And in this world of strangers (1/2)

[airgiodslv]

Title: And in this world of strangers
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Summary: Spencer got the note on the 7th of August, with the sky already turned to dusk, the sun lost behind the great wall surrounding the city.
Notes: For the incredible and amazing disarm_d. Happy holidays, darling. Historical AU. I am hugely indebted to Richard Twiss for writing A Trip to Paris in July and August 1792, and to Project Gutenberg for making it available online. Thanks to my betas for their assistance and insight.



Spencer got the note on the 7th of August, with the sky already turned to dusk, the sun lost behind the great wall surrounding the city. Jon delivered it in silence, on a silver plate, and had disappeared again before Spencer could ask him where it had come from, with the talent of a servant trained to be both competent and invisible.

He reappeared as soon as Spencer had read the note and called his name, answering Spencer’s request for his coat and horse without show of surprise. It was late to be going out, with Paris as it was, but Spencer’s parents were still at a soiree with friends, and they would understand when he explained.

Spencer wrote them a note as Jon was getting his coat, finishing just as he returned. “Give this to my parents, please,” he requested, sparing a minute to hold the lump of sealing wax against a candle flame until it melted three drops over the fold. He pressed his ring hastily to the wax to seal it, and turned it over to Jon with a brief, “Thank you.”

His gelding was outside, already saddled. Normally Spencer would walk, but it was growing darker, and his clothes were too rich by far in the minds of most Parisians. It would be easier to ride, even if it was only for a few streets.

One of the servants showed him in to the drawing room, where the young master of the household was waiting. The house felt chilly, intimidating even though Spencer had spent a good deal of his childhood here, surrounded by the grand and elaborate Baroque décor that the rest of Europe had left behind long ago. Spencer waited until they were alone before taking the last steps forward and claiming a fierce hug. “Ryan.”

Ryan was impeccably turned out, as always, his dress and bearing betraying no hint of what had happened. Spencer could feel it in his shoulders, though, Ryan’s thin frame tense and drawn under his hands. He looked even smaller than usual in the large room, dwarfed by the massive furniture and stiff-necked portraits staring disapprovingly down from their places on the walls. “You didn’t have to come,” he said quietly.

Spencer tightened his hold once more before releasing him. “Don’t be stupid,” he admonished, and pulled back enough to read Ryan’s eyes, searching out hints of what he was feeling. The grief hadn’t set in yet, if it ever would; Ryan was holding himself together too tightly to crack. They were still alone, but Spencer lowered his voice regardless, out of courtesy. “The police?”

Ryan shook his head. “He was drunk.” His voice was level when he answered, but Spencer was close enough to see his arms tense, and the flicker of his eyes. “He struck a serving girl.”

Spencer’s breath stopped in his chest, and he forced it out, reminded himself of why he was here. No police meant that the people had taken matters into their own hands, as they so often did with the hum of revolution and equality under their skin. “I’m sorry,” he said, even knowing Ryan might not greatly regret the loss.

Ryan nodded, lips pinched tight into a line, and raised his hand to wipe at a spot on his cheek, almost as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. For the first time, Spencer saw the fleck of blood on the white lace cuff. “They stopped there,” he said, quieter now, knowing as Spencer did that in every noble household, the walls might well have ears. “At least they haven’t held me accountable for his actions.”

“Yet,” Spencer replied grimly. He was already formulating plans, considering the hour and the risk involved in bringing Ryan back with him. “My parents would allow you to stay with us, you could say you needed some time to recover from the grief. It will be safer there.”

Spencer’s family was bourgeois, upper-class but not an enemy of the people. Their servants were treated as part of the household, an arrangement unshaken by the shifting politics in France. It was a far cry from the way Ryan’s father had run his affairs, and with the servants already taking matters into their own hands, the title Ryan had just inherited only put him in greater danger.

Spencer read the same thoughts in Ryan’s face, but he also knew what Ryan’s answer would be, even before he spoke. “I can’t. Give me a few days to get my father’s affairs in order, and then I’ll see what I can do. If there’s an investigation, I don’t want to drag your family into it.”

Spencer wanted to protest, but the look on Ryan’s face kept him silent. “All right,” he agreed. “But you know you’re welcome any-”

Shattering glass outside the window silenced him, and he saw Ryan jump, nerves wound tight. “It’s probably nothing,” Ryan said carefully, but then another crash sounded, and the distant sound of shouting.

“Downstairs,” Spencer ordered, gripping Ryan’s wrist to pull him away from the window. Ryan was probably right, but Spencer wasn’t willing to risk the fickle whims of an angry mob by offering them a rich, unarmed aristocrat in the window like a showpiece. If it was more than a few rabble-rousers, he wanted Ryan safe.

The house was silent around them, eerily so; Spencer kept expecting a servant to materialize and ask them if they needed anything, but they passed no one in the elegant hall or on the stairs to the cellar. “If they break into the house, we’ll be safer down here,” Spencer said. Ryan was already dropping the bolt into place, taking a candle from the sconce at the top of the stairs to light the others.

The cellar was large, in keeping with the rest of the house, filled with racks of the best that France’s vineyards had to offers. It was slightly musty, and the light from the candles was too dim to do more than highlight the shapes of barrels and boxes lurking in the corners of the room. Spencer had only been down here once, when he and Ryan had gone exploring as children, before they’d been caught and chased out by the head cook.

They listened for several minutes, but the sounds were muffled now, and Spencer couldn’t even be sure no one was inside the house. He would have expected the servants to be guarding the doors, but considering the circumstances, they might even be among those outside crying for justice and the Republic.

Ryan sank to the ground against the rows of aging bottles, and Spencer sat beside him, staying close. “They’ve been restless lately,” Ryan murmured, long fingers picking at the lace of his cuff. “There’s been more talk of a counter-revolution, it’s making them nervous.”

And angry, Spencer thought, but he didn’t say it, just reached out to take Ryan’s hand and lace their fingers together. “They’re sending out more arrest warrants,” he said quietly, thinking of the soiree his parents had attended this evening, and the news that had prompted it. “It’s the king, they’re afraid of another escape attempt.”

Ryan made a noncommittal noise, but his fingers were closed tight around Spencer’s, and his shoulders were hunched. Spencer leaned closer in response, offering his presence like a shield because he had nothing else.

They heard another crash, and something that might have been a cackle, or a scream. “They’re not inside the house,” Spencer whispered, and let the silent yet pass between them unspoken. The loud crack of a gunshot startled them both, and Spencer’s arm went around Ryan protectively without thought, fingertips digging into the soft material of his jacket.

Ryan turned his face against Spencer’s neck and stayed there, close enough that Spencer could feel the pounding of his heart as more shots went off above them. His eyes were closed, lashes tickling Spencer’s skin, mouth open and breath hot against his collar. Spencer pulled him closer when they heard another crash, nearer this time, and then there was the unmistakable sound of a window shattering.

Ryan breathed something against Spencer’s neck, the words lost, and Spencer tugged at his cravat to loosen it as the air turned hot and stale, pressing in around them. He listened hard for voices, footsteps, but the only sounds he could make out were the shouts of the crowd, louder now, and the crashes of things being overturned in the street.

The sound of a gunshot made them both jerk, Ryan letting out a startled sound that Spencer’s coat did nothing to muffle. Spencer was almost certain the mob hadn’t come in, but it was hard to hear over the pounding of his own heart, and Ryan’s ragged breathing next to his ear.

Ryan pressed his face against Spencer’s chest, whispering his name, and Spencer said a silent prayer.

~

Ryan saying his name was what woke him, soft but intent. Spencer blinked his eyes open, groggy and disoriented until he remembered where they were, and why, which brought him fully awake almost instantly.

Ryan was crouched over him, his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “It must be dawn by now,” he said, and Spencer wondered if Ryan had slept at all, and when he himself had dropped off to sleep. “They’ll have gone. You need to get home, your parents will be frantic.”

Spencer nodded, pulling himself that last bit into consciousness, sitting up and feeling his back twinge in protest for spending the night slumped awkwardly on the cellar floor.

“Come with me,” he said, but Ryan shook his head, the skin beneath his eyes bruised dark with exhaustion.

“I need to secure the house,” he said quietly, pulling Spencer up from the floor, steadying him when his foot sent pins-and-needles through his leg and he stumbled. “I’ll call on you as soon as I can.”

Spencer nodded, and the two of them crept up the stairs, unlatching the cellar door and emerging into the house. It was still, with no evidence of having been disturbed during the riot, the watery rays of early morning creeping through the windows where the curtains were still drawn from the evening before. There was no sign of the servants, nothing but silence and the low creaking of the floorboards as they slipped out.

“God be with you,” Ryan murmured, pulling Spencer suddenly close, clasping him tight in an impulsive embrace. Spencer took a breath, smelling stale fear and the faint scent of Ryan’s cologne, and then Ryan released him and took a quick step back. Spencer squeezed his hand one last time and made his way out to the stables.

There were soldiers on the streets, more so than there had been the day before, and the evidence of last night’s disturbance was plain to see; rubble strewn across the cobblestones, shattered windows and broken bottles. Spencer rode home at a walk, taking in the damage, the buzz in the air that felt like a calm before the storm broke in earnest.

He was within sight of his house when someone caught at his horse’s bridle, and he reined in sharply, startled, before recognizing Jon. He opened his mouth to speak, surprised, but Jon put a finger to his lips, gesturing for Spencer to dismount, pulling his horse to the side at the crossroads.

He was about to ask again when Jon leaned in, speaking quietly and rapidly. “There are police in the house, they’ve arrested your parents and the rest of your family. There’s a warrant out for you, you’re to be arrested on sight.”

Spencer went cold, sweat breaking out beneath his collar and clumsily-retied cravat. “Arrested for what?” he asked breathlessly, fighting the instinct to run to the house and save them. If Jon was telling the truth, there was nothing he could do.

“Suspicion of treason,” Jon answered, and his hand tightened around Spencer’s elbow when he swayed, the world tilting dizzily. “I heard the warrants read, there was an informant at the meeting last night. They have every name.”

“The meeting?” Spencer was struggling to make sense of the words, but Jon’s voice was echoing in his head, treason. “What meeting?”

Jon looked sympathetic, but his tone was even, unyielding. “They’re Feuillants,” he said softly. “Royalists. The Jacobins are targeting anyone who might have sympathies with the king, they’ve arrested nobles all over the city.”

“No,” Spencer said faintly.

Jon squeezed his arm tighter, shook him gently. “You have to go,” he ordered, letting go suddenly, hand on Spencer’s back to push him forward. “Get out of here, if they spot you it’ll be prison.”

Spencer wanted to go, but worry was holding him back. “You could be arrested for telling me this,” he said desperately. “You could be arrested anyway, as one of our household. They view servants in royalist households as traitors, you know that. Where will you go?”

“Let me worry about that,” Jon insisted, pushing Spencer away again. “I have family in the city, I’ll stay with them. Go.”

“Wait.” Spencer dug in his heels, fighting the nagging feeling that he had to move now, the tide of panic sweeping him along. He yanked at his cuffs, pulling off the jewels fastening his sleeves and the rings from his fingers. “Take these. If anyone challenges your story, you can tell them you found out we were royal sympathizers and robbed us. I…” He was at a loss, still swimming in disbelief. “I wish I had more to give,” he finished helplessly.

Jon held the baubles loosely in his hand, staring at Spencer. “It’s enough,” he said finally, and his hand gripped Spencer’s shoulder. “God bless you.”

“And you,” Spencer returned automatically, and was rewarded with a fleeting smile before Jon turned and disappeared around the corner, heading away from the house.

Spencer stood, lost, in the middle of the street. He had nowhere to go; his parents’ friends might easily be under suspicion as well, and Ryan’s house would be swarming with police after the riot last night and his father’s unexpected death. There was a café he could visit, but not for long without arousing suspicion, and if the word got out that he was wanted by the police, there were too many people there who knew him.

He had barely any money in his purse, and most of the wealth he’d been carrying he had just put into Jon’s hands. There wasn’t even a way he could ask for a room at a hotel, not without there being a record and a bill he couldn’t pay. He could wander until dark, possibly find Ryan once night fell, but what then?

The gelding shifted next to him, bored, hooves clacking against the cobbles. Spencer startled, and then slowly tied the reins back over the pommel of the saddle. “Go home,” he ordered, giving his horse a quick slap on the rump. It danced forward, stopped for a moment, and then trotted off down the street. Spencer watched it go, and was turning to head the other way down the street when a voice hailed him from across the street.

“I say, you wouldn’t happen to know the way to the Hôtel de Cabris, would you?” The question was posed in French, but with a heavy English accent. The man who had spoken was not terribly tall, and young, wearing the short coat currently so popular among British tailors. He had dark hair and warm eyes, and when he smiled, recognition flickered in the back of Spencer’s mind.

“I know you,” he said without thinking, and it was unutterably rude, but the Englishman just laughed, and with the sound came the memory of his name. Brendon Urie, youngest son of an English earl, introduced at a party Spencer had attended two years ago with his parents. He had been loud, brash, and full of laughter. Spencer took an instinctive step back.

“I believe you do,” Brendon responded, without seeming to take any offense. “The Comtesse d’Albany’s ball, wasn’t it?” He leaned against the wall, looking completely at ease, legs crossed at the ankle with a walking stick tucked under one arm. His chin indicated the crossroads behind them with a quick jerk. “Pity about the horse, you could have gotten money for that.”

Spencer colored slightly, although with the humiliation came a prickle of nerves. If Brendon had seen him send the gelding back to the stables, how much else had he witnessed? His eyes were bright with intelligence, and his French was good enough for him to have interpreted Spencer’s conversation with Jon only minutes before. “He’s not mine,” Spencer said, hoping to make the best of it and lift any suspicions Brendon might have. “I just borrowed him.”

Brendon raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment on the obvious falsehood. “In that case, I do hope it’s not far to the hotel,” he replied instead. “Two gentlemen walking along the street should hardly be remarked upon at this time of day, but I do have the most damnable heels on these shoes.”

Spencer’s heart tripped at the casual way Brendon said the words, the veiled meaning he seemed to hold in his eyes. “You want me to escort you back to your hotel?” he asked cautiously. It could be anything; a request for direction taken at face value, a chance to renew an acquaintance, a more sordid invitation…even an attempt at extortion, if Brendon had overheard anything of import. Spencer had no way of knowing.

“It does seem to be a nice day for a stroll,” Brendon suggested, tipping his hat back to peer at the sky. “Unless you have somewhere else to be, of course.”

Spencer stood still for a moment, weighing his options, considering the one he had before him. Then he said politely, “Monsieur,” and gestured for Brendon to walk with him towards the hotel.

~

There were guards outside of the hotel. Spencer felt his mouth go dry, forced his legs to take a few more steps and then slowed to a halt. “There you are, Monsieur,” he offered, gesturing to the building across the street. “The Hôtel de Cabris.”

“Marvelous,” Brendon said cheerfully, tucking his walking stick under his arm once more. “I say, you will come up for a glass of cognac, won’t you? It’s the least I can do, you’ve walked all this way.”

Spencer stole another look at the guards, trying not to be obvious about it, and hastily made his excuses. “I should really be going, you’re too kind.”

“Nonsense, I insist.” Brendon hooked Spencer’s elbow, drew him in and along, across the street. As they walked and Spencer debated how much of a scene it would cause if he tried to get away, Brendon leaned in and murmured, “Easy now, we’re going to walk right past them, just act as if you haven’t a care in the world.”

Spencer’s heart thudded painfully against his ribcage, but before he could feign innocence, they were somehow in the door and through the spacious lobby, Brendon guiding them deftly up the stairs. It took Spencer a moment to realize that Brendon’s French had been flawless, with no trace of the English accent he’d heard before. He almost said something, but by the time he opened his mouth, they had arrived and Brendon was turning his key in the lock.

“Have a seat, won’t you? It will be good to catch up.” Brendon took off his hat and hung it on the coat tree, holding out a hand to take Spencer’s coat as well. He tugged his gloves off smoothly, the movement aristocratic, practiced. It wasn’t the same way Ryan did it, which was more slow, languid, but the effect was the same; the respectable gentleman transitioning from out of doors to in.

“Thank you.” Brendon’s hotel was one of the more elegant in Paris; the suite was equipped with all of the traditional furnishings of a gentleman’s room, decorated in Rococo style down to the curving cabriole legs on the chairs. Spencer made himself comfortable in one of them, flipping his jacket out of the way and seating himself while Brendon poured glasses for both of them from the crystal decanter.

“It was very noble, what you did just now,” Brendon commented casually, offering Spencer one of the glasses and claiming the other chair. His eyes were more serious than his tone when he continued, “That’s a dangerous thing to be, these days.”

“I’m not,” Spencer said quietly, sipping at his cognac to calm his nerves. “My parents are citizens of the Republic.”

Brendon watched him speculatively; Spencer could feel his gaze even without looking up to meet it. “But not, I think, in favor with the Republic at this moment,” he said mildly. “That’s becoming just as dangerous.”

Spencer finally looked up, putting steel in his gaze. “If you’re going to turn me over to the police, then you ought to go ahead and do it,” he challenged. “I wouldn’t expect much of a reward, though. You haven’t caught a particularly large fish, if that’s what you were hoping.”

Brendon startled him with a laugh, bright and unexpected. “I’m sure I wouldn’t,” he replied. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, although I applaud your spirit.” He toasted Spencer with his cognac glass, and then asked, “They have your family?”

Spencer swallowed, not trusting his voice, and nodded. He hadn’t seen for himself, but he trusted Jon. And he knew well enough that his parents’ sympathies lay with the imprisoned king.

“In that case,” Brendon said casually, “Perhaps you would enjoy a trip to England. I shall be leaving soon for London, and it might be nice to have some company. What do you say?”

His expression was neutral as he sipped his cognac, but Spencer sensed the gravity behind the question. There was no possibility of Spencer attempting to leave Paris without being arrested, which meant that Brendon was offering to get him out by virtue of an assumed name, possibly even a falsified passport. He wasn’t going to get another chance like it.

All the same, he knew the answer almost before he spoke. “No. Thank you.”

Brendon studied him, rolling the glass back and forth between his hands. “There’s someone else,” he guessed, watching for the reaction Spencer wasn’t going to give him. “A sweetheart?”

There was no way Spencer was giving up Ryan, not to someone he didn’t know and had no real reason to trust. “I have friends in Paris,” Spencer said neutrally. “It will be safe enough for me here. Thank you for your offer.”

“Not at all.” Brendon smiled genuinely enough, seemingly unbothered by Spencer’s refusal. “You will stay and finish your cognac, won’t you? The guards change at noon, if you’d like another glass; they’re generally paying less attention then.”

Spencer waited a moment before inclining his head, falling back on the society manners that had been drilled into him since childhood. “It would be my pleasure,” he responded politely, raising his glass in tribute.

Brendon grinned, raising his own glass in return. “Nonsense,” he replied cheerfully. “The pleasure is all mine.”

~

Spencer spent the night in Ryan’s guest room, and they passed the day speaking in hushed tones, out of earshot of the few remaining servants. They were just sitting down to dinner when someone came to the door.

“Stay here,” Ryan ordered grimly, setting his napkin on the table and standing up. “Out of sight. If you hear my voice, hide in the cellar.”

Spencer nodded, setting his fork aside as his stomach turned over queasily at the thought of arrest. Ryan would be arrested for harboring him as well, if they were discovered. He strained to make out the conversation, but all he could hear were the clipped tones of an official and Ryan’s low, level murmur in response.

All was silent for a moment, and then Ryan reappeared in the doorway. He was composed as always, but Spencer read the paleness of his face, the shuttered look in his eyes and asked, “What is it?”

Ryan stopped beside his chair, looking down blankly at the table. “If I understood correctly,” he said slowly, “I’m under house arrest, and not to leave unless in the company of an armed guard.”

Spencer’s blood went cold, chilling his skin. “For what crime?” he asked dazedly.

Ryan finally looked up, meeting Spencer’s eyes. “For being the new Marquis.” Spencer gripped the edge of the table, feeling even more ill than he had a moment ago. “Supposedly,” Ryan continued into the silence, “it’s for my own protection.”

Spencer sat for a long, drawn-out moment, staring at Ryan. Then he said softly, “If I knew of a way we might be able to leave the city, would you come with me?”

He saw the questions flicker in Ryan’s eyes, one after another, but finally Ryan simply answered, “Yes.”

Spencer stood up. It had only been a day; Brendon would likely still be in his room at the Hôtel de Cabris. At this hour he might be out dining, but it was worth a chance. “I’m going out,” he told Ryan, doing up the buttons of his jacket and smoothing the cravat he’d barely bothered to tie. “I should be back within two hours, and I might have company. If there’s anything you need to do here, you should probably do it.”

He was setting his hopes rather high, he knew, and all on one person, but they had little choice. Ryan didn’t question him, didn’t say a word besides, “Be careful.”

Spencer took his coat on the way out the door and avoided as many people as possible, keeping off the main streets with their patrols of officers. He drew himself up upon entering the hotel, acting as if he had every right to be there, and no one stopped him or asked him for papers, allowing him to pass unchallenged.

He was sweating as he knocked on Brendon’s door, but when it opened a moment later, Brendon just looked at him for a moment, surprised, and then asked, “Change your mind?”

He stood back to let Spencer in, and Spencer waited until the door was shut before he said, “If I asked for safe passage, for myself and a friend, would you be able to help us?” He clenched his fists against his thighs to keep his hands from shaking and added firmly, “We can pay you.”

Brendon considered him for a moment, and then said, almost questioning but not quite, “Your friend is an aristo.”

Spencer nodded. Brendon thought it over for another moment, and then said, “There were a lot of arrests today. Has he been charged?”

Spencer hesitated, but the only thing he had right now was the truth, and Brendon already had it in his power to hurt Spencer if he chose. “Not formally. He’s been put under house arrest.”

Brendon blew out a breath. “Well, that does make things slightly easier,” he commented. “It should be simple enough to slip the leash if they’re not watching the house, and I do believe they have enough to be worrying about this evening besides one aristocrat.”

Spencer was about to reply when the sound of drumbeats echoed up from the street, startling them both. “They’ve sounded the generale,” he said in surprise, and Brendon crossed swiftly to the window, pulling back the curtains for just long enough to look down.

“The shops are closing; they must suspect an attempt to free the king.” The last of Brendon’s words were nearly drowned out beneath the clangor of church bells, sounding the alarm from every direction. Brendon swore viciously in English, then switched back to French. “They’re closing the hotel gates. How fast can you get your friend back here?”

“Forty minutes,” Spencer guessed, his heart pounding beneath the cacophony of bells and drums. “Less if we run.”

“You’ll only draw attention to yourself,” Brendon pointed out, and then shook his head. “It won’t matter anyway, people are going to be in a hurry to get off the streets. Find your friend, bring him straight here. If they won’t let you back in, I’ll meet you at the café across the street as soon as they open the gates.”

Spencer nodded, filing away the instructions, terrified to go out but also itching to be away. Brendon opened the door, checked the hall, and waved his arm to signal that all was clear. “Godspeed,” he murmured, and Spencer ran.

There were people filling the streets, hurrying to get to their homes as the alarms carried on, but doors were slamming shut on all sides and Spencer feared they would be caught in the open on the way back. He banged on the door and Ryan answered it himself, white-faced and tense, visibly relieved when he saw Spencer in the doorway.

“We need to go,” Spencer told him, not wasting any time. “Is there anything you need?”

Ryan shook his head, eyes wide, and stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. The streets were growing emptier by the minute, candles in nearly every window. It was a faster journey this time without so many people in the way, but they passed more and more guards, and Spencer prayed silently, imagined the words echoed in Ryan’s ragged breaths.

The gate to the Hôtel de Cabris was closed, and for a moment Spencer’s heart sank in despair, but unexpectedly, Ryan stepped forward, tossing back the edge of his cape. “I demand you allow me entrance,” he ordered, every inch the aristocrat, staring down the guards minding the gate. “I have rooms here, and there are ruffians in the street. Let me in at once.”

The guards hesitated, obviously not in any mind to cater to the nobility, but Ryan pulled out his papers and glared until one of them finally moved, unlatching the gate and motioning for them to hurry in. Spencer held his breath all the way across the lobby, up the stairs to the door which opened instantly at his knock.

Brendon ushered them in, throwing the door wide for a second only to shut and latch it behind them as soon as they’d passed. Ryan held himself stiff at Spencer’s side, uncertain and untrusting, and Brendon seemed to be sizing him up as well, although with less bristling defensiveness. “Marquis,” he said finally, and Ryan’s eyes widened, a telltale fraction. “How do you do?”

~

“They’re expecting an attack on the Tuileries,” Brendon murmured. “One of the Communes has taken control of the Hôtel de Ville, they fear the royal family will flee.”

“Because they made it so far last time,” Ryan commented from his seat on the other side of the room. The sky was growing lighter, the illumination of the candles in every window gradually overpowered by the early rays of the sun. It was bright enough now for Spencer to make out the delicate rocaille ornament outlining Ryan in the window, where he had been watching the street for hours, looking for some sign of what was happening.

Spencer scowled a little and tugged at the sleeves of his carmagnole. Brendon had produced peasant clothing for them both as if by magic, smocks and the trousers that every revolutionary wore to show their disdain for the upper-class. Spencer couldn’t get used to the rough fabric, the way he felt as if he would trip taking every step because his legs were constricted. Ryan smiled at him faintly from the window as if he knew what Spencer was thinking, and tugged at the cuffs of his own trousers, black and nondescript.

“How do you know all of this?” Spencer asked suddenly, because having a secret stash of French working-class garb was one thing, but knowing the details of political maneuverings that not even Ryan or Spencer were privy to was quite another. Brendon’s knowledge of Ryan’s title and the circumstances of his inheriting it had been explained away by gossip, but Spencer’s suspicions were beginning to grow.

Brendon just smiled, nursing a glass of cognac and watching Ryan. “I listen well,” he replied lightly, turning the full force of his smile on Spencer, and while it did nothing to ease Spencer’s mind, he reminded himself that Brendon hadn’t played them false yet. The fact that he could simply be waiting for an opportune moment had certainly crossed Spencer’s mind, but he was keeping an eye out for that. He wouldn’t go to prison quietly, and they weren’t taking Ryan from him without a fight.

Ryan tried to cross his legs, got caught up in the material of his trousers, and made a face. Brendon laughed, the same bright sound that still took Spencer by surprise, and Ryan’s head jerked up, startled. “Don’t worry, classical fashion is all the rage in London,” Brendon told him. “We’ll have bare legs and togas in no time.”

Spencer snorted, and Ryan glanced sideways at him, catlike. Spencer knew what he was thinking, but he didn’t have an answer; all he knew was what little Brendon had told him, and he had no more reason to trust than Ryan did.

“Are we going to wear red caps, too?” Spencer asked sweetly. “Or is that only the French fashion?”

Brendon didn’t look overly offended, but then, he had yet to seem affronted by anything either of them had said. “We have our Jacobins too,” he admitted. “In general, however, they are rather better dressed.”

For a moment, Spencer thought he was hearing the echo of the tocsin ringing in his ears, the clangor of bells from the night before. Then he realized it was ringing again, and that with the hectic jangle of the bells came distant shouts, the growing roar of a mob.

All of them had gone still, but Brendon broke the spell, crossing to the window beside Ryan. “The Bastille,” he murmured, peering out at the city beyond. Spencer stared at them, still frozen, looking for answers in the tight line of Ryan’s back, the rigid tension in Brendon’s shoulders. Then he heard the boom of a cannon, and the roar of voices swelled until he could barely hear the alarm bells.

“We need to go,” Brendon said, low but firm, the tone of one used to giving orders. Spencer saw Ryan balk, but they didn’t have time to second-guess now; they either trusted, or they stayed here to be arrested and imprisoned.

“Spencer and I have no papers,” Ryan said, but he was standing, ready to move if Brendon gave the order. That wasn’t strictly true, Spencer thought; they had papers, just not ones that would allow them to leave the city without attracting the attention of the police.

“Let me worry about that,” Brendon said, his tone cheerful even if his eyes told another story. He was listening intently at the window, counting under his breath; when he reached twelve, he shook his head and reached for his coat. “Now.”

Another volley of cannon-fire went off as if to punctuate his statement, and the screaming started again, much louder, which also meant much closer. Spencer followed Brendon and stayed in front of Ryan as they hurried down the stairs, across the deserted lobby and out to the abandoned gates.

The streets were full of people. They had been empty only moments ago, but now the three of them were surrounded by the crowd, struggling to stay together as it tried to pull them apart. Spencer lost sight of Brendon for a moment and nearly panicked, only to have Ryan grab his wrist and drag him into the thick of things, through the mob and out the other side, where Brendon was cutting determinedly across the street towards the wall.

“The gates have been closed for four days,” Spencer yelled over the crescendo of voices, fighting his way to Brendon’s side. “There’s no way out but the barricades, we’ll be trapped.”

Brendon dodged to the side and put his walking stick solidly into the stomach of a burly man waving a pike. “Follow my lead,” he ordered, and Spencer swore under his breath, Ryan’s hand clenched tightly in his as the crowd jostled them hard enough to wrench his shoulder.

Spencer collided with someone and nearly apologized, before he looked up and saw what they were carrying. The head mounted on the bayonet could have belonged to anyone, but that didn’t change the fact that it was a head, fresh blood slicking the staff and spraying the crowd as the bayonet’s owner shook his prize triumphantly through the air. Spencer stumbled, fighting down the sick upheaval of his stomach, and Ryan grimly pulled him clear, punching someone in the process.

It was nearly impossible to hear the rumble of cart wheels over the general shouting and thunder of gunfire, but Spencer caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye, staggered out of the way and stared in horror at the pile of bodies mounted on the back.

They were heading further into the thick of the fighting, Spencer realized. There were more and more citizens armed with weapons, from guns and pikes to handsaws and scythes, and the crush of people was dissolving into chaos. Brendon was having to do some serious laying-about with his walking stick, and Ryan had somehow gotten hold of a knife, which he was clutching fiercely and stabbing out with anytime someone got too close to them.

“My God,” Spencer said to himself, plunging deeper into the nightmare as another head paraded past them, mouth slack and eyes gaping. Brendon kept disappearing, in sight one second and out of it the next, and Spencer nearly tripped over him when they wormed their way through a narrow hole in the crowd and came upon a handful of bodies, lying bloody and lifeless on the cobblestones.

It still took him a few seconds to fully realize that Brendon was the one fiercely hacking at a disemboweled worker, and he nearly vomited at the sight of it, but a second later Ryan had torn free and was doing the same thing. He’d attacked a body that was already dead, Spencer realized, uncomprehending, and then saw the revolutionists in their red caps moving through the crowd and shouting.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to follow suit, but he punched his fist into the air, choked back bile and shouted, “Vive la Révolution!” at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse. Ryan caught him again a moment later, yanked him forward and towards the gate, which was still manned but overwhelmed, the press of people beating down the guards.

He knew what Brendon intended to do just before he did it, swinging his walking stick high and down with a crack over the nearest guard’s head. Spencer hesitated, and in that fraction of a second he felt Ryan jerk, wrenching at Spencer’s arm.

Ryan’s eyes were wide with shock, and his body curved inwards, crumpling. Spencer couldn’t see through the blood spattering Ryan’s dark clothing to tell how much of it was his, but he saw the gun, still raised and pointed at them as if the world had begun moving in slow motion, a thin curl of smoke drifting up from the barrel.

Brendon snapped him out of it, tossing him a thick plank which Spencer caught automatically. Ryan staggered, and Spencer thought dizzily the only way out is through, and brought the end of the plank down hard on the second guard’s head.

There were more, but they were occupied, and bringing down two was enough for them to wrench one of the gates open far enough for the three of them to squeeze through, one after another, away from the mob and outside the wall. “This way,” Brendon called, herding them sideways, just as the crack of a rifle sounded through the metal gate.

Ryan was holding his side, and Spencer managed to gasp out, “He’s hurt,” before Ryan cut him off with, “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Brendon looked dubious, but also like he knew that they only had the option of moving forward. “The main road north is halfway around the city,” he pointed out, “and the nearest town is several miles. It’s quite a walk.”

Ryan shook his head, skin leeched of color but expression determined. “I’m fine,” he said again. “Let’s go.”

~

The journey from Paris was almost as much of a nightmare as what had just happened inside. All the way around the city Spencer could hear the screams and blasts of cannon-fire, and once he had to step over the body of a girl who had fallen - or been flung - from the wall.

There was no one on the road; Paris was still sealed, and there had been no traffic from the city in days. Nevertheless, Brendon kept alert, hushing them at intervals and keeping a sharp eye out as they walked, occasionally scouting ahead on his own before doubling back to meet them.

Spencer had Ryan’s arm over his shoulder. Brendon stopped to check the wound once Paris had dwindled to a dark spot on the horizon, foreboding even from a distance. There was smoke still rising above the wall, although they were far enough away now that they could no longer hear the shouting, only the occasional boom of a cannon.

“The bullet’s out,” Brendon informed them, probing at the edges of the wound as Ryan blanched and gripped Spencer’s hand with white knuckles. “There’s one piece of luck. You’re losing a damnable amount of blood, though. Are you sure you can keep going?”

Ryan nodded, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. Brendon looped Ryan’s arm around his own shoulder so that he and Spencer had Ryan between them, and said cheerfully, “On we go, then.”

Brendon had an amazing amount of energy for someone who had stayed up all night keeping vigil and then fought his way through a Parisian mob. He kept chattering, inane topics like the type of trees on the road and how many leagues there were in a post, until Spencer was gritting his teeth. He wanted to scream at Brendon to be silent, but he knew the talk was for Ryan’s benefit, and he could barely muster up enough willpower to keep walking. Shouting seemed an insurmountable effort.

By the time the sun began sinking lower in the sky, Ryan was stumbling every few steps, and Spencer was exhausted from holding him up. “We need to get off the road,” Brendon said quietly, and Spencer nodded, not sure if Ryan was even hearing them. “Going to an inn is more risky than I’d like, but he needs to rest, and sleeping on the open road has its own dangers.”

“How far to the next town?” Spencer asked, shading his eyes for a moment against the setting sun. He couldn’t see anything in the distance; the road was uneven, winding through the hills, so there was no way to be sure.

“Less than a mile,” Brendon answered confidently. There was no hesitation before he spoke, which left Spencer wondering how many times Brendon had traveled this road before.

“I’ve only been outside of Paris once,” Spencer commented absently, trying to shake the ache out of his arm with Ryan still leaning on it. “To Versailles, during the summer. We saw the king’s rhinoceros.” He could still remember the look on Ryan’s face, how he’d reached out as if he wanted to touch it before the Marquise had pulled them away.

“I’ve never seen a rhinoceros,” Brendon said, and then caught Ryan as he tripped again, letting out an unexpected laugh. “I’ll bet you’re glad you’re wearing those shoes now,” he teased, hauling Ryan up and wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. “Imagine trying to do this in those ridiculous heeled contraptions with all of the ribbons and bows. I even had a pair with enormous rosettes on them once, can you believe that?”

Ryan was silent for a moment, and then he said tonelessly, “I love those shoes.”

Brendon laughed again, louder this time, and admitted, “Me too.” He hummed a little, a quick tune, and then sang, “And what can a man of true fashion denote, like an ell of good ribbon tied under the throat?” and smiled over at Spencer. Spencer caught himself, for just a moment, smiling back.

Between them, Ryan was flagging, slowing as if the energy was being leeched from his pores. Brendon glanced down at where Ryan was holding his side, blood still leaking slowly between his fingers, and said brightly, “That’s it, one in front of the other. We haven’t got all day, you know, I expect a good supper before the sun goes down.”

Spencer could almost hear Ryan’s eyes roll. “You’re bossy,” came the complaint from somewhere near Spencer’s shoulder.

Brendon grinned, bright and blinding. “Sacrés Anglais,” he announced, and spit to the side onto the road. His impersonation was so perfect that Spencer startled, and saw Ryan dredge up a faint smile from somewhere. “Come on,” Brendon continued, looking up at the road ahead. “It’s not far now.”

~

They reached the inn just before sundown. Brendon knew the lay of the land well enough to steer them to it, past the marketplace where a poplar tree held court, newly-planted just like those in every other town along the way. Spencer looked up at the red cap crowning it and the ribbons hanging still from the branches, motionless for lack of breeze; red, white and blue looking colorless and dull against the withered branches.

“Papers,” Brendon murmured, passing folded documents to both of them. “In case they ask. They’ll never take you in, looking like you are; tell them you ran into brigands, and I’ll do the rest.”

He motioned them forward, and Spencer stared, at a loss. The papers in his hand were creased and yellowed, but they bore the name of a Frenchman, legitimately signed and stamped. There was a spot on one corner that might have been blood, in better light. “Where will you be?” he asked.

Brendon smiled, and gestured them ahead once more. “Right behind you,” he promised. Spencer bit down on the niggling mistrust and headed towards the inn.

The innkeeper was a sour-looking man who seemed to have more wrinkles than skin, wiping out mugs suspiciously as Spencer asked for a room. “We’ve had trouble on the road,” he explained, as the man’s eyes roved disdainfully over Ryan. “If we could have a room…we will pay, Monsieur. I have money.”

The innkeeper’s gaze focused on him again, but he was still silent for a time before he spoke. “That’s citizen, I believe you mean,” he said at last, and Spencer’s breath stuttered. Next to him, Ryan had gone very still.

They were rescued by the inn’s door bursting open, and a familiar voice carrying clearly over the crowd. “I say, it’s as quiet as a dead cockroach in this town. The fare in the last one barely qualified as food, I trust you’ll have something better. Is that ale? I do hope you have wine, it’s the only reason anyone would travel to this godforsaken country.”

Spencer wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond to this, but Brendon didn’t give him the chance, sweeping up next to him and slapping his gloves down on the counter. “That’s fifty livres for just the room,” the innkeeper said, surly, and barely got the words out before Brendon began talking again.

“Fifty livres? It had better be a private room, with dinner and a bottle of wine in the bargain. Good wine, none of your cheap swill.” Brendon took off his hat and combed through his hair, making a face of distaste. “Well, get a move on, man, I don’t plan to stand around all night waiting on you.”

“That’s fifty livres just for the room,” the innkeeper said finally, looking reluctant even to make the offer. “Dinner is extra.” He paused a moment, darting eyes assessing Brendon’s manner and the size of the purse he was pulling out, and added, “And that’s for a shared room. Private is extra.”

“Extra?” Brendon echoed incredulously. “Extra? You’d make me a pauper, no doubt, with all of these extra charges.” He looked down his nose at Spencer and Ryan, so haughty that Spencer almost wanted to shrink into the floor. “Very well, I’ll take a shared room, with these…gentlemen here. They look reasonably clean, although you will provide a bath, I hope.” He rolled his eyes and shook his purse open impatiently before the innkeeper could speak. “For an extra charge, of course, I’m sure. Very well, although I could have done better dealing with highway brigands.”

He dropped a handful of coins onto the counter with a bored wave of his hand, and the innkeeper kept an eye on them as he said, “I’ll need to see your papers. You understand.”

Brendon huffed as if quite put upon, but he presented his passport with a flourish, which the innkeeper studied for several minutes before nodding. Brendon picked up his hat, tucked his papers away and called over his shoulder, “Have dinner sent up to my room, I’ve no wish to eat with common people.”

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Spencer paid hastily for himself and Ryan while the man was distracted by staring murderously at the staircase Brendon had just ascended, and then followed hurriedly after.

Brendon was waiting for them just inside the door. “Let’s get him on the bed,” he ordered, ducking in to help Spencer maneuver Ryan onto the mattress. “There’s a basin of hot water on the way up, get his shirt off and we’ll clean this mess up.” He clucked softly as they peeled Ryan’s smock away, hands gentle where it was stuck to his skin with dried blood. “You are a pretty picture, aren’t you? There we go.”

The water was delivered a few minutes later, and Brendon intercepted it at the door, exchanging quite a bit of flirtation with whatever pretty girl had brought it before he finally bid her goodnight. Spencer watched without comment, but Brendon gave him a knowing look as he returned to the bedside. “It’s part of playing the role,” he said, wetting a cloth deftly and squeezing water around the edges of Ryan’s wound, where the blood had clotted and congealed.

Spencer was tempted to ask how much of a role Brendon was actually playing, but Ryan’s face twisted up in pain as he was about to say something, and Brendon murmured for him to hold steady, so for the next fifteen minutes Spencer was occupied with wringing out cloths and holding tight to Ryan’s hand.

There was a washroom attached to their room, cramped but serviceable, holding a chamber pot and a stand for the basin. Brendon inclined his head towards it once Ryan’s side had been cleaned and wrapped as well as they could manage, and Spencer rose when he did, following Brendon into the small space.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Brendon said quietly. Spencer threw a worried glance at the bed, but Ryan didn’t seem to be listening, resting for the moment on top of the threadbare covers. “A night’s sleep and a decent supper should help, but it’s still two days to London, at best, longer if we don’t make the tide. We can get him to someone in Dover, of course, but…”

They were interrupted by sudden, authoritative pounding on the door. Spencer jumped, then remembered they had ordered dinner, and was about to go back into the room when the door opened and they were no longer alone.

Spencer couldn’t see whoever had just entered the room, but he saw Ryan, eyes open and struggling upright. From the tension in his shoulders, it wasn’t merely the innkeeper who had come up. They’ve found us, Spencer thought, and then he heard the brisk, official voice ask, “Brendon Urie?”

For a moment, none of them breathed. Spencer’s mind was spinning, and he could tell that Ryan was equally off-guard, but his eyes didn’t cut to the room where they were concealed, didn’t give anything away. He was silent for a long, tense moment, and then to Spencer’s shock, he heard Ryan say, in careful English, “Yes?”

Spencer started to move forward, but Brendon’s hand caught him suddenly, holding him back. In the room, the unseen officer was continuing, “I have a warrant for your arrest. You are traveling to Calais?”

“My business is my own,” Ryan answered calmly, betraying no hint of surprise or outrage. “What are the charges?”

“You have been accused of spying for the English, denounced by a fellow citizen. Since we’ve caught up with you traveling to Calais, in spite of Paris closing its gates and denying all passports, I have even more reason to believe the truth of these charges.” There was a pause, during which Spencer’s own breathing sounded too loud in his ears, a roar of air that would surely give them away. Brendon’s hand on his arm burned like a brand.

“It seems you’ve been wounded on your journey, sir,” the officer continued. “Tell me, why is it that you are traveling away from Paris when every other Englishman in the country is currently heading towards it?”

Ryan remained silent, and Spencer could practically hear what he was thinking, the wheels turning in his head. If he gave Brendon over, they might go free, but more likely they would be arrested as well, their identities discovered. Even if they were let go, they had no plan, no contacts, no way out of France.

If they took Ryan, Brendon might still be able to save Spencer.

The officer finally seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get an answer. “If you’ll come with me, sir,” he said respectfully, and Ryan rose, slowly, pulling his bloody shirt closed over his chest. Spencer made an involuntary sound, soft and desperate, and Brendon’s hand closed over his mouth, the two of them close enough that he could hear Brendon’s breathing in his ear, as loud as his own.

Ryan picked up Brendon’s coat, unmistakably English, and walked slowly to the door without once glancing to the side. Spencer didn’t breathe until he heard Ryan’s footsteps begin to fade, and the click of the door falling shut.

Brendon released him immediately, pushing past Spencer into the room. “He’s bought us some time. And he has my papers now, for whatever good it will do him. Damn.” He looked up at Spencer, raking a hand through his hair, and said tightly, “Change of plans, we leave tonight. He looks enough like me that the innkeeper might not notice, but I’d rather not take the chance, and if he slips up they’ll be right back here waiting for us.”

Spencer hadn’t moved. He wasn’t even sure he was still breathing. He said, the words like ash in his mouth, “If they find out, they’ll execute him.”

“If they don’t find out,” Brendon said grimly, “they may execute him anyway. He knew what he was doing, he did it for you.” Spencer stared at him, still unable to process what had just happened. Brendon crossed to him swiftly, held him by the arms and shook him, lightly. “Spencer. Don’t let his sacrifice have been for nothing.”

Spencer took another breath, sharp and jagged, and nodded. Brendon held him for a moment longer, and then released him, gathering up their coats. He jammed the window up as far as it would go, eyeing the drop and forcing the one chair in the room against the door handle. He turned back as Spencer was trying to coax his limbs into movement, his hand resting sympathetically on Spencer’s shoulder. “He’s not lost yet,” Brendon said, voice low and eyes serious. “I promise you that.”

~

Spencer could still hear the rattle of the cart taking Ryan to Paris hours later, as the sun finally began to rise over the hills. Brendon hadn’t said a word the whole time, staying close by but not invading Spencer’s space, giving him room to grieve in silence. It was probably best not to acknowledge the fact that Spencer was thinking of Ryan as already dead.

Brendon made a stop in the next town they reached and came back with fresh bread and cheese, a skin of wine under one arm. “So generous, the French,” he said mildly, and Spencer didn’t bother suggesting it might have something to do with the cocarde tricolore Brendon had pinned to his - Ryan’s - coat, the rosette crumpled but still bright, displaying the revolutionary colors. Even this far out, people were afraid to be accused as traitors for their lack of patriotism.

They ate in the marketplace, empty at this hour, beneath the ever-present poplar tree. Like the others, this one was half-dead and twisted, the ribbons tangled and bleached from the sun. Brendon looked up at the red Cap of Liberty, chewing thoughtfully. “They’ve taken a lot of heads,” he commented, as the breeze stirred just enough to weakly flutter the streamers. “They must have extra caps.”

“Are you a spy for the English?” Spencer asked bluntly. It made sense; the clothing, the flawless Parisian accent, his knowledge of Ryan’s title and inheritance. Spencer had been mulling it over all night and hadn’t thought of another feasible explanation.

Brendon paused, then finished his bite of bread before answering carefully, thoughtfully, “I’m a precaution.”

“Where did you get the papers?” Spencer asked, unrelenting. “The ones you gave Ryan and I.”

Brendon took a drink from the wineskin, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve, somehow managing to make the motion look graceful. “I took them from corpses when we fled Paris, and kept those that looked suitable,” he answered evenly. “I knew you might need papers before we left the country, so I borrowed them from those no longer in need.” He raised his eyebrows slightly, almost challenging. “I thought you would have seen me take them.”

Spencer watched him for a long time, eyes narrowed. Brendon nudged a chunk of bread in his direction without comment, continuing on with his own meal. Finally, Spencer said, “Why are you helping me? Your country is about to be at war with France.”

Brendon’s eyebrows rose higher, lifting above expressive brown eyes. “The Revolution is at war with England,” he replied easily. “Doesn’t that put us on the same side?”

“You mean the Jacobins,” Spencer challenged. He still wasn’t sure how much of this he believed. It was hard to reconcile the flippant nobleman he’d met at a party two years ago with this one, the one who wore disguises and carried out escape plans and was supremely confident in himself and in saving Spencer’s life.

“Ah,” Brendon corrected, holding up a finger while he broke off another thick piece of cheese. “I believe you mean the Society of the Friends of the Constitution.” He popped the cheese into his mouth, chewing as he continued speaking. “In England they go by the name of the London Corresponding Society. Don’t worry, they’re mostly just talk. England is less keen on imprisoning her aristocracy.”

Brendon pushed the cheese over towards Spencer, indicating wordlessly that he should eat. Spencer reluctantly tore off a hunk of bread, his stomach clenched into knots, reminding him of the last time he’d eaten. “What will happen once we’ve crossed over?” he asked finally, after the cheese was gone and most of the bread had been eaten.

Brendon dusted crumbs off of his coat and sat back, legs crossed neatly at the ankles and head tipped back towards the sun. “Let’s worry about that when we get there, shall we?” he suggested, casually watching Spencer finish off the bread. “We’ve plenty more adventure left ahead of us before then, I assure you.” He cocked his head, half-smiling. “It’s a pity we’re so far out that disguise isn’t really necessary. I do believe you’d look charming in a peasant girl’s dress.”

Spencer nearly choked, staring at Brendon in horror. Brendon laughed, foot wagging lazily, the picture of a well-bred gentleman that belied the poorly-made clothes and dirt from the road. “I could tell everyone you were my wife,” he continued, the little teasing smile still playing over his lips. “We could steal a shirt as well, roll it up and claim you were with child.”

Spencer finally recovered enough to make use of his tongue. “What makes you think I’d be the woman?” he asked, matching Brendon’s posture inch for inch, imitating every affectation he’d ever seen Ryan put on. “You might be the more believable of the two of us.”

Brendon leaned forward again, grin genuine in spite of the fatigue still lurking around his eyes. “Don’t be absurd,” he replied lightly, stealing the wineskin for the last drops before tipping Spencer a wink. “You have the better figure.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, face heating, but Brendon was laughing again, offering Spencer a hand up. “Come on,” he said, tucking the empty wineskin away inside a pocket. “We’ve a long way still to go before Calais.”

Part Two