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Grantaire never misses an opportunity to watch Enjolras’s back when he’s dressed in lycra.
Though, to be fair, that’s because he's supposed to be back-up.
“There’s one trying to sneak up on you on your eight o'clock,” says Grantaire, squinting. It doesn’t help, because he’s observing through a hacked security cam feed, and the camera isn’t the best quality to start with. “And another one on the roof and one by the door. Get a move on, will you?”
“Yes, all right,” hisses Enjolras.
Grantaire cheerfully twirls his batons, and adds, “Stop talking to yourself. The bartender’s starting to look suspicious.”
He sees Enjolras’s mouth open to reply, and then snap shut again. His scowl is evident even through the fuzzy camera image, and Grantaire takes a screenshot of it to show him how adorable he looks when he’s grumpy later.
There’s an obvious time lag on the camera, since the shape of Enjolras’s mouth never quite matches the words he can hear coming through the comm, so Grantaire first notices the barely legal drinking age kid next to Enjolras trying to stab him with a knife when Enjolras sighs, and says, “Really?”
The knife crumples into his skin, and Grantaire knows from experience that the little wincing motion Enjolras makes is actually because he’s really ticklish, and not because it actually hurt. He has the kid with one arm behind his back and pulled in front of him in no time.
“Grantaire, turn the music up. Lights down low.”
Grantaire grumbles, partially because Enjolras expects him to grumble, and partially because Enjolras just expects stupid things from him like remote controlling a club’s music system and lights – which, he can do but it would be nice not to be taken for granted – and listens as Enjolras asks the kid what room his boss is in.
The super speed kicks in fast enough that one frame Enjolras is there, and the next, he’s gone. The ear comms blow static at him for a few seconds from the amount of air blowing past, and then Grantaire assumes they’re in the club manager’s office.
“I haven’t got eyes in here,” says Grantaire, just to remind Enjolras.
“I know,” says Enjolras in exasperation, which is exactly when the gang leader says, “Who’s there?!”
Grantaire sighs. “Seriously. Stop talking to yourself.” He might not be able to see it, but he can imagine Enjolras’s glare.
“Ah,” says The Pussycat, which Grantaire is fairly sure is the shittiest name for a supervillain-slash-gang-leader ever, “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Mr Bond,” chips in Grantaire helpfully, completing the quote.
“Grantaire,” grinds Enjolras out of the side of his mouth, which is what he does when he’s trying to talk without moving his mouth. “I would hate to disappoint,” he says in a normal voice, which is to say that it’s normal for Enjolras but other people might consider it demanding, authoritative, or in Grantaire’s case, fucking sexy. “Why don’t you hand over the stolen money, turn yourself in to the police and save us both some time and bruises?”
“I am prepared this time, Indestruciboy,” says The Pussycat, and Grantaire has a wild moment of imagining Enjolras surrounded by guards pointing guns at him before remembering that Enjolras probably would have mentioned it if that were his situation. What Grantaire does know, however, is that Enjolras is getting that little pinched look he always gets whenever someone mentions his teenage hero identity. There were tiny red booty shorts involved.
The Pussycat continues, his every word dripping with smugness. “You’re probably wondering what I prepared. I am, after all, unarmed –” Good to know. “–And I let you get this far, didn’t I? But, you see. You have another weakness, don’t you? Hello there, R. How’re the legs doing?”
Grantaire freezes.
“You bastard,” says Enjolras, and there’s the sound of fist on bone.
“Now, now, none of that. You touch me again and my men rush through your little den.” The Pussycat’s voice sounds slightly thick, as if his previously clear nose is now a little flooded with blood.
Grantaire snorts. “Take him. I can handle myself.”
“Grantaire,” says Enjolras quietly.
“Seriously,” says Grantaire, just as quietly. “I’ve been preparing for this ever since I woke up in hospital and couldn’t move my legs. I’ll meet you at home, when you’re done.” He shoves away his half-eaten Thai food, resets his monitors to all his own security cams and leaves Enjolras to do his work. He’s not abandoning him. No, Grantaire is and always will be his back-up. But he trusts Enjolras to get through this. He knows Enjolras.
Grantaire, on the other hand. Well, he’s got something to prove. He slides his wireless keyboard into his lap, a small remote that looks like it might control an AC unit or something similar, and picks up his batons again. A quiet alarm goes off, indicating a breach of the downstairs doors. Grantaire smiles, and releases the sleeping gas.
–
When Enjolras gets home, there are a dozen men tied up in the lift, waiting for him. He sighs, and surreptitiously adjusts his lycra wedgie, and dumps them off at the local police station, the one he’d left just half a minute ago with The Pussycat in handcuffs. He walks back, too tired to use the super speed, and ignores the strange looks he gets walking down the road in costume. He sniffs the air in the lobby, and notices the residual smell of sleeping gas. They’re going to have to air the place out.
There’s a couple of new scorch marks in the lift itself, when Enjolras finally gets in, and a fewdents in the metal walls besides. They’d only renovated the lifts six months ago. The corridor is still wet, presumably from when Grantaire flooded it, and their living room wall is a little bit missing.
“I’ve always wanted an open plan house,” says Enjolras mildly when he finds Grantaire trying to sweep up the debris, gritting his teeth every time he wheels over a chunk of it.
“Fucking broom,” says Grantaire furiously. “This is my inner sanctum, fucking bad guys, fuck’s sake.”
“Grantaire,” says Enjolras.
“I can fight off eight guys with two limbs, but I can’t bloody sweep the floor. God.”
Enjolras frowns. “Grantaire,” he says, a little bit louder.
Grantaire looks up at him, scowling. “What?!”
Enjolras drops to his knees next to the wheelchair. He doesn’t care if there’s rubble digging into his knees. He’s been worrying himself flat for the last two hours but he daren’t show it to Grantaire because it’ll cut too close to pity for Grantaire, and he hates that. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he mumbles, fisting his hands into Grantaire’s t-shirt and pressing their foreheads together.
Grantaire melts instantly, cradling his head with one hand. He knows how much fights take out of Enjolras. “Me too,” he murmurs, and kisses Enjolras, soft and relieved.
“Leave the mess,” says Enjolras, nuzzling his nose into Grantaire’s cheek. “Let’s just go to bed. See if we can wreck that too.”