title: Heightened

pairing(s): main - Enjolras/Éponine; minor - Marius/Cosette, others to follow

rating: PG-14

summary: Powers!AU; canon-era; e/e; slow burn; 'They might have thought nothing more of her than a gamine - a petty-thief with the wide eyes and dishevelled hair, a minx, a whore - but she knew she was better than that. She was better than them, and that let her meet their jeers and insults with the cold, hard gaze of a woman carved from marble.' Having lived most of her life in denial of her ability, Éponine is thrust into a world of the impossible as she and a group of students work towards stopping not only a ruthless serial killer, but the apocalyptic end of France itself, an end that may be coming sooner than anyone thinks, an end from the hand of Enjolras himself.

AN: For those of you familiar with the Heroes universe, this should be pretty self-explanatory in how this fic could also be a Heroes!AU fic. For those of you who are not, it's basically what the label states: a superpowers AU. While having watched the Heroes series certainly lends some perspective to this, it is not necessary to read and enjoy this fic.

As these chapters are longer, and the plot more detailed, I expect the updates for this to progress slower in reflection of that. However, you will be graciously awarded for your patience, I can assure you. ;) This is also a slow burn fic, so please understand that romance is not necessarily going to be the major plotline in each chapter. We will get there! It will be tortuous and filled with frustrating tension at some point, you'll love it.

Italics denote flashbacks, - italics - encased in dashes denote thoughts.

There will be OCs in this story as minor characters to help further the plot along. If you don't like OCs, don't read this story.

This is meant to take three volumes to finish, although I'm doubtful of my ability to do so. I would love your encouragement and feedback to help 'em along!

***Blanket warning on this story for blood + gore, violence, slurs, character deaths. Special warnings for particularly severe events outside of these blanket warnings will be given at the start of a chapter. If you don't think you can handle any of these, I discourage you from reading.***


Volume One: The End


Chapter One: Inner Demons

Some people just didn't know what it was like to live on the streets. They didn't know how the cold wind slapped at your skin, leaving it red and numb until you couldn't feel anything but the pain. They didn't know how sharp stones could feel on bare feet, how they could get infected and leave you disabled for weeks. They didn't know how even if that happened, you still had to keep walking, because there were others who depended on you and you couldn't let them go hungry, not over something as trivial as being practically unable to walk.

And that was just the people who didn't know.

Yet worse, the people who thought they knew what it was like to live on the street, or even thought that living on the streets was easy. The people who blathered on about it not being that bad when they were just in a bad strait after having a fallout with their ridiculously rich parents, when they still had a roof over their heads and food to eat. The people who handed out sous in front of the church telling stories of how God would save them; the people who thought a few sous would be able to last the poor until then. The people who treated her like she came from the gutter and that because of this she must be a whore. People thought they knew, but they didn't, and the idea of it made her seethe with anger.

Éponine hated these people the most.

She worked hard. Maybe it wasn't always honest work, but she worked, and that was good enough for her. It wasn't as though anyone was offering her some honest work; she gladly would have taken it. Instead she picked pockets and lured unsuspecting bourgeois into her father's clutches. She wasn't proud of the act; she was proud of her skill, her speed and slyness that allowed her to outwit those who would have sneered her way on the streets. There came satisfaction from besting those who thought themselves better than her. It was wrong to steal, she knew, but the feeling of pride that settled deep in her gut - the notion that these men deserved the revenge she exacted on them - it warmed her.

No one could exact revenge like Éponine Thénardier did.

They might have thought nothing more of her than a gamine, a petty-thief with the wide eyes and dishevelled hair, a minx, a whore, but she knew she was better than that. She was better than them, and that let her meet their jeers and insults with the cold, hard gaze of a woman carved from marble.


Éponine is tired when she reaches the Gorbeau Tenement. Her soles are aching - like they normally do every day - and her hair is tangled from the earlier breeze. She rubs a little at her face, perhaps hoping she could remove some of the dirt that seemed permanently etched there, and lets herself into the building. Azelma had given up maybe an hour earlier than Éponine had, but Éponine had little more than her sister did to show for the extra hour. The coins in her pocket jingle slightly as she digs her hand in to gather them. Her eyes count them out with practiced precision, and she has the total in her mind as she silently drops two of the higher value coins back into her pocket. These she would keep for herself, to add to her 'someday' savings.

Someday, she would get out of here, away from her parents and poverty.

She straightens her back as she enters their small apartment, careful to avoid attracting the attention of their landlady, who had once again taken to trying to catch them at odd hours in an attempt to wrangle the rent out of them. Azelma is seated on the one rickety stool they have, staring out the window. Her mother is on the bed, her own gaze wandering aimlessly around the room, never quite settling on one thing. Éponine wrinkles her nose at the dusty scent in the air.

Since there is nowhere else for her to sit, Éponine puts her coins on the table next to Azelma's and tries her best to pick a clean spot on the floor, crossing her legs as she settles down. The noise of coins clinking on the wood doesn't startle her sister, who is still looking outside. The silence is absolutely deafening, making Éponine want to scream. Her family is an empty shell of what it once was. Ghosts of happier times flicker pass her eyes, all she can remember of a time when she was fed and happy.

"Faster, 'Ponine!" Azelma's squeaky voice rang with laughter in Éponine's ears as she strove to push her sister's swing higher and higher towards the sun. Her sister's shiny red hair dazzled in the bright sunlight like strands of copper. Éponine thought of her own dark locks and immediately felt a hint of jealousy.

"I'm trying," she protested when Azelma continued to whine, which was true, because Éponine's skinny arms were growing achy and tired from the sheer amount of effort she was putting in. "That's as high as I can make it go. You have to help too. You have to swing your legs."

"Whee!" Azelma swung back and forth as Éponine backed away, watching Azelma pump her chubby legs up and down. A shoe flew off somewhere in between swings, and Éponine watched its arc as it landed in the street.

"'Ponine," Azelma wheedled from her seat. "My shoe!"

"I'll get it," Éponine grumbled, gathering her skirts up. "Don't go anywhere, or maman will be upset. We're not supposed to go in the streets on our own."

Peering carefully both ways, there did not appear to be any carriages going by, so Éponine scampered across the dirt road and scooped up the shoe, tucking it into the folds of her dress. Straightening, she jerked her gaze both ways once more before making the return trip.

She thought she was in the clear when suddenly her foot caught on a bump in the gravel, sending her sprawling forwards into the dirt. The shock of it had her crying out in sheer terror as she hit the ground. Distantly she could hear Azelma shrieking in the background, but the most prominent sound in her ears was the thud-thud-thud of her heart in her chest as the fiacre came barrelling forwards.

Éponine could not see what was going on at the time, but later Azelma would tell her that the horses had spooked, trying to move out of the way, but the carriage would still roll over both of her scrawny legs. Her scrawny, grey-coloured legs. Éponine wouldn't remember what happened after, how her sister had braved the street to pull her unconscious body to safety, inspecting her body for damage yet finding nothing but the fading granite colour.

Neither of them had told their parents about the incident, and eventually, being as young as she was at the time, Azelma forgot about it.

Éponine pulls a rock out of her other pocket, cradling it in her hand. She runs her fingers over its smooth surface, slick from years of river water washing over it. It is a pleasant, dull grey colour that soothes her, grounds her. Focussing on it, she can imagine what it would be like to be fashioned from the same material. To be hard and unbreakable. To be untouchable and unafraid. What she wouldn't give to not have to be afraid anymore. The stone twitches in her palm, its cool surface warming at the contact with her skin.

With the proper amount of concentration, she makes the same soothing feeling spread across her hand, as though it radiates from the stone. Ever so slowly, the grey tinge seeps into the pores of her fingertips, slipping into her very being until her entire hand seems encased in marble. Her eyelids flicker as she feels the familiar surge of power just underneath her skin. It was getting easier, now, to give herself over to that cold, empty feeling. To let go.

Éponine swallows and flexes her fingers around the rock. Her fingers are a cool grey colour, with veins of a darker grey running through them. Strong, she thinks. Indestructible. She looks up, then, to see if anyone has noticed.

No one had.

Standing up, she says to no one in particular, "I'm going." Announcing her plan of coming and going gives her a sense of self empowerment. Éponine goes over to the table, eyes taking in the tiny pile of coins. Reaching out with her marble hand, she scoops up most of it and drops it into her pocket. "I'm not coming back."

No one answers, but Azelma does turn around. Her sister's eyes, dull as the stone in her pocket, merely look sad.

Her hand is still stone as she opens the door, the thud of it hitting the brass knob surprising her. Clutching her hand to herself - the ashen colour is spreading past her wrist and up her arm - she leaves and doesn't look back.


a few days later ...


The Musain is quiet today.

Enjolras stretches his leg out under the table, rotating the ankle around in slow circles. There is a sense of tightness in the joint, but nothing unbearable. The pain would pass with time, as most things did, and eventually he would forget about it. A lesser man might have complained, might have gone to a doctor for a quick session in order to ease the tension, but Enjolras finds the pain helped him focus. Perhaps he was simply being a masochist, but the dull ache in his ankle was comforting, in a way. It made him feel normal.

He hears Combeferre enter the room before the man has even passed through the threshold, and sees his friend make his way over through the curtain of blond hair that falls over his own face.

"I heard you turned your ankle today, mon ami," Combeferre begins without preamble. His light brown hair is carefully combed back into staying in place, his ever-present glasses perched on his nose.

"I did," Enjolras says, in a conversational tone. "It is nothing. I hardly feel the pain." He turns the page of the book he is reading over and slides a marker in between the pages before shutting it. "I will endeavour to be more careful next time."

"I could —" Combeferre offers, but Enjolras stops him with a swift jerk of his head, refusing the offer before it is made.

"I am fine," he reiterates.

Combeferre gives him a mildly frustrated look. "What use are these abilities if you do not allow me to use them to help you, Enjolras."

"They are of great use. Perhaps not to me, at this moment, but never underestimate your ability, Combeferre. You've helped a great number of citizens with it. Not many could do as you do so well."

"And yet they have no idea why. They assume me a great doctor, a man of many talents, when I possess but one," Combeferre is fully engrossed in his frustration now, shooting a dirty look out the window as though the world is responsible for this fault. "I have one ability that enables me to comprehend information faster than any normal man, to draw conclusions on physical biology with a single touch. I can tell just by looking at you that you are lying about the pain in your ankle, Enjolras. I owe none of this to my own merits; I owe all this to an ability."

"That is not true. You are a valued friend and confidant to myself, an important part of our group and dear to all of us. Without your guidance, I know for a fact that I would neither be the man I am today, nor where I am today. You've saved me on many accounts, not only physically but mentally as well. Your power, your ability, it is an extension of yourself, a part of you." An annoyed huff. "We've been over this."

"Then what good does my knowledge do me when you refuse my offers to help you?"

"Only this time," Enjolras insists, but Combeferre is shaking his head before Enjolras had even finished. They'd had this particular conversation many, many times before.

"You always refuse. You encourage us to use our abilities for the greater good, to feel free to express ourselves among each other, yet you refuse to acknowledge your own potential or to let any of us help unless it was absolutely necessary. Why do you not allow yourself the same benefits you say we all deserve?"

"I prefer it that way. I am too dangerous." Something in Enjolras' tone signals the end of the conversation.

Combeferre sits down just as Courfeyrac enters, dragging a chair across the floor to join them. The sound of the chair's legs against the ground surely must hurt Courfeyrac's ears, but the man seems unperturbed, merely showing off an easy grin as he slides into his seat. He is quite obviously pleased about something, and just as pleased to tell them about it.

"I bring news," Courfeyrac starts, evidently having decided to lengthen his tale for the sake of his own amusement, "of a new possible friend. He's moved into my apartment building as of today. We had a brief conversation: family, friends, studies. I do believe he fits what we are looking for. Estranged from his father, he lived with his grandfather and aunt, the former of which he does not get along with all of the time, which is actually the reason why he moved out. He was rather nervous and twitchy when I talked with him; he kept glancing outside. No acquaintances of his own to speak of; he's studying law at the same university we attend, albeit two years younger." He rattled off the points with a practiced air of confidence.

"What power do you suspect he has?" Enjolras queries. They were always looking for people with abilities, of course. Some of them could be dangerous if unchecked, and it was Les Amis' responsibility to ensure that any and all they discovered were made to understand just how imperative it was for their powers to remain a secret.

"I don't suspect," Courfeyrac says with a smug grin. "I know."

Combeferre and Enjolras both give him a look that implied that if he didn't continue he was in for some trouble.

"I overheard him on the roof when I went over to welcome him to the building —" Enjolras rolls his eyes at the word 'overheard', but doesn't interrupt. "— and it turns out that this fellow - his name is Marius, Marius Pontmercy, - has the ability to fly."

"He can fly." Combeferre sounds rather unimpressed and skeptical. "You heard him talking to himself about it, but you didn't actually see it?"

"Stranger things have happened, Combeferre." Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow at his friend, drumming his fingers on the table. "You said so yourself that it was possible."

"I said it might be possible. So far all of our abilities could be seen as enhancements of our current capabilities. Your hearing, my ability to understand new ideas easily —"

Courfeyrac is completely set in his opinion of the new boy. "He can fly, I'm telling you. You can see for yourself tonight; I invited him to our meeting."

"That is not alright. You are not allowed to make decisions for our group as a whole, Courfeyrac. It is not only dangerous for him but for all of us. Imagine what happens if he does not possess an ability, or if he decides he wishes to expose us to the world at large. What then?" To say Enjolras is upset was an understatement. "He could go running to the police, or the newspapers. Merde, Courfeyrac, even if he is amicable to joining us, this is too much to spring on one person at once. Don't you remember how Feuilly acted when we first showed him our powers?"

Startled slightly by their leader's outburst, Courfeyrac backtracks a little. "It's fine, we don't have to have him stay the whole time. Just a brief introduction, and you can kick him out afterwards, if you wish. My apologies."

Enjolras takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling before offering his friend a small, wry smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you, Courfeyrac."

The man in question snorts. "As if you could."


Marius Pontmercy goes over his rather limited options on what to wear for tonight's meeting. His new neighbour and friend, Courfeyrac, had invited him out for drinks with some of his friends. He'd known the fellow in passing, having exchanged friendly greetings before. But there was something different about this abrupt invitation to dinner; a nagging feeling in the back of his mind insists that this was no ordinary gathering of friends. Therefore the question was whether he ought to dress to impress. He had but one set of formal clothing left, aside from the outfit he retained for day-to-day wear.

He thinks about the conversation that had transpired that morning, when Courfeyrac had found him on the roof of the building.

"Welcome to the building, neighbour." Marius jerked around at the greeting from where he had been standing close to the edge of the roof. "Ah, careful there, mon ami. I did not mean to startle you. perhaps we ought to continue this away from there." Marius had seen this older boy around the university campus before, and had exchanged pleasantries. Their families knew each other; therefore he was obligated to try to maintain that acquaintance.

"Sorry," Marius responded sheepishly. "I was merely taking in the view." In all actuality, he had been contemplating what would happen if he jumped off said roof.

"A nice view it is," his companion agreed. "Nice to see a familiar face as well. You are Gillenormand's grandson, correct? I remember seeing you in law classes at the university."

"Marius Pontmercy," he corrected. "And you are Courfeyrac."

"I am." Courfeyrac appeared very pleased, whether it was because Marius remembered his name or because Marius knew his name (all in all two very different things), he was unsure. Courfeyrac was very handsome. He was in possession of a pair of warm eyes that crinkled ever so slightly around the edges and a set of dimples to offset his cheery smile. This visage was topped with a head of thick chestnut curls and a fashionable hat to match his fine clothing. He would have cut an intimidating figure if it was not for the air of friendliness around him. "So what urged you to finally move out and begin living on your own?"

Marius hesitated, deliberating. He wasn't sure he was comfortable sharing his woes with a complete stranger, and he surely wasn't comfortable with discussing with anyone about how he felt he could fly. "I had an argument with my grandfather. I left." There. That could be scandalous information - if you cared for that sort of thing - in the wrong hands, but Marius didn't figure Courfeyrac for that kind of person.

"My apologies," Courfeyrac murmured politely. "If you would like an unbiased listener, feel free to ..." He deliberately left the topic an open one, one that Marius could either continue or refuse if he wished.

"No apologies needed," Marius said in return. "My grandfather was ... out of line in some of the things he said to me. I'll return as soon as he apologizes for his behaviour. He ... he led me to believe my father hated me, and that I should think the same of my father as he did - that my father had abandoned me and deserved none of my thoughts or sympathies. This turned out to be untrue and I ..." He inhaled sharply. "I have never regretted anymore more in my life that I did not get to see him before he passed."

"I am sorry for your loss."

"I'm looking for a man my father mentioned in his letter to me - a man named Thénardier. My father was indebted to this man, and I intend to repay him in my father's stead. Have you heard of him?"

Courfeyrac appeared crestfallen. "Alas, I have not. But I will most certainly ask others on your behalf to aid you in this quest."

"Thank you."

Courfeyrac hummed in acknowledgment, and a short silence fell over them both before Courfeyrac cleared his throat to speak once more. "Well, if you would like, some of my friends and I are gathering tonight at the Musain for dinner and drinks. You are welcome to join us."

Marius nodded in thanks. "I shall keep that in mind, thank you."

The man gave him a jaunty smile before heading back inside, leaving Marius to the open air and his own thoughts.

Treading slowly back to the edge of the rooftop, Marius peered at the people bustling across the streets of Paris below. The wind ruffled at his dark brown curls, blowing a few of them into his eyes, which watered, but he could not be bothered to move them, as he was lost in thought.

"I could do it," he whispered to himself. "I could fly." But the ground seemed far away, and Marius' courage was not yet enough that he could trust himself not go merely break all his bones on the dirty ground for all of Paris to see. His eyes screwed shut as he replayed his dream in his mind, the recurring dream that had consumed his every waking thought. He would be standing on the balcony of his grandfather's home, on the banister, staring at the green gardens below. He would raise his arms to the sky and fall - and then by some mysterious force he would be in the air, flying through the blue summer skies of Paris.

He hadn't done it, in the end. He couldn't bring himself to. He was a dreamer, but he wasn't suicidal; he valued his life more than his curiosity. There had to be safer ways to test his theory. But the dream still tugged on his consciousness, begging to be heard. Marius couldn't help but feel that somehow he was destined to see his dream realized. As if he was meant to fly and that his vision was merely a prologue to its completion.

Finally deciding on his better clothing, Marius puts them on, donning his hat as well. A bout of fresh air would do him some good; a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens to pass the rest of the afternoon, perhaps.


It is a bad day today.

Her mousy brown hair is plaited back in a modest fashion, not a single lock escaping, and her equally modest dress is clean and pressed. Her smile is bright and polite as she watches the people in the Luxembourg walk by. Euphrasie Cosette Fauchelevent is as happy as any girl could be, on the outside. On the inside, she is struggling to breathe. Even as the handsome boy from last week makes his regular round past her, she can't bring herself to moon over him. She has other things on her mind, today. A single thought, however, slips past her mental shields.

— have to find out where the Musain is Courfeyrac didn't tell me maybe a fiacre driver will know —

Cosette examines her dainty hands with displeasure and tries to block out the cacophony of noises and sounds now rattling through her head. It's painful, this rush of unintelligible thoughts. She had thought that she had it under control. She had thought that she had practiced enough to go out in society like a normal bourgeoisie girl. Her hands start to shake. She can hear her father's worry before he voices it.

"Are you alright?" Her papa's voice sounds the same in her mind; a quiet, kind murmur with just a hint of a manly rumble.

She chokes back a sob, but he doesn't seem to notice that. She's gotten good at pretending, lately. "I am fine. I think it may be a little cold." Cosette directs her gaze to the tree opposite them. The green, veined leaves lead to thin branches that sway in the gentle breeze like reeds reaching up towards the azure sky. With some effort, her walls push back up; she is once again sealed off from the thoughts of the outside world.

"It's nearly summer." Her papa looks worried for her, bless him. She can't imagine her life without him, even with all she now knows he's been keeping from her. She remembers that first night - the first night she had discovered this, this curse - very well.

She was getting ready for bed, smoothing out her sheet and bed covers. Cosette was clad in her nightgown, yawning sleepily as she eyed the bright moon outside. Slivers of milky moonlight danced across the carpeted floor as she drew the velvety beige curtains shut.

Cosette was ready to close her eyes at let the day melt into dreams when she thought she had heard something. A voice in the back of her mind that sounded just like her papa's. Startled, she sat up, staring around her empty room. The dresser, the mirror, her wardrobe ... There was no one else; she was being silly. And yet ...

"Papa?" she whispered, as though this was merely a game of hide and seek. There was no reply, of course, because her papa was in his room, with the door closed but never locked, and she was imagining his voice in her mind, a product of her sleeplessness and a restless mind.

Cosette settled back under the covers and tried to relax, but the itching notion that something was wrong continued to intensify, even as she tried to ignore it. The voice in her mind - her papa's voice, there was no denying it now, - echoed within the recesses of her consciousness. For some reason she felt as though she was trespassing on something sacred when she slid her eyelids closed to concentrate. Words filtered into her mind as she tried to decipher them, which became a muddle of sounds and noise that overwhelmed her completely.

— running low on strawberry jam will have to go to the market tomorrow to pick some up —

— dear god please bring my family good health and happiness amen -—

— got to get out of here got to get away away run run run faster —

— painful and terrifying and she couldn't turn it off oh why wouldn't it stop please stop please please no more I'm sorry —

The last thought was hers, and a quiet sob escaped her as she covered her ears, rocking back, causing her head to hit the board attached to her bed frame. It lasted an indeterminable amount of time, her mind crying out in agony as she bit down on the insides of her mouth to keep from screaming. Eventually the voices died away, one by one fading into the back depths of her mind, and everything was silent once more. She wiped the tears away; she fixed her hair. Cosette managed to calm down enough to convince herself that everything would be okay. It wouldn't be.

"I am fine; I am sure it will pass," she says gently. She is lying through her teeth. Things had only gotten worse from there, and although she was slowly learning to control her curse, it did not shield her from the harsh truth of her past. Nothing could shield her from that, anymore.

Her father was a convicted criminal, and while she did not think less of him for doing what he had done for the sake of his family, she hated that he felt the need to conceal it from her. He'd stolen a loaf of bread and gone away to the galleys for years. He'd revitalized a small town, providing good work and education for all through his ingenuity. He'd given all of that up for the sake of another man who had been falsely accused of bearing his identity, and had kept his promise to Fantine to look after her daughter. Cosette couldn't imagine her beloved papa toiling away in some shipyard, wasting away his remaining years. It was so unfair; her father was a wonderful, generous, pious man and surely deserved so much more.

Her mother had given up her own life for Cosette, had sacrificed so much to ensure her daughter's survival. She'd given so much ... and life in return had given her so little. Fantine had left her fine things behind one by one to raise her daughter. Her dresses and pearls, her health and dignity, her teeth, her hair. She'd been willing to sell her soul to the streets, something which Cosette knew must have left a lasting mark, and would have always left a lasting mark, should her mother had lived. There are some events in life you can never come back from, she thinks.

The two people Cosette loves most in her life were both dealt uncaring hands by society; society had left them to fend for themselves, to suffer. The mere thought of it starts a burn in the back of her throat, leaving her unable to breathe. Cosette turns her head away from her father's caring gaze, unable to bear it.

She was sick and tired of secrets, but she couldn't bring herself to reach out to him, not now, not with this. This ... this she would deal with on her own, or at least until her father felt he was able to finally tell her the truth. This she would bear on her own; her own form of penance. To suffer thus was nothing compared to the torment her mother must have known.


They are finishing up their fifth game of dominoes when Bossuet realizes they're going to be late. Seated around the table with him are Bahorel, Joly, and Grantaire. Feuilly was another friend who frequented their table, but today the man had work to do, as he had informed them previously.

Clearing his throat, Bossuet voices his concern of the time to the table. "We ought to finish now, if we want to arrive in time for the meeting."

Grantaire's eyes - always sharp when playing dominoes or cards - flicker to Bossuet's face. "Are you sure that isn't only because you are about to lose?" he asks, a hint of a teasing smirk playing at his lips.

Joly checks his brass pocket watch. "We are! We need to leave right away. Enjolras will be displeased if he hears we arrived late because of this." He looks nervous at the thought of it, and Bossuet unthinkingly offers his friend a smile of reassurance.

"And he won't hear of it, as long as no one tells him and we arrive on time." Bahorel rolls his dark eyes at them all, but helps scoop the dominoes into their proper pouch. They push their chairs back and gather their things. It will not be a long walk to the Musain, but every minute they waste here will surely count in the end.

Joly is hustling them out the door when Bossuet's foot catches on some unimaginably nonexistent dip in the ground, and his only thought then is 'oh no not again' before he goes sprawling to the earth, taking Joly with him. Bossuet ends up using his poor friend as a sort of cushion, landing awkwardly on all fours while Joly's arm is twisted at a bad angle between them. Joly gasps in pain, and Bossuet makes a frantic noise of apology.

"I'm so sorry, mon ami, I didn't mean to —"

"— we all know you didn't mean to," Grantaire interjects, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you sure your ability is not simply incredibly bad luck, Bossuet?"

"— are you alright?" Bossuet finishes, even though the question is ridiculously redundant. As he pushes himself off of Joly and offers his friend a hand up, Joly is already setting the bone back in place, the fracture healing over and the skin knitting itself back up. The only evidence that remains of the incident is the bloody mess Bossuet has turned Joly's shirt into.

"You can borrow my jacket," Bahorel says, handing over his navy blue blazer. Bossuet notes it will be a little wide in the shoulders for his lean friend, but hardly noticeable from a distance. "Now let's go - I don't fancy a lecture from our golden leader today."

"I'm fine, thank you." Joly sounds a little shaken, as he always does when something of this nature occurs, but he returns Bossuet's smile with his own shaky one. "I know you don't mean to, Lesgles." Joly accepts Bahorel's jacket with a 'thank you', and drapes it over his good arm as he rolls back his sleeve to examine the results up close. The skin is, as expected, completely unmarred, merely pale and lightly freckled as usual. "Do you think it was possible for it to get infected?" Joly asks worriedly.

"Combeferre went over this with you. Your body heals itself; it will also therefore rid itself of any infections." Grantaire is surprisingly the voice of reason here, and Joly visibly calms a bit at his words.

"Still —" Joly begins haltingly, but a sharp look from their dark-haired friend quells the protest.

The rest of the walk to the Musain is thankfully uneventful. They encounter Feuilly along the way, their friend tilting his cap in a gesture of greeting.

"How was your afternoon?" Feuilly inquires.

"Much the same," Bahorel replies idly. "We played dominoes; Bousset's bad luck ended in Joly encountering bodily harm; Joly healed. A typical day for us, I suppose." An easy grin spreads across his angular face.

"It does," Feuilly agrees, just as the Musain comes into view.

Joly checks the time. "We are not late," he declares in a pleased tone. Grantaire grabs the door and holds it open for them as they file into the cafe one by one. Bousset sees their lion-haired leader seated at a small table with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and goes over to meet them.

"L'Aigle," Courfeyrac addresses him with his usual cheerful manner. "Take a seat. Let me tell you about the new fellow I invited to dine with us tonight - Marius Pontmercy." The name sounds familiar to him, so he pulls up a chair and see the others, most likely having heard the story of this new boy already.

"I met Marius Pontmercy on the roof of my apartment building earlier this afternoon —"


Grantaire cradles his goblet of wine as he sits down next to Bousset, only half-listening to Courfeyrac's story to ensure that this new addition to their group won't cause him any troubles. He feels Enjolras' brief, disdainful scrutiny on the back of his head as he takes another sip of wine, and he tries to ignore it. Enjolras' attention on him is always some variation of displeasure, and while he wishes he could pretend to be used to it, he is not. It is a dull ache in his heart that alcohol will never wash away.

His friends may think him useless and cynical, but only the latter is really true. He's done more for them than they can and will ever know, and if he has his way it will remain so. His friends may think him a drunkard, but he hasn't been drunk in a long, long time. He's merely gotten good at faking it. Enjolras might think his power pointless, but it's the farthest thing from the truth.

Another sip of wine slides down his throat, and Grantaire smacks his lips a little. He downs the rest of the bottle in a hurry, the drink burning slightly as it slithers into his gut. Bousset shoots him a worried look, which Grantaire simply grins at.

"High tolerance," he reminds his friend, patting his stomach. Bousset does not appear to be fully reassured, but turns his attention back to Courfeyrac.

There is a subtle shift in the atmosphere as Courfeyrac's new acquaintance makes his grand entrance. Grantaire can hear the boy's nervousness in his short breaths and stuttering heart. Marius Pontmercy is fairly tall for his age, lanky with a head of dark curls rather similar to Grantaire's own, except while his are dishevelled and messy, this boy's hair is neat and well-kempt. Pontmercy is clad in a formal outfit of some poor taste, although if Marius and Courfeyrac become fast friends as Grantaire believes they will, this fact will soon change. Marius' blue eyes wander the room before settling on Courfeyrac, and he then proceeds to make his way over, eager for the attention of the room to fade away from him.

"Marius," Courfeyrac greets him, standing up to shake his hand. "I am pleased you decided to come."

Pontmercy offers a hesitant smile in return. "Thank you for inviting me." He looks from Bousset to Grantaire, and Grantaire listens as Lesgles introduces himself.

Grantaire offers a hand for Marius to shake. "Grantaire. My friends also know me as "Grand R', or simply, 'R'."

"Baron Marius Pontmercy." The young freckled man has a firm handshake, his palm warm in Grantaire's. Grantaire can feel the slight tingle of energy shutter through the contact; he sees the brief flicker of golden light around their palms that tells him the power has successfully been copied to his repertoire of abilities. Grantaire tests out the feel of this new capability.

Flying might prove useful, eventually. It wouldn't do to go flying around Paris in broad daylight, of course, but in the case of an emergency ... Grantaire's lip thin as he thinks of Enjolras, a man who sometimes could only be described as reckless. Those who flew too close to the sun would get their wings melted, he thinks in amusement, although he can't quite see how the tale relates to him and his fierce leader just yet, he's sure if he continues to ponder the metaphor it will make sense eventually.

As the evening passes on, more of Les Amis meander over to meet the newcomer, and Grantaire can't help but mentally tick off each power on his checklist.

Combeferre; intuitive aptitude. The ability to understand and comprehend how things worked effortlessly. He was able to deduce all of their powers easily shortly after meeting them (with the exception of Grantaire himself), and frequently used his ability to help in his medical studies, especially while volunteering his services to the poor. It served the medical student well to be able to pinpoint the exact ailment someone had been infected with, or the nature of a broken bone or fracture.

Feuilly; shape-shifting. Shifting one's facial features into any other previously seen form, but only after physical contact is established. Feuilly was not simply a man of many hats - he was also a man of many faces, as Grantaire often liked to joke about.

Jehan; superhuman strength. Jean Prouvaire also possessed a split-personality, and it had originally had been debated whether this was a side-effect of his power (which Grantaire knew to be false); Combeferre had eventually negated this statement. Jehan typically refused to use his ability to its maximum potential, believing it to be a trigger for his other side.

Bahorel; illusionist. Although he frequently complained about the apparent physical uselessness of his power, he did seem to enjoy using it on others, whether it was tricking Joly into seeing plague rats scurrying on the streets when they walked together, or charming pretty girls with his 'magic tricks', as he dubbed them.

A couple others, as well, who did have powers but were not granted entrance into the exclusive group of close-knit friends in Les Amis d'ABC: the ability to generate fire; to freeze things; to move the earth. These were mostly elemental based and dangerous if left uncontrolled.

And then, lastly, Enjolras makes his way over to their table to greet Marius. Introductions are exchanged, and Enjolras' sharp blue gaze begins to size up their newcomer.

"What is your opinion on the monarchy?" he quips, his casual tone at odds with what Grantaire knows to be the seriousness of the question.

Marius responds, "I am a Bonapartist," and goes on to elaborate, much to Grantaire's dismay. Enjolras' brows furrow, and a tiny line appears in between them, creasing his otherwise perfect features as he listens to Pontmercy's political beliefs. Marius, seemingly oblivious to the annoyance this has caused their blond leader, continues to speak at length about the finer points of Napoleon.

What was originally intended to be a friendly first conversation quickly dissolves into a debate, and Grantaire leaves the table in favour of the good company of their other friends.


later that evening ...


Night has enveloped the city, chasing away the shadows and light only to fill her surroundings with murky blackness. A few dim lanterns flicker from their windows, but other than that it is dark. Éponine's stony grey skin goes unnoticed as she prowls through the alleyways to the elephant dwelling of her younger brother, Gavroche. Knocking her fist against the leg, Éponine can feel the reverberations throughout her entire body.

A tiny, dirt-streaked face appears above her: her brother's face. Éponine can make out the quiet murmur of "It's 'Ponine," to the other gamins in the elephant before a rope is tossed down for her. Éponine fades the marble from her hands so she can get a good grip, and begins to climb. The strength of the marble in her biceps allows her to hoist her stone-cold self up inside the shelter, but as she nears the top she forces the rock away, not wanting to scare the two littler ones that Gavroche shares his home with.

"Éponine," Gavroche greets her, offering her a hand up. She accepts it with muttered thanks, adjusting her ratty skirts as she takes in the height of the ceiling before pulling herself fully upright. "What brings ya' here?"

"I've left," is all she says, simple and to the point. The look that passes between the two siblings is one of understanding as a pause develops.

"About time," Gavroche replies, and that appears to be the end of that conversation.

"Can I - can I stay here? For tonight? Been wandering around the city the last few days, tryin' to find you." Éponine bits down on her lower lip. Truthfully, she'd been reluctant to go see her brother. They hadn't exactly been on the fondest of terms when Gavroche had left their family, but she had thought that out of all of them she was the one he had been closest too. Family was still family, and she figured that taking her chance with Gavroche was better than being alone.

A tiny smirk works its way across Gavroche's lips. "'Course ya' can. No extra blankets, though. Just me an' the boys." Gavroche ruffles one of the little boy's hair affectionately, causing the younger one to immediately try to squirm away at the touch.

"I have money," she offers, as a sort of repayment. "We can buy food tomorrow."

An eyebrow raises a little at that, most likely because Gavroche knew where it had come from, but he doesn't ask. "Sounds good," he allows. Gavroche gestures the two curious gamins back to bed. "You can share my blanket with me." Gavroche directs this statement at her.

The small candle is put out, and Éponine curls up awkwardly next to her brother.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Gavroche doesn't reply, he merely pulls the thin wool blanket over them both, allowing Éponine to drop off to her first restful sleep in weeks.


To be continued ...

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