“Enjolras—” Combeferre winced slightly at the
rough pressing of the bandages, sucking in a
sharp breath when he attempted to straighten.
He slumped back down as he reached out to
grip tightly at Enjolras’ arm, hand shaking heavily.“Please, promise me that you won’t try to go after
them, not because of me— you have to keep your
focus,” Combeferre pleaded softly, almost desperately.
If Enjolras went after them focused on getting revenge
for this then he would make mistakes, and would most
likely end up hurt.And he couldn’t allow that to happen. Not to him.
:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::
He never makes promises he can’t
keep and they both know it. There’s a
stubborn set to his jaw, a gritty look of
determination in his eye and he is– he
will color this godforsaken fascist state
red before he lets them win, lets them
have anything that’s his, that’s theirs.
Bloodied fingers, smudged with gun
powder residue, lined with the rust of
drying blood, rests atop Combeferre’s
hand, a quieting presence. Rest now, I
am here. I will make things right. Rest.
"A spy in our company is not revenge.
It’s cleaning house.“ And before he can
say much more, there’s a ‘We’re here.’
from the driver’s seat and they’re back
at base. Enjolras pins down Combeferre
with a look. ”We’re taking you to Joly.“