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marvelandcmbinger · 2 months

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Put it down Spencer Reid x fmc

Big shout out to everyone that liked my first little writing. Y'all give me motivation <333 summary: Spencer suffers silently, thinking nobody notices. He's wrong. Spoilers for criminal minds season 2 episode 12

tw: cursing, drug abuse, addiction, eating disorder(?), short little hint at selfharm

"Don't you think Spencer has been acting weird lately?" I ask Morgan concerned. I let it slide the first three weeks. It isn't something small to get kidnapped by some crazy guy with three personalities. It wouldn't be unusual for Spencer to act weird or close himself off a little. But he's done such a 180. The only thing that stayed is his awkwardness. Sweet Spencer Reid sassed at me multiple times the last weeks. He even insulted me (I made a joking jab at him and he told me I'm wasting the precious oxygen a tree is tiredlessly producing)

His hands are shaky. He fumbles more. He rants less. He's gone colder and quieter. He scratches his arms through his sleeves and seems tired and unfocused. He's also gotten paler. And thinner? "He won't talk to anyone, it worries me, what if he needs help but can't bring himself to ask and then one day it'll be too late and-" Derek quickly interrupts my ramble before I go any further down the rabbit hole.

"Hey, pretty girl, relax. I'm sure he'll be fine. He just needs some time to really get back, y'know? Hankel did quite the number on him, you saw how Reid's foot looked." His voice is soothing. He always has that soothing tone. But it doesnt work. My mind easily picks words and the way they sounded apart and leaves only the cold, harsh truth behind.

"Exactly what I mean! He was digging his own grave and then had to shoot a man he pitied! That's horrifying! I don't expect him to be fine, but I sure as shit expect him to talk to one of us. Better, all of us. Not at once. But it's important. Who does he trust? JJ. He trusts JJ. I should go ask her if she knows anything." My tone is determined as if nothing could bring me from that path.

"Go ask if JJ knows what?" Prentiss. Prentiss joined not long ago. She's trying hard to fit in, but Gideon isn't exactly easy on her. Not that I can't relate. Looks like the only women he can stand are JJ, Greenaway and Garcia. Well, not that bad. But he's honestly a little... how can I say it? Different.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just about Reid. Do you know how he's doing?" I don't expect her to know. But I'm not shutting her out. She seems nice. At first I feared she was a nepo baby, but she definitely proves herself well. She had gotten sass from Spencer too. Honestly, for the lack of a better word, I'd say he's acting bratty. But I strongly doubt he enjoys whatever is happening.

"Well... last time I asked him what's going on with him, he told me quite clearly that I have no idea what I'm talking about, so I guess I'm not exactly the right person to ask, I'm sorry. I don't actually know him that well anyway." She seems genuinely sorry that she cannot help the issue. "It's alright, Em. I'm sure we'll get him back somehow." I reply with a gentle smile.

Turns out JJ doesn't know anything either. But I know. Not because he told me, but because it's obvious. Also, I'm pretty sure the others know too. Either they're in denial or just decided to ignore Spencer's obvious drug addiction and let him fight it himself or rott alone in his apartment. Great. So much for 'we are a family'. First Elle pulls the fucking card of just shooting the rapist. Then she has to leave? I mean, I'd get it if there was evidence, we couldn't have let that slide, legally speaking, but IA said it was legit. Self-defense. She got shot in her own home, she was traumatized and not ready to come back. Then she got pushed. Further and further. Instead of helping, the team just pushed her away. I can't let that happen again. Not to Spencer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have been knocking on this damned door for ages now. I knock again. Maybe knocking is the wrong word. It had evolved into more of a banging. An angry woman opens the door a couple feet over and glares at me. I throw her an apologetic look and tell her I'll stop.

Just as I turn away, a muffled thump reaches me from the other side of the wood. My mind immediately spins. What if he's hurt? I knock one last time and call out "Reid?!" He doesnt answer. Without thinking, my hair is let down, pin in my hand. Then the pin is in the lock, next thing, the door is open. I step inside, gently close the door again, dump my bag and scan the room. My eyes quickly find the hunched over figure on the floor of the dimly lit room.

After closer looking, I notice the small bottle of medicine next to his thigh and the syringe tightly grasped in his hand. "Fucking hell, Reid put that down right now." He lazily tilts his head in my direction and squints weirdly at me. Dipshit is already higher than his IQ. He slurs a 'no' in my direction. "Don't make me hurt you." I say, half jokingly. With a few quick steps, I reach him. My fingers wrap frimly around his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he holds that damned thing. But that needle will not breach his skin again.

"Spencer. Please. Put it down." I say gently. It seems like he's high enough to not have that much willpower in him. He lets go and slumps back against the wall. I carefully put the drugs in my bag. He needs rehab. But that will cost him his job. He can't lose his job. It'd end him. The only way is to help him quit without getting forced by someone else's hand. I definitely need to have an insightful conversation with sober Reid.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is when our few little paid vacation days start. Ten days without a case. It'd be a great time to start withdrawal. I leave a container with pasta, chicken and creamy sauce in his kitchen, put a post-it on it saying 'Call me when you're sober ~Romanov' and take his dilaudid with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I should've expected that I wouldn't be able to sleep in until lunchtime. But hey, can't blame a girl for trying. My phone rings at nine and I pick up with a sleepy voice, not looking at the caller ID. "Are you seriously still asleep? Did breaking into my apartment and stealing from me make you that tired?!" Spencer's sassy voice reaches me through the phone. He sounds upset. I get it. I pinch my nose and sigh.

"No, actually, I'm just tired of getting shut out." I reply in the same tone. The line goes quiet for a while. "What do you want?" his voice is suddenly small and quiet, it breaks my heart. "I just want to talk, Goldie. Need some company the next couple days? I swear I'm great company." My voice is soft. An underlying plea swings in my words. "Depends. You got some more of that pasta? Haven't thrown up in two hours. And it's really good." I can't quite put what about his tone it is, but it makes my heart melt and I can't help my next words. "I could teach you. We could do a little cooking lesson. Promise I'll wash my hands really, really good." I add the last part teasingly, wanting to bring a little more lightness. "This is not a question, by the way, it's now officially an order. My place, four o' clock. I'll send you the address. Don't be late. You have to bring nothing but yourself in one piece. Don't think I didn't see that knife yesterday. You can't hide anything from me, Goldie." I hang up without letting him answer. I know Spencer Reid well enough. He'll show. He can't argue with me if I hang up, and if he doesn't show, he will 100% feel bad about it.

Morally problematic? Maybe. But it's for a good cause.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alrightyyyy, this is it for tonight. Might be rushed. Isn't proofread. I again didn't write enough Spencer aghhhhh.

But tomorrow. I promise. I'll feed fluff. Cooking together and a little angsty talk. Cuddles, lot of trust aaaand more fluff!

Again, thanks for the support, every last little thing means the world to me. It is an honor to know people actually read my shit (even if it's only for Spencer)

Feel free to leave any kind of critisism <333

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #bau team #bau family #fluff #tw drugs #addiction #drugs mention #sassy spencer #sassy men #elle greenaway #tobias hankel #narcotics drug #redhead beauty #green eyes

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kjack89 · 11 months

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Off the Wagon

Massively self-indulgent.

E/R, modern AU, developing relationship. CW: Drug addiction.

“Can we talk?”

Enjolras eyed Grantaire warily. “That’s never an auspicious beginning to a conversation.”

Grantaire half-smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What can I say, it’s not necessarily an auspicious conversation.”

Enjolras frowned with genuine concern, taking in the dark shadows that ringed Grantaire’s eyes, as well as the way he crossed his arms tightly in front of his chest. “Is everything ok?” he asked cautiously.

“Yeah, it is,” Grantaire said quickly – too quickly. “I just, uh, I’m not going to be able to come to Thursday night meetings anymore.”

Enjolras blinked. That certainly hadn’t been what he’d expected. “Why not?”

He hadn’t meant for it to sound accusatory, but judging by the look on Grantaire’s face, it did. “My schedule changed,” Grantaire said shortly.

Enjolras hesitated, not wanting to make things worse by prying, but it wasn’t just that Grantaire would be missing Les Amis meetings. Thursday nights had become something of a routine for them, their night to stay at the Musain until early in the morning, bickering or talking or even just sharing the backroom in silence, Enjolras working on whatever he needed to do that day, Grantaire sketching.

And Enjolras felt a small pang at the realization that this routine was about to be disrupted.

“How long do you think you’ll be missing the meetings for?” he asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “The foreseeable future, at least,” he said, worrying his lower lip between his teeth before adding, “Possibly indefinitely.”

“Oh.” Enjolras nodded slowly, trying to come up with something, anything to say. “Well, obviously there’s not much you or anyone else can do about your schedule, so, uh…”

He trailed off, not sure what else he wanted to say, and Grantaire managed a weak sort of smile. “At least I’ll still be at the Sunday meetings,” he assured Enjolras, who just nodded.

“Right,” he said, even though it wasn’t the same thing by any stretch.

Grantaire nodded, shifting awkwardly. “Anyway, I’ll, uh, I’ll see you when I see you,” he said awkwardly.

“I’ll see you when I see you,” Enjolras echoed, watching as Grantaire made his way back to where Joly and Bossuet were waiting, trying to determine why exactly he felt like something between him and Grantaire had shifted, and not for the better.

— — — — —

Three weeks later, the feeling had only intensified, not helping by missing Grantaire on Thursdays.

“Did you have a fight?” Courfeyrac asked, for what was probably the eighteenth time.

Enjolras shook his head. “No more than usual,” he said gloomily.

“The fact that you two even have a ‘usual’ amount of fighting probably speaks volumes in and of itself,” Combeferre remarked, not looking up from his phone.

“Do you plan on actually being helpful?” Courfeyrac asked, scowling at him.

Combeferre finally looked up, tucking his phone in his pocket. “With Enjolras and Grantaire? No. Because the only foolproof way to figure out what’s going on with Grantaire is to ask Grantaire. Or, I guess, if you were truly crazy, you could just follow him because stalking’s always the answer.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

Combeferre stared at him. “In case you were confused, the stalking part was sarcasm—”

“No, I know,” Enjolras said impatiently. “But he was somewhat cagey about his schedule changing, whatever that means, and maybe if I knew a little bit more about what was going on with him, I wouldn’t feel like this.”

“Right, because historically speaking, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong always works out,” Courfeyrac said with a snort.

“This time it will,” Enjolras said stubbornly.

Combeferre just shook his head. “Famous last words.”

— — — — —

That Thursday was the first that Enjolras could recall where his feet did not lead him down the well-trod path to the Musain. Instead, he lingered outside of Grantaire’s apartment, partially hidden inside the entryway to a vacant store.

Maybe Courfeyrac had a little bit of a point about the stalking.

But Enjolras’s mind was made up, and he was determined to get to the bottom of this one way or another. So when he saw Grantaire exit the building, pausing on the stoop to fumble for a cigarette, Enjolras knew he had really left himself no other choice but to follow him.

So he did, across several city blocks, almost losing him when a Tesla decided that red lights clearly didn’t apply to them, but eventually, they arrived at what Enjolras assumed was their quarry.

To his absolute bafflement, it was a church.

Grantaire headed inside like he did this every day, and Enjolras hesitated before following. He hadn’t been in a church since the last time his mother made him go, which had been in high school, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust when he stepped inside.

He hesitated, glancing around. Grantaire was nowhere to be seen, and Enjolras was loath to just wander into the sanctuary.

But then the door behind him opened and Enjolras jumped guiltily. “Sorry about that,” a friendly voice said behind him, and Enjolras glanced over at the kind-looking woman who had just come in. “Are you looking for the meeting?” Enjolras almost asked what meeting, but figured he’d invite more questions than it was worth if he did, so he settled for nodding. “It’s downstairs,” she told him, pointing helpfully in the direction of the staircase.

Enjolras nodded his thanks and headed down the stairs in question. The basement of the church was much more brightly-lit, and finding the meeting room was relatively easy. The room was crowded, enough that Enjolras was able to slip inside without notice, taking a seat in the back of the room.

He glanced around at the rows of metal folding chairs, wondering what exactly was going on here. But his question was answered all too quickly by the same kindly woman from before standing up at the front of the room and smiling at everyone. “Good evening,” she said. “My name is Fantine, and I’m an addict.”

“Hi, Fantine,” the room murmured in response, but Enjolras was too stunned to speak, a strange sort of ringing sound in his ears.

So this meant – Grantaire was a—

“If this is your first time joining us as Narcotics Anonymous, welcome,” the woman continued, but Enjolras could barely listen to whatever else she was saying, especially since the sound of his own heartbeat was so loud.

He glanced around, wondering if he could possibly slip out without being noticed or without being noticed when he heard Grantaire’s name, and he froze.

“We have some chips to give out tonight, so Grantaire, if you want to join me up here.”

Enjolras shrank down in his chair, wishing that the entire floor would just swallow him up before Grantaire could notice him. But almost immediately after accepting his chip and a hug from the woman, Grantaire glanced out at the audience, and almost just as quickly locked eyes with Enjolras.

For a moment, Grantaire’s eyes widened, just slightly, before his expression evened out and he took a step forward to address the group. “My name is Grantaire, and I’m an addict.”

“Hi, Grantaire,” the room murmured back towards him, though Enjolras remained silent, not trusting himself to speak, and he kept his gaze firmly on the floor.

“I, uh, I’ve been clean for two years,” Grantaire continued, and Enjolras did glance up at that, surprised, because he never would have guessed— “I was clean for almost ten years before that but I, well, I fell off the wagon– Right, sorry, no euphemisms. I relapsed two years and a week ago.”

His eyes flickered over to Enjolras. “I had been clean for so long that most of the people in my life didn’t even know I was a drug addict. That I still am a drug addict.”

Grantaire paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “When the pandemic was just beginning, before the shutdown but we started to hear that a shutdown might happen, I mentioned to a coworker that I hoped my doctor’s appointment wouldn’t get canceled. I had hurt my shoulder at a protest and I needed to get it checked out. And my coworker, who didn’t know any better, told me he had almost an entire bottle of oxy that he got prescribed after a surgery he had.”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s expression. “And he asked if I wanted them.”

He swallowed, his voice barely a whisper as he added, “And I said yes.”

Something twisted in Enjolras’s chest, but Grantaire just took another deep breath before barrelling onward. “I didn’t take them right away. I hid them under my bed. And for a while, for a good long while, that was enough. I was fine, because I had a bottle of oxy under my bed, just in case. I was fine, because I had so much control, or at least, that’s what I told myself.”

His usual self-deprecation slipped into his tone, but Enjolras heard the bitterness for what it was, knew that behind every joke at his own expense, Grantaire had always intended a little bit of truth. And for some reason, knowing that made Enjolras’s chest ache. “Then I got laid off in June of 2021, and in July, I got in a really stupid fight with a friend, and we both said some things we shouldn’t have, and—”

Enjolras’s heart sank even further. He knew the fight in question.

He had been the other party of the fight in question.

“And I’m a drug addict,” Grantaire said. “And I had a bottle of oxy under my bed. So it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what I did next.”

He shrugged, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes. “I wanted to try and stretch it out, just take a little at a time because it’s not like I had a dealer who could get me more, y’know? And if I was just taking one pill at a time, surely that’s different than when I used to snort it or smoke it or whatever.”

He barked a bitter laugh and drew a hand across his face. “The bottle was gone by the end of the week.”

There were a few murmurs of understanding from the audience, and Grantaire paused while he waited for it to subside. “When I got sober enough to leave my apartment, I went straight to the park. I’d always seen some junkies hanging around there and I figured I could get a hookup from them. Only, uh, there was this protest…”

Again, Enjolras knew exactly what protest it had been. It was strange, hearing these details surrounding events he had known, had lived, but in a way he never could’ve suspected. “I was supposed to be at that protest. I had forgotten about it or maybe I didn’t even care enough to remember it in the first place, but seeing it, seeing my friends—”

For the first time, Grantaire’s voice broke. “That probably saved my life.”

Enjolras looked up sharply, meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “I think I knew that if I went in that park, and I scored whatever, I would be dead within six months.” He jerked a shrug. “And I just– I didn’t want to die anymore.”

This time, the brief silence that followed was broken by the sound of someone clapping, and then more people started clapping, and then the whole room joined in. Grantaire looked startled by the response, managing a small, somewhat embarrassed smile, and he gave a small wave before returning to his seat.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur, and Enjolras was torn between making a run for it as soon as the meeting was over, or offering Grantaire some kind of explanation, or at least an assurance that he wasn’t going to say anything.

It wasn’t his secret to tell. Then again, it also hadn’t been his secret to learn in the first place.

In the end, the decision was made for him, as the meeting broke up and Grantaire made a beeline over to him, his expression dark. “I don’t know what Joly’s been telling you, but caffeine isn’t a narcotic.”

“I know that,” Enjolras said, his voice low. “And I know I owe you and explanation—”

“Not here,” Grantaire interrupted, his voice tight. He jerked his head toward the staircase and Enjolras followed him in silence as they left the church and headed to a 24-hour diner just down the street.

They both settled into a booth in the back of the diner, and when the waitress came over to take their order, Grantaire gave her a tight smile. “Just two coffees, thanks.”

It was only after she had returned with their coffees that Grantaire finally met Enjolras’s eyes. “Well,” he said, cradling his coffee cup between both hands. “I knew someone was going to get curious, but I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect it to be you.”

“I shouldn’t have followed you,” Enjolras told him. “If I had known this was where you were going—”

“But you didn’t,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “And I could have been slightly more forthcoming of why I was going to be absent on Thursdays.” He took a sip of coffee before telling Enjolras, “They changed meeting times. They used to meet on Wednesdays, but now it’s Thursdays. I’ve been, uh, working on finding a different meeting, but I’ve been going to this group for years so it’s not, like, easy.”

“I would assume not,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire cocked his head. “Would you?” he asked, almost amused. “I’d’ve guessed you wouldn’t have any experience with this sort of thing.”

Enjolras flushed, just slightly. “I don’t,” he said.

Grantaire nodded slowly. “In that case, what do you want to know?”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Enjolras blurted, and Grantaire just arched an eyebrow as he took another sip of coffee.

“I’m well aware,” he said. “But you already know the worst of it, so I figure, in for a penny, in for a pound.”

Enjolras swallowed and glanced down at his own coffee before looking up at Grantaire again. “Fine, then there’s really only one question that I have: are you ok?”

Grantaire looked surprised. “That’s your only question?”

It wasn’t, not by a long shot, but— “It’s the only one that matters.”

Something softened in Grantaire’s expression. “Then yes,” he said, with honesty. “I’m ok.”

Enjolras nodded. “Ok.”

“But I know you have other questions besides that.”

“I do,” Enjolras admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “Including one that’s, um, potentially insensitive, I guess.”

Grantaire didn’t look surprised, and he settled back in his seat. “Fire away.”

“You’re a drug addict,” Enjolras said, and saying the words out loud for the first time made them somehow seem more real. “And you said you’re clean now. But you still drink, and smoke pot.”

“I take more edibles than smoking these days but yes, that is correct,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras hesitated. “How does that work?”

Grantaire barked a dry laugh. “Under the supervision of a psychiatrist, mostly. Abstinence, or being completely clean, works for some people – is the only thing that works for some people.” He shrugged. “For me, I almost exclusively drink and smoke to help my anxiety, and my psychiatrist and I are on the same page that while not the preferred treatment plan, it’s probably a better option than putting me on a pill regimen, given my history.”

Enjolras had never even considered that, and he nodded slowly before asking, “Can I ask another insensitive question?”

“You really don’t need my permission,” Grantaire told him, amused.

But Enjolras didn’t smile. “The fight you had with a friend – that was me, right?”

Grantaire’s smile disappeared, and he looked away. “Was that the insensitive question?” he asked, a little roughly.

Enjolras ignored him. “Did I cause this?” he asked, his voice low. “Cause you to– to fall off the wagon?”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive himself if he had. Especially since the fight in question had been so stupid, one of those idiotic fights that had seemed so important at the time but in retrospect was just both of them having their heads too far up their own asses to concede that the other was at least half-right.

And he remembered the words he’d shouted at Grantaire all too well—

“Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”

He hadn’t meant it, had regretted it as soon as he had said it, though not nearly as much as he regretted it now.

“To relapse,” Grantaire corrected quietly. “It’s important not to use euphemisms, because that masks the reality of what happened.” His expression twisted. “Besides, I didn’t fall off the wagon as much as jump.”

Enjolras jerked a nod as if he understood. “Right.”

“And no,” Grantaire added, “you didn’t cause this.”

“But—”

“I’m a drug addict,” Grantaire interrupted. “Something happened in my life that wasn’t pleasant. People with healthy coping mechanisms find a way to deal with that. I chose a different coping mechanism, because I’m a drug addict.” He shrugged. “If I hadn’t had that bottle of oxy under my bed, would I have chosen differently? Maybe. Hopefully. But that has nothing to do with you, or our fight.”

Enjolras’s expression darkened as he remembered who had given Grantaire the pills in the first place. “Who was your coworker who gave them to you?”

Grantaire looked flatly at him. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not his fault either and I don’t want you firebombing his apartment building for something that isn’t his fault.”

Enjolras scowled. “He shouldn’t have—”

“Maybe not,” Grantaire said. “But I’m the one who said yes when he offered. I’m the only one at fault here, the only one to blame.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I think there’s probably something to be said about society also being at fault—”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Enjolras.”

“Sorry.”

Grantaire sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. “There are a million and one very valid reasons that I use drugs, that anyone uses drugs, from poverty to mental illness to, yes, a very broken society,” he said, a little impatiently. “And those are all important things to try to fix, but it doesn’t change the fact that no one held a gun to my head and made me take drugs. Least of all you.”

“Then why do I still feel like it’s my fault?”

Enjolras hadn’t meant to actually vocalize that, and he regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. But Grantaire just laughed lightly. “I’d guess it has something to do with your martyr complex, but what do I know.”

“I don’t have a martyr complex,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire just snorted derisively. “Sure you don’t.”

Enjolras frowned, just slightly. “Death, including, potentially, my own, can sometimes be a necessary tool to bring about change, but I’d much rather live to see the world I’m trying to create if I can.” He paused before adding, with as much sincerity as he ever had, “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you decided you’d rather live, to.”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s expression and he looked away. “It’s my turn to ask if I can ask you something,” he said.

“Of course,” Enjolras said immediately. “Anything.”

“Do you – does this change what you think about me?”

Grantaire’s voice was soft, so soft that Enjolras almost couldn’t hear him, and his heart clenched painfully, knowing that this, of all things, was what Grantaire was worried about. He bit back his initial, gut reaction, which was an emphatic no, because it wasn’t true.

And he would be doing Grantaire a disservice by lying to him now.

“It doesn’t make me think lesser of you,” he said instead, choosing his words carefully.

“To be fair, that bar’s so low it’s practically underground,” Grantaire interjected.

But Enjolras refused to fall back on their usual banter, to couch this conversation in anything other than the honesty he owed Grantaire. “But it does change what I think of you. I don’t see how it possibly couldn’t. You – to know that you were going through this over the past two years, that you’ve gone through this before, and yet you still show up, every single week, for a Cause that you don’t even believe in? To know that you could’ve given up so many times, and never did? Of course it changes what I think of you.”

Something flickered in Grantaire’s expression. “I’m not some kind of hero or something for being a drug addict.”

“Maybe not,” Enjolras said. “But it does make me think I may have misjudged your ability for commitment.”

To his surprise, Grantaire laughed at that, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “This is what makes you think you’ve misjudged my commitment,” he repeated, almost incredulous. “Not the fact that I’ve shown up to every meeting and rally and protest over the past however many years.”

“That’s different,” Enjolras said.

“How?”

“Because that was commitment offered for someone else,” Enjolras told him quietly. “This was commitment to yourself.”

Grantaire half-smiled. “Well, I guess you’re not fully wrong,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “And, uh, let me get your coffee. It’s the least I can do.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “To repay me for lightly stalking you?”

“To repay you for the fact that I should have told you all of this a long time ago,” Grantaire said. “Thus saving you from having to lightly stalk me.”

He tossed a twenty on the table and stood, clearly ready to leave, but Enjolras just looked up at him, his heart suddenly beating painfully in his chest. “Can I just say one more thing?”

Grantaire shrugged. “May as well.”

Enjolras stood, setting his hand lightly on the table next to Grantaire’s. “This changes what I think of you,” he said, his voice low, “but it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Grantaire’s expression tightened. “Enjolras—”

“If anything, it just makes it even clearer,” Enjolras said, ignoring him. “And I’m not – now isn’t the time, especially since the last thing I want is for you to think that this is somehow because of what I learned tonight. But if tonight changed my mind on anything, it’s on thinking that somehow, we’d find a time for this. For us.” He hesitated before shifting his hand to rest it lightly on top of Grantaire’s, just for a moment. “ But maybe we have to make time.”

Grantaire stared down at their hands. “I—”

Enjolras squeezed his hand, just once, before pulling away. “When you’re ready, anyway.”

He turned to go but Grantaire caught his hand. “And if I’m ready now?”

“Are you?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Not – not yet. I want to be—”

“I know,” Enjolras told him. He did – of all the revelations he had learned that night, his knowledge of how Grantaire felt was never in question. “But when you are, I’ll be here.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Together, they left the diner, walking slowly in the direction of the Musain without even needing to say that’s where they were going. After a long silence, Grantaire glanced sideways at Enjolras. “What did you tell everyone about why you wouldn’t be at tonight’s meeting, anyway?”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. “Well, I told Combeferre and Courfeyrac the truth, that I was going to follow you.”

Grantaire laughed lightly. “You mean stalk me.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Grantaired nodded slowly. “So if Courfeyrac knows, that means everyone knows that you were following and/or stalking me tonight.”

Enjolras winced. “Probably.” He looked over at Grantaire. “I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw.”

“I never thought you would,” Grantaire told him, his voice low, and he glanced away before adding, “But, uh, I’m beginning to think that maybe I should.”

“Yeah?” Enjolras said.

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it’s about time.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras agreed, glancing down at his hand, still in Grantaire’s. Grantaire’s skin was rough against his, a testament to the life he’d lived, a life Enjolras had never appreciated before that night. Every callous was a reminder of what Grantaire had lived through, of everything that had brought them here, to this moment.

And rough or otherwise, it felt like where Enjolras’s hand had always belonged.

“Maybe it is.”

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #fanfiction #les miserables #modern au #developing relationship #drug addiction cw #drugs cw #addiction cw #narcotics anonymous #relapse #self-indulgent #written for an audience of one aka me

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