Chapter Text
——— Three Years Ago ———
“Agent Javert?”
Grantaire hoped that he didn’t sound nearly as nervous as he felt, standing in the doorway of Javert’s office on his first day assigned to the White Collar crimes unit of the FBI. Javert looked up, scowling at him for a moment before gesturing for Grantaire to step into the room. “Agent Grantaire, I presume?” He stood and offered his hand for Grantaire to shake.
“Yes sir, that’s me,” said Grantaire, sitting down in the indicated chair.
Javert peered at him careful before opening the file in front of him. “Formerly worked with the art theft division in D.C., is that correct?” He didn’t wait for Grantaire to respond. “So what made you decide to transfer to the White Collar unit?”
Grantaire forced what he hoped at least approximated a smile onto his face. “Well, I thought a change of pace might be nice. Despite its name, my art degree was not actually put to good use in the art theft unit, and I was advised that it might be more beneficial here, in identifying forgeries and suchforth.”
“So it had nothing to do with the fact that you were romantically involved with a woman named Floreal who ended up being a notorious art thief?”
Though Javert’s voice was mild and non-accusatory, Grantaire still flushed a dangerous shade of red. “Um. Well, that was part of it. It definitely made me think that a change of scenery was probably in order.”
Javert’s frown deepened. “And I suspect that you won’t find yourself in a similar position while you work here?”
Grantaire snorted. “No. I’ve, uh, sworn off dating criminals. More trouble than they’re worth.”
Now Javert chuckled slightly. “Well. Then I look forward to working with you, Agent Grantaire. And I have your first case right here.” He slid a file across the desk to Grantaire, who took it, flipping through it eagerly.
He frowned as he read through the description. “Robin Hoodie?” he asked incredulously. “Even I’ve heard of Robin Hoodie, back when I was in Quantico. The guy’s a legend. Committed a load of confidence schemes and frauds to rob from the rich and give to the poor and disenfranchised. Supposedly he’s on a mission to bring the system down from within.” He glanced up at Javert. “But he’s uncatchable. If the best agents couldn’t catch him, what makes you think I will?”
Javert smiled at him. “Think of it as a challenge, Agent Grantaire.” Grantaire stared at him for a long moment before slowly standing and heading towards the door. “Oh, and Grantaire?” Grantaire turned back, and Javert’s smile grew. “Welcome to White Collar.”
Grantaire made his way to his desk where he sat down heavily, flipping the file open and staring at the only picture of Robin Hoodie they had ever gotten, a grainy security camera picture that showed only a sliver of his face, part of one eye, and a few light-colored curls. Grantaire stared at the picture and sighed, putting his head down on his desk. He was so fucked.
——— Present Day ———
When Grantaire’s alarm went off, several things happened at once. He reached for his phone, rolling over in bed, and promptly rolled off of his bed, landing painfully on the floor, where his head decided to remind him of just how much he had had to drink the previous night. At the same time, his roommate Jehan opened his door and leaned against the door frame, snickering at his ungainly position on the floor. “Nice,” he said loudly, too goddamn loudly for this time of morning, and Grantaire managed to sit up far enough to flip him off.
"Fuck you," he said without much venom as he grabbed his phone, automatically flipping to his Google alert for ‘Robin Hoodie’ before remembering that Robin Hoodie had been behind bars for the past month. "Fuck," he groaned, heaving himself off the floor, clutching his bed as the room spun.
Jehan clucked his tongue sympathetically. “That’s what you get for going through, what, almost two bottles of vodka last night, was it?”
Grantaire shrugged, wincing at the pain that stabbed through his head. “I was celebrating,” he muttered, crossing cautiously to his dresser, grabbing what he hoped was clean clothes.
"Oh, is that what you’re calling it?" Jehan asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "Because I remember listening for at least an hour as you went on and on about Robin Hoodie. I’m pretty sure you described just about every inch of him, from — what was it? — his ‘flowing golden curls’ to his ‘asinine red hoodie’ and then his, oh yes, ‘sinfully tight skinny jeans." He crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at Grantaire appraisingly. "If I didn’t know better, it sounds like someone has a crush."
Gritting his teeth, Grantaire managed to make it back to his bed with his clothes, peeling his shirt off as he avoided looking at Jehan. “It’s not a crush,” he growled, buttoning the clean shirt he had just grabbed. “He’s a convicted felon. I’m an FBI agent.”
Jehan rolled his eyes. “Ok, so if not a crush, then at least an obsession. You can’t tell me that the first thing you did on your phone just now wasn’t looking at something about Robin Hoodie.”
"Don’t call him that," Grantaire snapped, sitting down on the bed. "His name is Enjolras. The nickname was a stupid one to begin with. And forgive me for the fact that I spent the better part of three miserable years trying to track his ass down. You’d be obsessed too if you spent as many sleepless nights as I did on his behalf." He glared at Jehan. "Now are you going to stand there while I change my pants too?"
Though Jehan winked, his smile turned into something more contemplative, and as he left, he called over his shoulder, “You’re just bitter because those sleepless nights weren’t spent with him.”
Grantaire groaned and flopped back on the bed. There was not a hint of truth in what Jehan said. Not even slightly. No way in hell.
But images of Enjolras at his trial rose unbidden in Grantaire’s head, and Grantaire groaned again. If only the man wasn’t so goddamn attractive. Of course, that was part of his charm, part of what made him a good con man.
He was gone, though, locked up for five years at least, convicted for only one of the numerous list of crimes he was a suspected of committing, and Grantaire needed to think about other, more important things.
Like the meeting he had with Javert in half an hour, for which, without some kind of miracle, he was going to be late.
"Robin Hoodie," Javert said, sliding the file across his desk to Grantaire, who was still red-faced and breathing hard from running to try and get there on time.
Grantaire glanced down at the file, at Enjolras’s mug shot, and thought that he must be in a very specific version of hell. “What about Robin Hoodie?”
Javert leaned forward. “You caught him. You found him. You followed his trail. Undoubtedly, you know more about him than any other agent in the FBI. We’re going to need to use that.”
Frowning, Grantaire sat back in his seat, looking carefully at Javert, whose poker face revealed nothing. “How so? What does the FBI possibly need my expertise on Robin Hoodie for?”
Javert looked at him for a long moment before sighing. “Do you know about the FBI’s work release program for prisoners with certain skills?”
"Of course," Grantaire said quickly, though his taxed mind was still trying to make the connection between Enjolras and a work-release program. "But what does that have to do with—" He broke off, paling as he stared at Javert in shock, finally realizing what Javert was implying. "You can’t be serious!" Grantaire practically shouted, wincing instantly as his head pounded. "I mean, come on, Javert, do you have any idea how long I spent tracking him down?’
For a moment, he thought he saw Javert’s eyes slide over to the most wanted poster that had hung over his desk for as long as Grantaire had known him. “Oh, I know,” Javert growled. Then he switched his gaze back to Grantaire. “But the fact is that you need the help. You’re getting nowhere on this case, and after the success the FBI’s had with this type of thing before, the higher-ups want to try it again.”
"He’s a criminal,” Grantaire snapped, trying very hard not to growl. “What makes you think we can trust him? What makes you think he’ll even help us? His entire MO was about subverting the system, not coming to work for it!”
Javert gathered up the files, his expression firm. “Well, you’ll just have to be extra persuasive when you go propose the idea to him today, won’t you?” He paused for just a moment before adding, “We can’t trust him. And we won’t. He’ll be your responsibility, so you need to remember that most of all. Don’t let him con you, Grantaire.”
Grantaire groaned and debated whether he could curl up in the fetal position and just die. He was beginning to severely regret his hangover, especially since he now had a long drive to the jail ahead of him, and once he got there, that stupid smirking blond with a face that was even more criminal than he was. And not only would he have to talk to him, but he would have to offer him a deal that would make him Grantaire’s responsibility and a pain in Grantaire’s ass for another five years.
In other words, Grantaire was royally fucked.
Grantaire looked up as the guard escorted Enjolras into the room, and the breath did not hitch in his throat upon seeing him. It didn’t. His collar just seemed too tight all of a sudden, that’s all. And his chest seemed to shrink about two sizes.
It was a perfectly normal reaction.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Enjolras looked good or something. He was in prison; no one looked good in prison. Never mind the fact that his blond curls looked as perfect as they ever did. Never mind the fact that the orange jumpsuit somehow managed to look good on him, and orange wasn’t even a color that should have gone with Enjolras’s coloring. Never mind the fact that he sat down in the chair across from Grantaire like a goddamned king taking his throne and gave Grantaire a smile that looked like sex.
Perfectly. Normal. Reaction.
“Agent Grantaire.” Damnit, even his voice was sexy. “To what do I owe this most monumental of pleasures?”
Grantaire smiled tightly at him. “Just checking up on my favorite case. After all, it’s not every day that an FBI agent is able to bring in one of the biggest con men in the history of the agency, one who’s committed dozens of crimes.”
Enjolras leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Allegedly committed,” he corrected, though he grinned at the accusation. “Even so, I admit that I’m surprised to see you here, of all places. I got the impression from my trial that you didn’t particularly want to see me again. Hence why you testified against me.”
Frowning, Grantaire said in a low voice, “If you’ll recall, it was in part my testimony to the way you didn’t resist arrest when you were caught that lightened your sentence, possibly significantly. So you can be just a little bit grateful.”
“Grateful?” Enjolras snorted and he rolled his eyes. “I’d be a hell of a lot more grateful if I wasn’t sitting in a federal penitentiary right now. And besides, you’re avoiding the question - what are you doing here, Agent Grantaire?”
Grantaire sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before sliding the file folder across the metal table. “The FBI is currently investigating a series of confidence schemes that have stolen several hundred million dollars from a variety of very wealthy people. Thus far, we have very little information on him. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, thin. Handsome. Not a whole lot to go on. So the Bureau was hoping to perhaps enlist your help in finding who this con man is.”
Something twisted on Enjolras’s face and he shoved the file back across to Grantaire without looking at it. “Why would I help you?” he snapped. “Why would I care about some con man ripping off a bunch of rich people? To me, that’s the way the world should be, the rich having what they haven’t earned stripped away from them. That’s always what I was…allegedly trying to achieve.”
Sighing again, Grantaire said in a low voice, “Not every con has as…honorable of intentions as you. We have reasons to believe that this particular criminal is working in conjunction with a larger organization, an organization which may have hurt a lot of the people that you’ve tried to help.”
Enjolras just crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I still don’t see a good reason for me to help you.”
“You’ll be released from jail if you agree to cooperate. Into my custody. You’ll work for the FBI as a confidential informant, helping us with cases, and if you do your job and don’t screw up, you’ll be able to rejoin the real world as soon as your sentence is up.”
“So that’s it.” Enjolras’s tone was dry, and he raised an eyebrow at Grantaire, leaning back in his chair. “That’s your big song and dance, your big, convincing argument? I sell out everything I believe in for, what, better food and accommodations? You’re wasting your time.” He stood, calling out, “Guard. I’m ready to go back to my cell.”
Grantaire stood as well, as something on his face flickered. “I’m not going to try and convince you if you don’t want to help. Just…look at the file, would you? Take some time with it, see if you can see something we’re not. Please.” When Enjolras just glared defiantly at him, Grantaire added in a quieter tone, “I thought you believed in justice. That’s all I’m asking you for.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you believe in? Anything?”
Grantaire met his gaze squarely. “I believe that you’re a better person than you’re trying to lead me to believe. I believe that you care, a lot, about the state of the world. And I believe that you have the capacity to be able to help us solve a lot of crimes and do a lot of good.” He crossed to Enjolras and handed him the file. “You might just say that I believe in you.”
Their hands touched for a brief moment, and Grantaire instantly flushed slightly, pulling his hand away as quickly as he could. “Guard?” he called, struggling to control his voice. “We’re done here.” He glanced back at Enjolras. “If you change your mind, call me.”
Then he left, leaving Enjolras behind, file in hand, staring after him with a strange look on his face.
At three o’clock in the morning, Grantaire’s phone rang, and he reached for it without lifting his head off the pillow. “Who the fuck is this?” he growled into the phone, not looking at caller ID.
“Is that any way to greet your newest confidential informant?” The voice was wry and tinny, but Grantaire would have recognized it anywhere.
He sat straight up in bed, ignoring the way his head swam, still under the influence of way too much whiskey from the night before. “Enjolras? Why are you calling me? How did you even find a phone to use at this hour? You’re not allowed to have a cell phone in jail.”
"Right, I’m gonna plead the fifth on the last part and just say that you don’t want to know." There was a brief pause before Enjolras said, quietly, “You told me that if I changed my mind, I should give you a call. Well…”
“You mean you’re going to work for us after all? Help us with the case?” Grantaire tried not to sound as eager as he felt (tried to push down the images suddenly surfacing in his head of Enjolras in a suit and tie, walking around the office with him, going to get a coffee with him, going to crime scenes with him…). “What changed your mind?”
Enjolras was silent for a moment before saying off-handedly, “Let’s just say that I was reminded that sometimes the best way to change the system is to work within the system.”
“Uh-huh.” Grantaire drew his knees up to his chest, frowning slightly. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to end up getting me into a lot of trouble over the course of this arrangement?”
Chuckling softly in Grantaire’s ear, Enjolras told him, “Probably because I will. But I imagine you expected as much.”
Grantaire’s grip on the phone tightened and he tried not to think of exactly what he had imagined expecting from Enjolras. “Right. Anyway. Did you look over the file? Did you see any details that can possibly help us track the guy? Something in his MO, maybe? Or a clue we’ve missed?”
“I can give you more than that,” Enjolras said, sounding far too satisfied with himself. “I can give you a name.”
Grantaire almost dropped his phone. “A name?”
“Yeah. His name is Montparnasse.”
“Montparnasse,” Grantaire repeated, scrabbling at this nightstand for a piece of paper to write this down on. “Great. Dare I ask how you knew that?”
Enjolras laughed, low and sweet, and Grantaire closed his eyes at the sound. “How about we discuss it in person tomorrow when you come spring me from jail?”
Grantaire laughed as well, a wry chuckle. “Fine. Then I’ll see you tomorrow. And you can tell me all about it.”
“Sounds good…boss.”
The line went dead a moment later and Grantaire flopped back against his pillow, groaning loudly. This was going to be a very long five years, and Grantaire was so immensely fucked.