted to see if you were--having fun." He coughs to clear his throat and sits down next to Grantaire, glad he didn't say what he nearly did (asking someone like Grantaire if he was 'alright' didn't seem like a grand idea now that Enjolras gave it more than two seconds of thought).
Grantaire shrugs; Enjolras notices with interest that he has his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and now that he can't see anymore zombies he's rubbing an intricate pattern into one naked forearm. He wonders, but doesn't ask.
Neither speak again for a long moment, and Enjolras satisfies himself with tipping his head back and watching the sunrise. It's gorgeous today, as it always is, and he basks in the colors and is ignorant to the way Grantaire is looking up at him, admiring Enjolras like Enjolras admires the sun.
"Aren't you tired?" Enjolras asks once it's brightened and it is no longer so interesting to watch. When he glances back down to Grantaire their gazes skim one another, and Grantaire quickly looks away.
"No," he says sharply. "I'm not."
He returns to peering through his scope and using his thumb to rub his arm; Enjolras takes advantage of the sniper's forced distraction and leans over further. He studies his arm, tries to make sense of the thin scars he sees scattered across his skin, and when he cannot asks, "Why is your arm scarred?"
Grantaire jumps like he's been branded, sits up so quickly they nearly knock their heads together. He scoots back, grabbing the hem of his sleeve and forcefully pulling it back down. "No reason," he says, making himself sound nonchalant. "Just, you know--shit happens."
Enjolras frowns but at least Grantaire is talking to him now, so he lets it go. He draws one knee to his chest and is looking over the edge of the house when he hears the front door open, Courfeyrac yawning as he shuffles outside. "Hey, guys," he calls up to them, mussing a hand through his curly hair. "We're doing breakfast, so you might wanna come down."
Enjolras says they'll be right there and Courfeyrac returns indoors, leaving the two of them alone once more. Grantaire packs up his gun and slings the rifle over his shoulder, heading for the ladder, but Enjolras stops him when he tries to hurry by. "We need to be able to tolerate each other if you're going to keep traveling with us," Enjolras tells him.
Grantaire grimaces and jerks his arm free, says tersely, "I tolerate you just fine," and then climbs quickly down. Enjolras sighs, and wishes he had some sort of vice to take his mind off the sniper with so many secrets.
+++++
After breakfast the boys climb back into their trucks and Enjolras offers to sit in the back. Grantaire's retaliation is to suggest he drives, and requests Jehan to keep him company in the cab.
"I can't win with him," he tells Combeferre as he gets settled on top of the stacked boxes. "I don't even know what I've done."
Combeferre tries not to laugh but Courfeyrac has overhead and he does it for the both of them. He's flushed by the time he finishes, and slaps Enjolras' shoulder. "You're doing just fine," he tells him, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Trust me."
Enjolras quirks an eyebrow. "Courfeyrac, he won't talk to me," he refutes.
Combeferre asks wisely, "Do you see him talking to any of us?" and now that it's been pointed out Enjolras can't really think of a time Grantaire has talked to anyone besides him. He frowns, somewhat irritated that he overlooked that.
"I think he likes you the best," Courfeyrac says with a grin. He stretches out over their supplies and Enjolras envies his ability to be comfortable wherever he may be. "He threatened me when he saw me looking at Jehan."
"I'm not very surprised to hear that," Combeferre states, scooting closer to the middle of the truck bed so the breeze doesn't snatch his words from his friends. "He's incredibly protective over him. Honestly it was rather silly of you to even try."
Courfeyrac starts to argue that he hadn't even done anything when Jehan suddenly leans out the window and shouts, "Herd!" There's a walkie-talkie clutched in his hand and it's clear he's transmitting to the other truck too, whose brake lights flash in response.
"Herd?" Enjolras echoes, and sits up straighter when he picks up his blade. This is the most dangerous time for the people in the beds, and the definite downside to using vehicles with so much unprotected storage space.
Jehan's blonde head disappears for a moment and when he returns he twists around to tell Enjolras, "R says there's about thirty, and he's going to try to drive through."
For a second Enjolras is so surprised he can't even manage an articulate response. Jehan laughs at his expression and ducks into the cab again, and Combeferre leans into his friend and asks, "Did he say we were going to try and drive through?"
The truck slows and Courfeyrac leans out as far as he can, shouting to Combeferre and Enjolras, "We might make it, but I'm gonna advise on using some knives."
They each pick up the longest blade they feel comfortable with, and within five minutes they're on the edge of the herd. Zombies don't always travel in groups but when they do they're at their most dangerous; it's hilariously easy to outrun a limping undead, but it's a lot harder to get away from them when they're swarming.
Fortunately their reaction times are terrible, and they reach out to grab at the truck much too late. Marius, driving behind them, increases speed until the nose of his truck is nearly touching the back end of theirs.
Grantaire seems to know what he's doing, and threads a definite path through the group. The farther they get in the more agitated the zombies become, and the trio in the back have to start using their weapons when some of the fresher undead latch onto the truck and try to pull themselves into the bed.
Combeferre splits a zombie's head with a stroke of his axe and pushes the corpse off with his foot, turning to ask, "Courfeyrac, how much farther?" It's admirable how calm he sounds even in a situation like this, and he merely purses his mouth and sighs when another zombie hooks her arm on the truck.
Courfeyrac braces himself against a box of canned foods and peers ahead of them, swinging his machete at the half-rotted woman who reaches out a hand to try to reach him. "Just about there!" He yells, and has to step back when he takes her arm off and a spray of black blood nearly hits him.
Enjolras is focused entirely on his killing, and does it mechanically; he looks up only when suddenly they reach the end of the herd and the last undead is kicked off the back. There is gore splattered on his face and he wipes it off with the sleeve of his shirt, dropping his blade with a clatter. Marius' truck clears behind them and they can hear Bahorel's cheer from the bed, shouting, "I'll see you soon, motherfuckers!"
Enjolras lets them ride in silence for about twenty minutes and makes no conversation--both Courfeyrac and Combeferre know he's angry, and both know better than to try and make small talk.
He slaps his hand against the roof of the cab when they're on a particularly lonely stretch of road and there's nothing but overgrown farms to either side. The truck slows and Jehan leans out the window curiously--he takes one look at Enjolras and disappears inside, and the truck jolts to a stop.
Marius stops behind them and they all get out, glad for the chance to stretch and burn off the remaining adrenaline. Grantaire opens his door and is pulled out by Enjolras, who is rarely physically violent but when he is doesn't pussyfoot around. "What the hell was that?" He asks angrily, releasing Grantaire, who stumbles but doesn't fall.
"It would've taken us an hour to go around," he retorts sharply, and his nervous fingers chafe at his rifle's rough strap. "This was faster."
Enjolras grits his teeth--the boys are easing closer to better hear and this is not an argument Enjolras wants everyone to be a part of, so he says, "Follow me," and walks towards what he thinks was a wheat field to their left. It's thick with growth now, weeds mingling with old seed, and a tomcat wallowing in the sun by the roots stands and disappears amongst the stalks.
Grantaire follows him, and the rest of the group recognize that as a clear 'do not listen'. They busy themselves checking everybody over and restacking their supplies, trying not to eavesdrop.
Enjolras stops them when they're far enough away that nobody can hear, but close enough that the boys could come for assisstance if it's needed. Grantaire comes up with a cigarette from somewhere and lights it, exhaling smoke out his nose as he stops to Enjolras' left.
"I wasn't trying to get everybody killed," he says, and Enjolras looks at him, his blue eyes perfectly unreadable. He remains silent, and Grantaire gets uncomfortable; he rubs the toe of his boot against the ground and looks down when he says, "I'm sorry."
It's not something he says often, and it tastes a bit foreign in his mouth but he doesn't take it back. Enjolras steps closer and Grantaire is expecting to be hit; what he's not prepared for is the way Enjolras says, "Just don't do it again." It's husky and quiet and Grantaire is startled at how close he'd gotten when he looks up, knowing there is but inches between them.
Grantaire's cigarette bobs and he coughs on smoke he accidentally inhales, distracted as he is; Enjolras smiles when he plucks it from his mouth and grinds it out with his shoe. "Those are bad for you," he says and then he steps back, like nothing had happened, like there hadn't been an electric moment between them.
Reflexively Grantaire grips his rifle's strap and says nothing because Enjolras doesn't, and he follows him back to the trucks without comment. Jehan is waiting for him, and hurries curiously to his side. "Did you get in trouble?" He asks.
Grantaire licks his bottom lip and tastes ash and wonders over Enjolras' flavor (no doubt he's a saint, and hasn't smoked a cigarette in his life). "Yeah," he says slowly. "Trouble of the worst kind."