A/N - here's the first chapter of the new arc! For those who have been missing the swashbuckling element of CS, we assure you there will be plenty to look forwards to in the coming chapters. To start with we'll be updating once a week as we build up our store of chapters, but we hope to have enough to soon build up to twice a week again.

It had been a month since Dominic Bahorel had seen Grantaire. A month – that's four weeks, you know, and nearly thirty days. You could count on him to know that much at least, oui? Bahorel didn't mind being called un bœuf du campagne for a joke, among amis, but never had he been made to feel so stupid before. Even a country ox's got some common sense in him, and gets to sleep in the barn when it's cold. But, Hell – what did he know?

There were the three of them, sitting by the window with their wine and coffee, and interrupting their chat every once and again to glance his way. Joly, Feuilly, L'Aigle, the new inseparables. They were in the Café Musain together every Tuesday and Friday night now, something about Feuilly's boss' new wife – what did he care? Anyway, Dominic didn't see a point in changing his own habits just because they were there. Let them go to the devil, all three of 'em, and their precious Scaramouche too.

True, a month was an awfully long time to be angry at anyone, even if you weren't Bahorel, but it wasn't like he hadn't tried. It wasn't any good trying to talk to them, because it was only too clear what they really wanted to talk about, and he wasn't allowed to listen. Add to that, that Feuilly was utterly humorless and anyway refused to let other people buy his drinks; that Joly suddenly couldn't take his jokes either, had turned sharp-edged, and seemed rather prissier than ever; and that L'Aigle's awkwardness looked like it'd gone from the friendly kind to the kind wondering how to get rid of a fellow…well. Bahorel flipped his watch open and snapped it shut again. Luc was late, damn th'homme –it wouldn't have bothered him if he hadn't promised himself there two hours ago, which even by Dominic's standards was pushing it. There was supposed to be a play on, but at this rate they'd miss too much of it to make it worth the trouble of getting in late. Probably he'd run into some grisette and forgotten all about him.

But there was Luc coming up the steps, wonderful. Dominic turned to look and started opening his mouth to ask what the hell'd been keeping him, but shut it sourly. It wasn't Luc at all; no, it was Grantaire. Must be off his sickbed at last, hm! L'Aigle brightened up a bit and waved the newcomer over to cheerful cries of 'Mind your ribs, Perceval' and 'Maurice! Who gave you coffee' and…and so on and so forth. Bahorel simply shut them out, as Perceval and his dear little League were doing to him.

But did he really want to shut them out forever? No…no. Maybe he had got other amis, but it wasn't really the same. Since they weren't going to talk to him, he was going to have to talk to them.

To that end, Dominic put his drink down, got up and strode across to them, and stopped Grantaire before he had quite sat down in the chair which Feuilly had just so solicitously pulled over for him. "Think you lot can spare Grantaire for a minute?" he said to the little club seated there. They were looking back at him awfully suspiciously now, and Feuilly was glancing between him and L'Aigle in a way that clearly said 'Are you going to hit him again, and can I watch?'

"Is it important?" Grantaire said coolly.

"Yes. It is."

"All right then." Grantaire turned back to his p'tit League and gave them a nod. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't drink all the coffee, Maurice." The malade-imaginaire in question turned a delicate shade of pink, but switched his empty cup with his twin's full one since no one was looking. Well, no one except Bahorel, but he doesn't count, does he?

"Your bodyguards decided I wasn't a threat, hm?" Bahorel said to Grantaire once they were on the other side of the room again.

"…you said it was important, Bahorel," Grantaire said stiffly.

"It is."

"Well?"

Dominic couldn't help bristling at that cold, stiff tone. "Just wondering if you'd all gotten off your high horses yet."

Grantaire's eyes narrowed. "If it's nothing but this again, you'll excuse me."

"Why?" he shot back. "Still no explanation?"

"Explanation for what?" Grantaire frowned. "As far as I'm aware, you haven't asked me for one."

"Oh, but I have."

"No. You haven't," Grantaire said, suddenly looking very irritated – yes, it does hurt when people don't tell you things, doesn't it? Yes, it does. That's what I thought. "You want to tell me what your problem is, or are we going to go around in circles again?"

"Like I said. Up on your high horses." One month, four weeks, thirty days – because, M. Grantaire, I am not stupid and I can count – one month's worth of irritation and anger and resentment was bubbling up into a delicious sense of superiority that Dominic wasn't going to let go of.

Grantaire just shook his head. "Goodbye, Bahorel." He turned to go, but then paused and dug in his pocket, drew out a coin, and tossed it at him. It clattered to the floor untouched. "Here. Like I said, I don't want it."

"Don't just walk away from me, you coward," Bahorel said.

Grantaire laughed, and it grated against Dominic's nerves. "…best you can do? Sticks and stones."

He laughed back, and suddenly was quite ready to forget they had ever been friends – that he had ever met this man. Comforting thought, forgetting that. "That's the worst rationalization there is for not being able to fight like a man."

"And thinking prudence is cowardice is what gets most young fools killed these days."

"Prudence?" Bahorel jeered at this stranger. "Prudence is the domain of old women scared to let their sons touch their inheritances."

He wasn't touched; he shrugged and grinned sarcastically. "Whatever you like, Bahorel. Whatever you like."

And he was walking off again. We couldn't have this. "Oh, running back to those so-called friends of yours, are you?"

"Damn straight," Grantaire spat.

He just laughed. "So it's true then, what they say about fools keeping company with each other."

The other man stopped where he stood before turning completely around. "…now see here. You've got a bone to pick with me, fine. But you leave my friends out of it."

"Oh, like you're going to do anything about it."

Grantaire's fists clenched. "Trust me, Bahorel. You don't want to fight with me."

Oh, but I do. Watch me do what it takes to get you to fight me, coward. "What're you going to do, flail a bit and sic your little dogs, over there, on me?"

"I told you," he said, and his eyes narrowed further, "Leave them out of this."

"I'll say what I like." Simple strategy: Find a weak point and hammer it until you break.

"I'm warning you not to," Grantaire said.

"I'm flouting that warning," Bahorel said boldly. The other man glared fiercely, but only dug his nails into his palms and started to walk away. Can't be having that. "Oh yeah, just run away! Go have fun saving the world with your little tagalongs, huh, you're no friend of mine anymore."

Grantaire whipped back around. "Say that again."

"Which part, O Brave One?" he smiled.

"…that little thing about my friends," the other man said calmly.

"Oh, friends, is that what you call them?" Bahorel said dismissively, probing for something to make Grantaire snap. "They're a pretty sad excuse for them, that's for sure."

Dominic wasn't exactly sure what happened next. All he knew amid the bright flash of pain was that his back was on the floor instead of his feet and his chest felt like it might have just imploded of its own accord.

"Need a hand, Perceval?" said a voice from the edge of his vision, and he blinked and looked up to see Grantaire's little group of followers standing beside their hero. That must have been L'Aigle offering.

"Yeah, we'll gladly lend you one," Feuilly cut in.

"Or three," Joly added darkly.

"…No. Thanks, amis, but no," Grantaire told them. "This is between Bahorel and myself. Don't interfere, if you love me." Of course they all demurred and backed off like good little children, glaring at him from under their brows. "You want a fight?" he asked Bahorel.

"Yeah, if you're not opposed to it," Dominic said, slowly levering himself up by way of a nearby table. "And if they'll allow it."

"They'll not interfere," he replied calmly. "Not even if you should happen to get the better of me." The good little children didn't look so sure of that, but it'd be a wonder if they disobeyed Grantaire in anything now.

"There's no 'happen' about it," Bahorel scowled in bravado.

"I think you'll find me ready for you, Bahorel," Grantaire said, a hint of disdain in his voice.

"We'll see about that." And the first punch was his this time, but somehow…somehow his opponent blocked him like a professional and gave him a smart, rather (ow) painful rap to the ribs, and…god, well, maybe this wouldn't be quite as easy as he'd thought it would be…