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Bahorel hates the bus. He hates travel. He hates small spaces and stale air. And, he hates having to sit still. Essentially, sitting on the bus, silently, for hours is Bahorel's nightmare.
He taps his fingers irritably on the arm of his chair. Even though the bus is a veritable tank, he’s not sure how he feels about riding into Seraph territory in anything less than his skin and armor. The walls of the bus around him feel like a trap: grey and unmoving, but no less anger inducing then if they had been actively attacking.
In front of him, Eponine is carefully rereading the briefing packet, while Grantaire alternates between doodling on his, and artfully shredding individual pages. Grantaire’s tail curls and uncurls around the arm of the chair, mirroring Bahorel’s own irritated rhythm.
Bahorel takes comfort in the fact that, as frustrating as this bus ride is for him, no one is more frustrated about this turn of events than Grantaire. Grantaire had been convinced that the whole arrangement would fall apart in minutes, but here they are, one month later, heading into the Alcazar of the angel’s homelands to ensure that everything will be safe for the wedding, several months from now. Bahorel’s own hopes for violence were dashed with Marius’s very first lovesick sigh. And, if that hadn’t been sufficient: the downright cloying letters exchanged between the soon-to-be wed would have been. (To say that those letters didn’t draw him to violence, would be lying, but they did rather snuff out the possibility of all out war.)
In all honesty, Bahorel was a little excited to enter into the land of the Angels. But, hell above, he really hates busses. His fingers increase drumming on his armchair. He’s not as excited as Combeferre, who is alone among them in the belief that peace can prevail. But he’s also not as upset as Eponine, who has been angry and snappish when even remotely approached about the subject. All in all, Bahorel would reason that he’s the most neutral on the whole subject.
It’s just… fucking busses. The bus drives over a pothole and Bahorel feels the arm of the chair snap slightly under the sudden pressure he grips it with. Musichetta, who is sitting next to him, says nothing of his increased agitation, but instead curls her tail around his upper arm comfortingly. The gold of her tail-ring glints across the walls of the bus and Bahorel feels himself calming. He looks at Chetta out of the side of his eye, and she smiles wolfishly at him, full fangs extended. It’s a face that says, we can take anything.
Bahorel concedes, only inside his own head, that Chetta is a little terrifying and that gives him more comfort than he ever though anything would.
They arrive at their drop point with no incident, which is perhaps surprising, and Combeferre only shoots them one ‘behave’ look, which is definitely surprising. Bahorel carefully peels his fingers off the arm of his chair, ignoring the way it falls and clatters to the floor.
Bahorel itches to fly right out of the bus the second the doors open, but he knows that he’s to keep his wings carefully folded and bound under his shirt until “the right moment” (aka. when Combeferre says it’s okay). So he stands awkwardly in the too short bus and walks into the too skinny aisle and makes his way last off the bus.
When he gets off, he falls easily behind Grantaire, who slaps tails with Bahorels, even while keeping his eyes locked forward. The angels sweep out of the building in a sharp V, the angel who introduced Cosette at the treaty ceremony leading. He approaches swiftly and Bahorel feels rather than sees Grantaire’s tail stiffen in anticipation. The V stops for a moment a foot in front of Combeferre, before the leader slides forward and grasps Combeferre’s forearm.
“Combeferre.” He says, voice distant and polite, completely at odds with the smile gracing his face.
“Enjolras.” Combeferre returns in much the same tone, but he’s hand curls possessively around the angel’s forearm. “You look well.”
The angel called Enjolras extends out his wings with a flurry of motion. Bringing the tips in a high arch above his head. Behind him, several members of his party, twitch their wings appreciatively. Bahorel aches to rip his wings from their bindings and push them out into the air. Enjolras’s wings are made with delicate looking gold feathers, and Bahorel’s made like deep red leather, but this blatant display effects Bahorel all the same.
There is motion on the edges of the circle that they have carved out for themselves. They are beginning to draw a crowd.
Bahorel's own confusion about the events and his concern over the crowd overrides his desire to unfurl his wings, and he turns a questioning eye to the rest of his squadron. Eponine’s tail is whipping back an forth with such rapid agitation that she’s created a a small dust storm at her feet. Chetta’s tail is curled around her leg, end resting deliberately casually on her ankle, but her claws are out and her eyes are flicking restlessly from Combeferre and his angel, the growing crowd, and the rest of the angel crew. Grantaire’s body is frozen, his eyes watching the exchange like a hawk. Bahorel is convinced that someone could chop his tail off and Grantaire wouldn’t even notice.
“I had hoped it would be you.” This Enjolras says, when the two of them finally extract themselves. Letting his wings fall back into a relaxed position on his back, Enjolras’s team becomes visible again. So, too, does the crowd of people gathering behind them. Bahorel, irritated still from the bus ride, and further irritated by the apparent secret connections that Combeferre had not shared with him, slides out from behind Grantaire to stand directly behind Combeferre’s right shoulder. He displaces Grantaire slightly, but Grantaire hardly seems to mind, moving back with he’s eyes still focused on mapping out the angles in the angels face.
Bahorel lets his irritation show by whipping his tail upwards and glares haughtily at both the angel squadron and the mass of people around them. If this is meant to be a display of popular support, the angels had severely underestimated Bahorel’s sheer level of obstinancy. He begins to speak but is beaten to the punch.
“Not that this isn’t adorably touching.” Enjolras shoots the speaker an irritated look. “but we should take this inside.” Enjolras nods at the dark haired speaker. He has dark blue wings, and hair dark like Combeferre pulled into a low ponytail over his shoulders. In fact, the two are very similar in coloring. If anything, Combeferre’s cropped hair is a shade lighter. Bahorel, quickly looks over the rest of the crowd to see if their is any other angel here with such dark hair, or in fact such dark wings and see’s nothing. The angel nods towards Combeferre, and the rest of the crew.
“I’m Courfeyrac. Come with me if you want to live.” Enjolras glares at him, and hikes his wings over his shoulders. Eponine lets his claws extend. Grantaire’s tail flicks upwards.
Bahorel lets his eyes darken. “Is that a threat?” He all but growls, and leans forward. Combeferre’s hand rests lightly on his chest, holding him back, but also ready to drop at any moment.
Courfeyrac laughs. Grantaire’s claws slide out with a soft click. “Goodness no!” The angel keeps laughing slightly “it’s simply a quote from a book that I’ve always wanted to say.”
If possible, Enjolras strengthens his glare at Courfeyrac. “Please excuse his theatrics. Courfeyrac has yet to master the art of timing.” Courfeyrac looks appropriately apologetic, but when Enjolras turns back to Combeferre, Courfeyrac shoots them a quick wink. Musichetta smiles, and Bahorel outright laughs- his blackened eyes giving way to his normal brown ones.
“If you are done with all this posturing.” Eponine says from he spot to the left of Chetta, and farthest from the Angels in question. “I could stand to be shown to my room.”
Courfeyrac smiles, not at all put off by the sour attitude, bows low and says.
“Follow me, my lady.”
They all turn to walk back into the building that the angels originally came from. Grantaire, who has been strangely quite, shoots Bahorel a look, and gestures with his tail towards the crowd. They have amassed quite a following, several people watch them from the streets, and more even have flown up to find perches on windows or roofs. There is a fair number of people gawking, or looking politely interested, but their is a larger number of people glaring hatefully, and Bahorel did not miss the way that the crowd had tittered disapprovingly when Courfeyrac had mock-bowed to Eponine.
This was going to be fun.
Bahorel, also, did not miss the way that the remaining angels carefully flanked Enjolras and Combeferre, maintaining a strong presence on Enjolras’s side, and leaving Combeferre open to attack, even as the two continued their conversation in hushed tones.
Bahorel and Grantaire moved in immediately to protected their distracted leader, while Eponine and Chetta carefully circled back to the other side. If Eponine occasionally stuck her tail in-between angels legs so that they tripped, well, who was to begrudge her a little fun. It was funny to see the angels stutter and apologize for stepping or almost stepping on the pro-offered limb while Eponine maintained her facade of innocence.
Enjolras and Combeferre continue talking in hushed tones, but Combeferre does reach around Enjolras with his tail, to sharply smack tips with Eponine as she attempts to trip him. Not as distracted at they had originally thought, thinks Bahorel. He wonders if they will ever learn to stop underestimating Combeferre, He certainly hopes that the angels never do.
They walk inside in silence, watching the angels interact where they can. Courfeyrac lightly brushes one of the members of his team with his wings. The angel has short hair, and appears to be wearing a crown of purple flowers. The angel’s light blue wings look like dusted clouds against Courfeyrac’s sleek nearly black ones, and he blushes lightly even as he returns the nudge. Behind them, and angel with bright red hair, rolls his eyes, and his pale green wings move with the action, highlighting that all of his secondaries are slightly yellowed in color. Most of the angels have wings that appear close to white, hued in one or two colors, baring Courfeyrac. Bahorels own wings are a deep red with darker offshoots where the wings stretch over bone. But then again, his wings have no feathers, so perhaps the comparison is pointless.
Still, the color of Courfeyrac’s wings intrigues him. And he knows that Chetta has also noticed it. He’s also noticed that,despite all the flowing locks, their are no women in the Holy Choir’s Royal Guard. He can only imagine the rant that Eponine and Musichetta will give when the opportunity arises.
As they walk through the halls, people come out of the rooms and to the doors to simply gawk at them. The closer to the center they get, the more angry and hateful the glares get. Perhaps without meaning to, the group tightens. Eponine and Chetta circle back to their side, and perhaps deliberately, so does the slight angel from earlier. Despite his short strawberry blonde hair, he is easily the most feminine of all the angels walking with them. He is shorter and more fair, but as they pass through the halls, his light blue wings lift to shield Combeferre and Enjolras from prying eyes. His hand is resting on his sword, and he shoots Chetta a wary look, but Bahorel does not miss how he is the only angel to come to their side, nor does he miss the way that he deliberately positioned himself on the outside, closest to danger and furthest from his own allies. Grantaire shoots the angel his own confused look, as if trying to discern a violent or horrible motive, but Chetta graces the angel with a smile. Even if it is not intentional, Bahorel appreciates the gesture of support.
If things turn ugly, he thinks, he’ll give this angel the dignity of a quick death.
They eventually turn into a grey room with a high ceiling and a couple of chairs. The walls are high arching stones and so are the two tables that literally raise from the ground. The chairs are slopping stools, designed so the backing ends at the small of a persons back, and they are made of one solid piece. The whole room feels bare and uncomfortable, and the closest exits are the door and a small window several feet above them. The red headed angel sits casually in one of the far stools, his wings slotting easily over the back, and Eponine looks as though she is going to mirror the casual demeanor, before she realizes rapidly that their is no way to sit without crushing her tail.
It’s a display of power, and a sharp reminder that they are no longer at home. They pile into the unfamiliar and offsetting room, and Grantaire leans casually on the wall close to the door. Eponine, frustrated, sits directly on the table, glaring at the seated red-head, as though daring him to comment. The red-heads green wings twitch slightly, but he offers no comment.
Enjolras and Combeferre breeze into the room and head easily across the circle to assume positions furthest from the door. Courfeyrac moves to stand to Enjolras’s left. An angel with pale red wings sits next to Bahorel, shifting slightly to the left so that his wings fall to Bahorel’s right side, instead of in Bahorel’s face. His light brown hair is pulled tightly at the base of his neck. He’s wearing a scarf. Bahorel stares incredulously at the angels covered throat for a moment. It’s like, 100 degrees in here. Hardly scarf weather. Plus, the Angel is wearing short sleeves. Who wears scarfs and short sleeves?
And yet, the scarf stays secured on the angels neck.
Bahorel resigns himself to never understanding the weirdoes that are their new partners in protecting the royal family. He taps his tail to the wall and then arches it to point and the angels neck. Chetta, who watches from the other side of the room, laughs softly. The aforementioned angel watches her laugh carefully, offering a small guarded smile, which quickly grows when Chetta gives back one of her own. Bahorel watches Chetta’s tail curl in on itself, a clear sign of interest.
Great. Flirting. That had not been his point at all. Luckily, Grantaire seems equally as put off by it, and they share a look and a eye roll before Combeferre calls attention. Eponine, because she’s both snarky and confrontational, looks Enjolras straight in the face, leans forward on the table and says.
“I hope you don’t think we are meant to sleep here.”
Enjolras, for one, looks not at all threatened and if anything slightly confused.
“Why would we want you to sleep here? You can't sleep here. It’s the War Room.”
Eponine blinked, and slide her eyes to Combeferre. Combeferre shrugged, barely perceptively, in a way that seemed to imply ‘let’s see what they are up to before we determine if we have to rip their hearts out of their chest.’ (Bahorel may or may not have taken artistic liberty on that, but it sounds much better than Combeferre’s “let’s hear him out.”)
“We wanted to brief you on the rooms available and allow you to make the decision yourself. Since we know so little about you, we figured that this would cause the least ruffled feathers.” Courfeyrac says, then furrows his eyebrows in confusion for a moment “or uh… twisted tails. or something….” He glances out of the sides of his eyes at Enjolras, floundering.
“Perhaps,” Enjolras cuts in “We should get to know each other.”
Grantaire snorts.
Enjolras continues unperturbed.
“I am Enjolras. Captain of the Holy Choir’s Royal Guard.”