A/N - A little series of vignettes starring our favourite chief, centre and guide.

Chapter 1: The Crown Weighs Heavily

"Good." Enjolras says with finality. "Now, if you will all excuse me, I'm going to lock myself in a darkened room for a few hours."

And then, turning on his heel, he does just that, his bedroom door closing with a decisive snick.

Most of Les Ami's assembled in the apartment stare, puzzled, at the door, then turn quizzical and worried looks at Combeferre.

Combeferre shrugs, "He's fine. Probably the start of a migraine. I'll check on him in a few hours…"

They leave in bits and pieces, rounding off any final bits of organisation to be done between them in order to carry out Enjolras' plan and his orders.

Dutifully, Combeferre eases his friend's bedroom door open a few hours later, wary of the light from the living room. But Enjolras is fast asleep, curled around a pillow, so Combeferre leaves him to it.

It's only, hours later, when Combeferre hears the door to the bathroom between their two rooms open and close, followed by the sounds of heaving his concern piques again and worry settles in the pit of his stomach. He waits until the sound of retching finishes, and the door opens and closes again before getting up and collecting supplies from around the apartment.

He's even quieter than before, even turning the main light off before cracking the door open. Enjolras is on his back now, stiff and still, eyes shut. Combeferre sits gingerly on the bed beside him. It's a sign of just how bad the migraine is that Enjolras doesn't notice him until the bed dips; he keeps his eyes closed but smiles just a tiny bit.

Combeferre put his hand on Enjolras' shoulder, then moves it, slowly so Enjolras knows what he is doing, to gently touch his forehead.

"Tad warm." Combeferre says, voice soft.

Enjolras nods minutely, forehead creasing with pain under Combeferre's fingers.

"Have you taken any Migraleve?"

Enjolras answers no with a small tip of his head from side to side.

Combeferre sighs and reaches into the basket of things he's brought in with him. "I'm going to give you a shot." He says.

"No." Enjolras says, fixing Combeferre with a severe look. "I'm alright…it just…hurts…" he whispers, the last word barely audible.

"No, you're not. You vomited?" Combeferre knows this but waits for a response.

"You heard?" Enjolras says, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

"Mmmhmm. You vomited and I'm fairly sure you're half blind from pain. You know you need it." Combeferre reiterates firmly, drawing a few CC's of analgesic into a syringe.

Enjolras bites his lip. He hates the medication, it dulls his thoughts, makes him feel weak and drowsy and entirely out of sorts but can't really argue with Combeferre in this condition. Finally he relents and allows Combeferre to inject him. Relief isn't quite instantaneous, but the ice pack wrapped in a soft cloth Combeferre puts on his head is.

They have this routine down now. The migraines are increasing in frequency, with the increasing stress of political rebellion building on them all. Combeferre finds his own stress relief in this somehow, caretaking, the simplicity of knowing what his friend needs, rest and comfort, and the migraine is the device to force his stubborn friend to take it. They are his principal cause for concern, for stress, his friends. This one in particular.

He sits for a moment longer, one hand loosely entwined with Enjolras' fingers, the other ghosting soft trails over the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and temples.

"Rest." He says after a few moments. "I will wake you in a few hours; you need to eat."

Enjolras pulls a bit of face at that but nods as he rolls over, curling up again into a ball around the much abused pillow.

It turns out that Combeferre doesn't need to wake him after all. Dark has fallen, and Combeferre is enjoying the peace of their apartment without a variety of Amis littered about the place. He is reading, something for fun for a rare few hours of relaxation, only the lamp at his side for illumination and his quilt over his legs. It is cosy and he is content. He hears Enjolras' door open, hears him move slowly across the room and sink onto the sofa, silently leaning into Combeferre's side.

Combeferre extracts his arm, and puts it around the other man, pulling him into a more comfortable position for them both. Enjolras has dragged his own quilt with him and between them they could probably survive a small ice age, curled up together on their sofa.

"Feeling better?" he asks, voice still soft.

"You drugged me." Enjolras replies, but there is no venom in his voice, amusement perhaps and gratitude.

So he replies "You're welcome." He transfers his book to his other hand, the one whose arm is currently around Enjolras' shoulders, for a moment to reach up and press the back on his now free hand to Enjolras' forehead. "You were warm earlier. Still are, but I can't tell if it's a fever or not." He says. "Are you sure the migraine was just stress, or do you feel like you're coming down with something?"

Enjolras shrugs and closes his eyes, limp against Combeferre's side. He looks comfortable, and he's not hot enough to worry Combeferre into fetching a thermometer so he leaves him be, for now.

"What are you reading?" Enjolras asks.

"Going Postal. Terry Pratchett. It's about a con artist who takes over a post office…humour, fantasy…it's silly really." Combeferre admits with a slight flush. He doesn't usually read anything which is quite so frivolous but after an intense week he needs this as decompression.

Enjolras tips his head onto Combeferre's shoulder, creating a warm, heavy weight there. "Read aloud?"

Combeferre is only slightly startled by the request. This is what they do, particularly when one of them is ill or hurt, they sit together in the almost dark and read to each other. However, usually it's something vaguely political or philosophical. He isn't sure he can do justice to the way Pratchett's characters sound in his head, or indeed, his comedic turn of phrase. Nevertheless, he picks up reading where he left off, pausing occasionally to explain the back story where necessary.

He is interrupted in due course by the vibration of his phone on the arm of the sofa. Before he can regret not turning it off entirely he sees a text from Courfeyrac and flicks the message open with a swipe of his thumb.

Courfeyrac: How's 'jol?

It's an old nickname for Enjolras used only between the three of them, otherwise confusion with Joly occurs.

Combeferre: Not well. But the migraine seems to have backed off, thankfully.

Courfeyrac: Can I do anything?

Combeferre is about to text back no, but changes his mind.

Combeferre: you could be an absolute dear and source some dinner for us… I'm not sure what is in the cupboards and 'jol is currently asleep on my arm.

"M'not asleep." Enjolras murmurs, very sleepily, from Combeferre's shoulder.

"But you're comfy," Combeferre replies smoothly, squeezing his shoulders to dispel any thought of moving. Combeferre is comfy too, and warm, so they stay as they are.

Courfeyrac doesn't reply. Just as Combeferre goes to text him back to question the dinner situation (comfy and warm, yes, but hungry also) he hears a key in the lock and sees Courfeyrac slip in, bag clutched to his chest. He pauses there for a moment, in the doorway, heart flooding with affection at the sight of the two of them on the sofa, under a mound of quilt.

He deposits the bag on the breakfast bar and comes to the sofa, dropping to a crouch in front of Enjolras.

"Hey 'jol. Alright?" he asks softly, rearranging blond curls from Enjolras' forehead. It is one of the many beautiful things about Courfeyrac, Combeferre thinks, this pure tenderness and affection a counterpoint to his vivacious, effervescent and boisterous standard operating system.

Enjolras smiles at the tenderness. "Yeah. Better now, 'fey."

"I've brought a variety of options for dinner. Wasn't sure what we'd be able to coax you to eat if you weren't feeling well."

He goes back to the kitchen and starts pulling containers from the bag. "Soup, chicken – standard, sick food." He says. "Stew, beef. Pizza. Array of Thai bits and pieces. Cereal. Milk. Bread, for toast. Ooo, chocolate spread."

It's a random collection of things, clearly collected in a rush but with a vague sort of thought into what may or may not be in the cupboards and what Enjolras might actually eat.

The three of them end up on the sofa together eating the strangest dinner any of them has had in a while, pick and mixing from all of the things Courfeyrac has brought. They barely have to chide Enjolras into eating at all, as he manages cereal, a selection of fresh fruit and picks at the Thai food, of which Courfeyrac has gotten his favourites.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac manage to polish off the majority of what Courfeyrac brought, apart from the soup which no one touches, but eventually the continual grazing ceases and Courfeyrac reluctantly gets up, puts the leftovers away and shuffles back to the sofa.

Combeferre has shifted by the time he gets back, budging a very sleepy Enjolras along the sofa so Courfeyrac can tuck himself in under Combeferre's other arm and tuck the two quilts around all three of them. He holds Combeferre's book in his hand on the other man's lap and feels the rumble of the words through Combeferre's chest as he says them as much as he hears them. On Combeferre's other side Enjolras is a warm, content weight and for the short while this will last Combeferre feels entirely at peace.

END

Please review! It means so much to know people enjoy what has been posted and what else people would like to see.

Spoiler for next chapter...

'Combeferre sighs as he looks from Courfeyrac to Enjolras and back, "I don't feel entirely myself tonight, to be honest." '