Disclaimer: The characters belong to Victor Hugo, as does part of the plot.

Author's Note: I love werewolves. Occasionally I go through werewolf withdrawal, and have strange ideas like this, which is an AU of Les Mis where many of the main characters are werewolves. The primary players will be Les Amis, Marius, and Cosette. If other people are interested, I will also continue this.

February, 1831

Prologue: Eyes

He doesn't realize there are other wolves in the café at first.

It's a foolish mistake. It's a child's mistake, the type of thing that a young wolf barely away from his birth pack would make. In any large city, and especially in Paris or another city with a university, there were too many wolves around for a stray to afford to be careless.

Then again, most young wolves looking for pack wouldn't be drowning themselves in drink. Most young wolves wouldn't have to fear that they would forget to bow their head to an alpha. Most young wolves wouldn't be out, packless, in the middle of winter.

Most young wolves could approach each new pack as another opportunity to find a place to stay, but Grantaire has long since grown weary of trying and failing to acquire a home.

He had realized that wolves used the café, at least. It smelled of their kind, with over a dozen comingled scents crisscrossing the area, but that wasn't uncommon. Wolves were social creatures; humans were social creatures; so long as they kept their nature hidden, it wasn't uncommon for wolves to frequent human haunts. Their ability to blend in with humans was what made it possible for most strays to stay alive. Strays simply had to be careful to avoid using the human gathering places at the same time that the pack whose territory they trespassed in wanted it.

He should have followed the pack's scent more closely. He should have paid attention to the way that the scents of the pack all converged on one door, gathering together, marking out a lair in their territory. He should have noticed how fresh and strong the scents were, how they criss-crossed with old scents, and thought better of using this particular café for his latest drinking binge.

He should have, but he hadn't, and all the should haves in the world won't be of any help to him as he stares in bleary confusion at the dozen wolves suddenly emerging from a back room of the café.

They don't notice him at first. He's only one wolf, and he doesn't carry the heavy reek of pack magic that they do. He doesn't draw their eyes the way they draw his.

If he's smart, he'll leave now. He'll run before they drive him out, hoping that if some of them decide to come nipping at his heels they'll be satisfied enough with his quick departure that they won't decide to pursue the matter to bloodshed.

He can't seem to find his feet, though. They're stuck fast to the ground, rooted in place, just as his eyes are fixed unblinking on the pack's alpha.

The pack's alpha is beautiful, long blond hair framing his face, piercing blue eyes that seem to look at everything at once. He's female, though dressed in male human clothes like most female wolves. Their kind don't have as many differences between the sexes as humans do, and most female wolves would chafe and growl at the restrictions placed on human females. Easier to play the part of male, and not a problem for their people, who could tell from a sniff what humans seemed to be incapable of comprehending even with long acquaintance.

The pack alpha continues his conversation with another of his wolves, talking quietly, in a tone that Grantaire can't hear. Grantaire's certain that the alpha knows he's present, though. Too many of the other wolves are staring at Grantaire for the alpha to not have felt their alertness, their eagerness, their uncertainty.

There is a stranger in their territory, a stray, too old to be an overeager pup.

There is a danger to be dealt with.

There are the alpha's eyes finally turning to Grantaire, so blue, blue as ice and bright as the sky, and Grantaire drops his gaze instinctively. His head bows low, a sign of humility, of obeisance, and he extends his head, baring as much of his neck as he can while still appearing human to the rest of the unsuspecting patrons in the bar.

After a long moment the eyes leave him, taking the full force of the alpha's power with them. It doesn't matter. Grantaire continues to stare at the scarred tabletop, mind and heart a blur of aching confusion.

He obeyed.

The alpha looked at him, and he obeyed.

Without thinking, without considering, without wondering, his body did what it should always do, what his scent tells others to expect him to do, and put him into a position of submission.

He looks up too late. The alpha has already lead his pack to the door, is stepping out into the street. They're leaving him in their territory without a fight, without even a warning. It is a kindness, a gesture of courtesy and compassion that Grantaire has had on a few other occasions but has long since trained himself not to expect or even want.

He wants to chase the pack down. He wants to ask their names, if they have other affiliations, if they would consider—

But no. He mustn't even think of that, not even for a moment. No pack would want him, not defective as he is. That has been made perfectly clear to him, and he accepts it without hesitation.

He can't chase the pack. To chase them could be considered to challenge them. Their alpha may permit him this kindness, this place where his pack lairs amidst the humans, but he would not be welcomed at their true lair. To try to hunt them to their den would be sacrilege.

But perhaps he can wait here. Perhaps he can stay, and maybe when the pack returns they will allow him to continue to sit here, silent and still, no trouble to anyone. Perhaps they will let him watch them, just watch, nothing more, he knows they'll want nothing more.

Perhaps the alpha will look at him again, and he will do what any proper wolf would when face to face with an alpha of that glorious magnitude, and it will be almost but not quite like being in a pack.

He takes a long, slow drink, settling back in his chair, the ecstasy that had come from being normal fading as the scents of the pack become just that, scents, not vibrant-hot trails full of their rank and mate-bonds and pack-bonds and sex.

Perhaps they will turn on him tomorrow, when they find the stray still lurking in their café. Perhaps they will take him in back, into the room where they had been, and threaten him, or bloody him, or perhaps even kill him. They would be in their right.

Somehow, thinking of the alpha's blue eyes on him, Grantaire can't bring himself to worry about these possibilities.