A/N: Wow… Oh my… *Glances up from piles of University work and other fanfictions before checking a calendar sheepishly* It's been three months since I even thought of updating this and… Oh my darlings I am so sorry!

*Gives an enormous virtual hug to everyone who has stuck by my writing!*

Life just seemed to get the better of me with regard to writing this and so it was only with the wisdom and encouragement of a friend who understands and writes Les Miserables fanfiction as well as listening to Hadley Fraser and Louise Dearman's cover of 'A Whole New World' from 'Aladdin' on 'Friday Night Is Music Night' on BBC Radio 2 that I have finally managed to get round to updating this!

This is for all the wonderful people who have believed in this and all my other works *if any of my old readers are still out there (you know who you are) just remember that you are all incredible and I love and thank you for all your support from the bottom of my heart!

Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

On The Road To Recovery

'Will he be all right?' Enjolras' brain seems to be working incredibly slowly as he surfaces back into consciousness; allowing the warm pressure of the blankets pulled up around him to enfold his body for a few moments more before he fully surfaces. The weight of Grantaire's still trembling fingers feels oddly comforting as they tangle themselves within his hair; the cynic's nose pressed deep within the nape of his neck; his breath falling in short, ragged, sleep filled gasps against the cool skin of his neck. Slowly, awkwardly the chief manages to extract his good arm from around the cynic's shoulder and reach down to fumble in his palm; fingers suddenly desperate for the security of another's touch as they skim the rugged landscape of ink stained, broken callouses; remembering with a pang of guilt how the self same hands had held his barely conscious body away from the hands of the National Guard back in the sewers; a lifetime ago.

The still sleeping cynic mumbles something incoherently into his pillow as the touch is returned slowly, hesitantly at first before the fingers press down hard and Enjolras relaxes into the touch as he leans over to see two slits of bloodshot emerald peering up at him from under the mess of blankets. A sudden, unexplainable bubble of sheer compassion erupts through the chief's chest as he holds the cynic's gaze; trying to apologize without words for all the pain, all the suffering, all the self-hatred which he knows that will never fully release its' iron fist like hold on Grantaire's wine drenched, cynical soul, that his beloved revolution, his dreams for setting Patria free from the tyrannical hold of the Bourgeious has caused him, caused them and what he hopes that soon they will be able to face together; whole and pure and alive in the knowledge of their friendship.

'It'll take time, I can't deny it but…' The sound of Combeferre's voice; rough with exhaustion and yet brimming with that never ceasing compassion that seems to radiate from the guide wherever he goes seems to sooth Enjolras as he hears the groaning creak of the door hinges slowly pulling themselves apart and a sees the glimmer of a soft, wane morning light shimmering through the crack; illuminating the shadows of his oldest, closest friend and Adrienne who is standing slightly side on to the door; her mane of ebony curls falling in a waterfall of ink down her back. From somewhere deep within the bowels of the house, Enjolras is sure that he can hear Toussaint calling for someone and the lark-like tones of Cosette followed by Courfeyrac answer in reply as like some long dormant prehistoric creature, the house slowly pulls itself into wakefulness.

'But…' There's a hesitance to Adrienne's words; an uncertainty that Enjolras hasn't heard there before and he suddenly realises just how much Adrienne cares for the still sleeping cynic curled up in a messy nest of blankets beside him; just how much they all care for him as the fingers clasped within his palm relax slightly; slowly roving around the thick, tense skin as Grantaire pulls himself back into consciousness.

'He needs time Adrienne. I don't want to rush them, either of them and with everything that's happened, everything he's seen, I just…' Combeferre's voice tails away at the sound of footsteps slowly coming up the stairs and Enjolras hears the swish of dark linen which signals the arrival of Anna with fresh flowers for guest bedrooms; a habit of both his Mother and Henriette which he vaguely remembers from childhood as he slowly untangles himself from the mess of blankets and pushes his body up into a sitting position; his good hand lingering for a moment longer over Grantaire's cheek as the cynic shuffles away from the sudden chill that the loss of a second body brings to the bed.

'I… I thank you Combeferre… From both of us… For all you've done; all of you… After Alain's death I didn't think…' Her voice tails away as the light creak of the floorboards and the soft, swishing brush of a long, dark, linen skirt and a whispered apology that is answered by Combeferre; signals the arrival and departure of Anna into the twisted labyrinth of rooms that adorn the first floor of this gargantuan house.

Sudden, small, jarring stabs of pain prickle up and down his broken leg as he slowly shuffles towards the edge of the mattress, his good hand groping for the cold security of the bed post; sucking in an involuntary breath of pain from catching through his lips as the shattered muscles are forced to contract. For a moment that feels like a lifetime but in reality is simply the length of one ragged, jarring breath he allows himself to hang off the edge of the bed; allowing the juddering bursts of pain to slowly subside into nothingness; allowing the cold, metal hardness of the bedpost to embrace his palm; as slowly, carefully he allows the trousers to drop to the floor as he stretches out his the taut, tired limbs and wriggles his toes as Combeferre taught him as the fabric spirals to his feet in a pool of black fabric to his bare wooden floorboards. Tentatively, he stretches down further, his fingers tightening momentarily around the icily symmetrical bedpost as another gasp of pain crashes through his lips. He hates this part. Hates the feelings of vulnerability and insecurity that trying to get undressed on his own plagues him with as his eyes flick in desperation towards the half open door and to where he knows Combeferre will still be waiting.

'Combe…' The name rises tentatively to his lips; dancing around his tongue, teasing him as without warning he feels the mattress underneath him shift, the springs groaning slightly as the body once locked in sleep beside him slowly surfaces back into reality. Unconsciously he feels his grip on the bedpost tightening with every passing second; the pain coursing through the shattered limb with increasing, ferocious speed as he bites down on his tongue to stop himself from calling out; refusing to give it the satisfaction just yet; tasting the hard, metallic tang of blood gush over his teeth as he does so.

Why? Why after everything does it still have to be so hard? Without warning he feels unwanted pricks of fiery emotion stab through his retinas, the sudden, crushing, almost suffocating feelings of guilt, grief and sheer, severe agony tearing at his shattered soul, threatening to drown him with every passing second as he grits his teeth against the pain and tries again; slowly lowering his aching body to the floor and trying not to think about what Combeferre will say if he finds him like this, what the others will say if they were here; what they would think of their once proud marble leader; now reduced to little more than a crumbling, disabled effigy whose fire, passion and love for his beloved Patria was slowly rotting as it hid in secure safety deep within the bowels of a rambling English country estate…

The sound of a door being pushed tentatively open.

A moment's silence in which all he hears is the sudden ragged rhythm of his heart thumping against his ribcage and the roar of blood in his ears as without warning the images from the barricade begin to flash before his eyes again and there is nothing he can do except watch his friends, his comrades at arms, his best and bravest lieutenants fall over and over again, sees Jehan kneeling on the icy cobblestones, trussed up like an animal being dragged to the slaughterhouse as he yelled his final farewell to a future that he would never see in a burst of never ceasing passion; their little, insignificant lives snapped painfully short by the cackle of the rifle chorus or the stabbing thrust of a bayonet; Grantaire's panicked, pleading roar echoing eerily through the church encloaked in a sudden, deathly silence; the weight of Combeferre's fingers in his palm clinging to him, begging him to stay with him even though all he wants to do is fall back into the dark, comforting depths of senseless oblivion where there was no pain; the wild, desperate, almost manic gleam leaping high in Courfeyrac's inky pupils as he fought through the pews barring him from one of his oldest friends; the icy, metallic weight of the knife pressing painfully into the tender skin just above his larynx as the sweaty, unwelcome weight of thick, unknown fingers tightening deep within his hair as he desperately tries to throw his head back and is welcomed instead by the cold, metallic pressure of a revolver slotting itself with icy accuracy against his temple…

'Jolras? Enjolras, what are you… Is it…? Are you…?' A voice that is rough with lack of sleep suddenly cuts through his concentration like a sword through cloth as without warning he feels a pair of shaking, calloused and yet steadying palms being placed on his shoulders, working up to cup his cheeks as a thumb carefully nubs away the sudden scars of salt that he can't remember shedding which caress the skin; slowly drawing him back into reality.

Combeferre. He tries to shake the hands away; but still they hold on; thick, known, nimble fingers that still shiver slightly with exhaustion holding fast and firm in their touch on his shoulder as they slowly lower him back into a sitting position; his whole body suddenly awash with silent, screaming pain. Dimly he feels a calloused palm creep into his own and squeeze softly, the fingers opening in silent invitation; the nub of a nail that has not been filed down perfectly scratching the tender skin as it rubs a comforting circle over the skin; silently grounding him back into the present. Oh 'Ferre…

'It hurts?' He clings to the sound of Combeferre's voice as if it were a scrap of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea and he a drowning sailor as without warning his eyes slip shut and he nods mutely; leaning gratefully into the guide's solidly comforting bulk as the mattress springs groan in audible protest and the weight of yet another body as the arms holding him tighten their grip; drawing him into a thick, tearstained embrace as the guide presses their foreheads together in silent solidarity; wide, dark eyes flicking almost imperceptibly towards the small trestle table where a new bottle of Laudanum sits next to a clean glass and Combeferre's ever present notebook. Enjolras shakes his head and Combeferre raises an eyebrow in surprise at him, his whole being rising in silent magnificence to the challenge. 'I'm not an experiment, I want to keep my mind', he wants to say, the words dancing to the tip of his tongue; ready and waiting to lash out in stinging rebuke; but something he sees in the wide, dark, glistening eyes of his oldest, closest friend makes him stop; biting the stinging remarks back into oblivion. Beside him; as if feeling the sudden tension that had shot between the two friends like a surge of electric current; he feels Grantaire relax.

'It will help', the guide murmurs after a moment of silence in which they hold each other's gaze; one hand slowly reaching up to trace the lines and bends of his cheekbone as he presses their foreheads together in a silent act of reassurance. 'Trust me. One last time Mon Ami, I promise you. Please?'

But he doesn't want it.

He doesn't want to have to surrender his body to the helpless feeling of dependence and uncontrollability that the Laudanum pulls him into, doesn't want to have to face the constant, persistent flood of unwelcome memories which are constantly rising their heads just above the rim of his psyche and yet… The emotions must be present in his face; swirling over the pale, marble skin like ink over parchment as Combeferre reaches up to clasp their hands together; the warmth and security of known skin flooding through him like balm as he slowly rises his eyes to meet the guide and after a moment that feels like an eternity but in reality is simply the length of one ragged breath gives a small nod of consent.

A small, soft smile seems to crack through the lines of exhaustion and worry that have enveloped Combeferre's face ever since they found Feuilly and Grantaire huddled together in the library, since those snatched and desperate moments snatched between a broken chief and a breaking guide in the warm, dusky half light of a fiacre before everything they thought they knew was going to be changed forever. At his back he feels Grantaire push himself clumsily up out from the tangled nest of blankets and the weight of a thick, scarred palm that still quivers slightly from withdrawal slip into his good hand and squeeze softly in another silent act of reassurance. He returns the touch almost unconsciously; silently accepting the soundless question but still it does not stop the sudden twinge of unease from coursing through him at the thought of being so exposed in front of Grantaire; Grantaire who has always thought of him as some higher, untouchable deity; a marble statue, a golden God; full of almost otherworldly passion to be truly part of the mortal world.

From outside the half open door that is a puddle of dusky morning light, he can hear the sound of racing footsteps and the combined sound of the hushed, breathlessly excited tones of Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Marius as Combeferre pushes himself up from his haunches and moves towards the table where faint shadows of bright, glittering light seem to dance off the glass as they pool in from the high, slashed window.

'Hush! You'll wake them if you make so much noise Courfeyrac!'

'Speak for yourself; they're bound to know soon anyway and Combeferre said that he was going to wake them when he went up so…'

'Look, I… I don't think this is really necessary….'

''Course it's necessary Marius! They'd want to know, you know they would!'

- 'Marius! Marius, my dearest friend, you really are an idiot sometimes! It… This is necessary! Imperative even! You and your wonderful, beautiful Ursula…' Enjolras can almost taste the disbelieving excitement radiating from Courfeyrac's tone as his voice tails away dramatically; allowing the Bonapartist to sink it in.

A badly supressed snigger of infectious laughter from Feuilly and Enjolras can't help but feel a slight smile from quirking at his lips as he flicks his gaze over to Grantaire; whose emerald eyes still slightly bloodshot and are glittering with life; are alive with wonder as out of the corners of his vision; Enjolras sees Combeferre slowly place the opened and yet forgotten bottle of Laudanum back onto the table with deliberate care; the pieces of this strange, inexplicable new jigsaw flickering, desperately wanting to dance into place as he makes to open the door wide.

'But… Cosette… Monsieur Frauchlevent… Courfeyrac… I can't…' The sound of a sudden breath being knocked out as the rug snags under Marius' trip and a ripple of laughter from Feuilly. Yes you can you lovable idiot and neither of us are going to take 'no' for answer.

Enjolras can't help but feel his smile widen at the blushing Bonapartist's bumbling's; the crushing feelings of guilt, grief and aching, agonizing regret that had so recently plagued him sweeping back into oblivion as he hears a swift, sharp knock rap itself against the door; the thick, wooden panelling barely able to contain the infectious excitement almost bursting from Courfeyrac's soul.

'Yes?' Combeferre shoots both the chief and the cynic a grin that makes Enjolras' heart lift within his chest as he makes to open the door but is beaten to it by Courfeyrac who throws it open wide without ceremony; his whole, darkly handsome face alight with an infectious grin, eyes sparkling with an almost manic light that Enjolras can't quite place.

A moment's silence stretches out between the six of them; in which Courfeyrac beams around the sickroom; hazel eyes lighting up on Enjolras' cane propped against the hard backed chair facing the window; so that the cool, pink flecked dawn that is slowly creeping up and over the sprawling, rambling hedgerows and gardens bathes the room in a stream of glittering golden light, on the jumbled pile of clothes scattering the side of the bed, on the nest of blankets and finally on the waiting, patiently expectant faces of three of his closest friends; wide, dark eyes suddenly tender as without further ado and with some gentle encouragement from Feuilly; he pushes the blushing, awkward Bonapartist into the room which earns him a sceptically raised eyebrow from Combeferre; eyes flicking instantly to Marius' injuries with a doctor's precision.

'I… um…' With tentative, almost endearing awkwardness Marius rubs at the back of his neck and shoots a half-hearted glare at Courfeyrac who nods in silent encouragement. 'Cosette and I… um…' Enjolras swallows in sympathy at his friend's awkwardness; understanding the difficulty at having to express his feelings in such an intimate situation; having felt it himself when speaking with his family on subjects other than his political beliefs and the up and coming fight for freedom as the Bonapartist scrunches at the brim of his hat convulsively as it twists between his fingers before summoning the courage to continue.

A moment of silence passes before he speaks again. 'Cosette and I… Well… We've decided… A…' He swallows and glances in despair at Courfeyrac whose grin falters; tender eyes brimming with compassion as he moves to place a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder; an unspoken question lighting up behind his eyes.

'Shall I?' Marius nods in all too obvious relief; all the tension that has been balling up through his body flooding out of his being so quickly so that he staggers and almost falls and would have done so had Feuilly not been there to place a steadying hand on his shoulder; eyes shining with expectation flicking towards Courfeyrac to pick up their announcement.

The centre pauses for dramatic effect more than anything else, Enjolras knows, wide, dark eyes dancing over the three waiting souls before taking a deep breath and plunging in.

'My friends; my dear, dear friends; it is my great pride and privilege to announce that,' he pauses here, flicking his gaze over to Marius who has passed a hand over his eyes and nods in almost impatient encouragement. ' To announce that our dear friend and companion Monsieur; nay Baron,' he exaggerates Marius' title to great effect here; an antic which earns him an eye roll from Feuilly and an unintelligible mutter from Marius that sounds very much like 'just get on with it Courfeyrac, please?'

Courfeyrac clears his throat importantly and Enjolras feels Grantaire stifle a laugh behind him; the action rumbling through his throat pressed up against the back of his neck as the cynic leans his head against the bony plateau of his shoulder blade and sighs contentedly.

'As I was saying; our dear friend Baron Pontmercy has just announced that his marriage to the daughter of our gracious saviour to which we are all utterly indebted', the centre pauses here and Enjolras sees with a sudden pang of pain filled grief the ghosts of the fallen friends rising up behind the hazel eyes so usually alight with the flames of light and life and mischief.

Bahorel… Bossuet… Joly… Jehan… I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! If only… If only you were here… You'd love it…

And without warning he hears Bahorel's loud, infectious laughter rumbling through the room as he clapped Marius on the shoulder with a booming 'didn't think you had in you Mon Ami!', sees the poet's wide, honey coloured eyes ablaze with happiness as he clapped his delicate, ink stained palms together and began to write passionate sonnets declaiming the wondrous adoration between the Bonapartist and his Ursula, sees Bossuet knocking over the trestle table in his haste to congratulate Marius and Joly helping him to his feet… Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for!

'… Will be taking place on the first Sunday of next month and to which we are all invited!' He finishes with a triumphant, flourishing, utterly over dramatic bow and scans the room as Combeferre rises to his feet in congratulations to their second youngest member; eyes flickering in concern towards Enjolras who finds himself staring fixedly at his hands; refusing to let the sudden, unwanted torrent of painful memories overcome him.

Without warning he feels Grantaire's scarred and shaking hand creep into his and squeezes softly as he raises his eyes towards the centre and the democrat and nods; remembering the look of wide eyed, compassionate concern leaping high within Cosette's hazel orbs as she had watched their hands; his trembling with fever, hers a steady rock adorned with a simple, golden ring shimmering in the pale, pink flecked morning light. 'Congratulations Citizen,' he murmurs and casts his eyes to Combeferre who nods in silent understanding as he moves towards the trestle table and the once forgotten Laudanum.

There will be time for regrets and reminisces later, Enjolras thinks as he feels Grantaire's fingers tighten within his palm. There will be time to think back on those terrifying, sultry hours in which their whole world was ripped apart and yet rebuilt by the grace and never ceasing courage of two bright souls who have helped his fragile band of passionate dreamers create a sense of family once more; but now is not that time. Now is the time for laughter and celebration as he sees Feuilly clap Marius on the shoulder and Courfeyrac pull him into a hard embrace; one hand reaching up to ruffle his mop of dark hair in an act of loving, fraternal companionship and feels the smile that has been tugging at his lips ever since he heard Courfeyrac's voice filtering through the door broaden at the sight of their fragile family slowly embarking on the journey of becoming whole again in the knowledge and love of their friendship.

A/N: This long forgotten fic is now officially back in business! Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain and will help me through all the reading I have to do for University.

Much love and enjoy x