A/N: This fic had an odd beginning. It started out as a result of the LMFFI Card Game - I got Fantine and Gavroche. Now, my idea was to have Éponine tell Gavroche stories about Cosette and how her mother dropped her off as a child...and to have Gavroche think about Cosette and, eventually, her mother. But soon I got so caught up in describing Éponine's storytelling I totally forgot to get to my point. *dies* So I decided to extend the fic to just a little Thénardier sibling reunion. *giggles* The theme of Fantine and Cosette, coincidentally, fit into this quite nicely. Warning: the story tends to jump about quite a bit. Sorry about that x_X It's my first non-Amis fic, and I haven't read Les Mis in over a year (should probably drag it out again). Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated...thanks! ^^

Tout Pour La Famille

Éponine sometimes told her brother stories, when he was hungry for someone to talk to and she was hungry for someone to listen. They were always hungry, both of them, physically as well as emotionally. The former wasn't so easy to take care of, but the latter was cured simply by finding each other and talking, about anything and everything. They'd find an old, abandoned, closed-off alleyway; Gavroche would huddle into the corner across from his sister, and she would talk.

She would talk most often when she was bitter, when she was dreamy, or after her father had beaten her. Gavroche could always tell which it was by the way she was sitting and speaking – if she was bitter, her tone would be burning, scathing, harsh, her posture shaking with fury. If she was dreamy, she wouldn't care how she sat, and would usually end up in an unusual position. She wouldn't mind, though, and her tone would be light, airy, almost beautiful. When she'd been beaten, she would curl up in a ball and cry, and sometimes Gavroche could barely hear what she said through her sobs.

Those were the times Azelma would sneak out, away from the watchful eye of their father, and huddle close to Éponine, holding her close, sharing her pain. Éponine would lay her head on Azelma's shoulder, and the sisters would cry together, their tears intermingling. This simple show of sisterly love and affection caused a lump to grow in Gavroche's throat, and he had to quietly slip away, or risk tears coming into his own eyes. People would think he was going soft. The sisters never noticed him leaving; sometimes they'd sit there the whole night, finding comfort that the world never gave them in each other.

It was times like this when Gavroche saw the true power of family.

Éponine's stories would sometimes be about the girl that had come to live with the Thénardiers when she and Azelma were children – the Lark, she called her. She'd get an odd expression on her face and begin to – not exactly rant, but to speak in that mocking, sarcastic way that twisted her whole face, making her look uglier than she already was. Yet it was times like that when Gavroche loved her most. He would see what the street made her, and want to take that away. Had things been different, Éponine may have been beautiful; however, the streets had robbed her of her looks, her health, and her sanity. Especially in her times of desperation, Gavroche would never leave her like the Lark's mother had left her.

Éponine's stories about the Lark and her mother were most often bitter ones – lamenting the Lark's position in life while she was on the streets. However, if Gavroche asked, his sister would sometimes tell him about the Lark as a child – how she, 'Zelma, and 'Ponine had played with her. Azelma would often interject, adding details about the games they played, how good the Lark was at them, or the colours of their dresses. Gavroche, though, was more interested in the Lark's mother. Éponine told him that she had given the Lark to the Thénardiers. The first time she told this story, Gavroche had frowned, expressing his disbelief that the mother could abandon her child like that. His sister had quickly corrected him; as far as she could understand, the woman had no money to take care of the Lark, so she'd given her to people who could.

Gavroche had understood, but still thought about this sometimes. If he had the chance, would he give Éponine and Azelma to a richer family, to see them grow healthier, stronger, and have a chance to prosper at life instead of beg in the streets? Or would he keep them here, echoing the old saying misery loves company? Gavroche thrived in the streets, but Éponine and Azelma did not. Would he give up their companionship for their health and happiness, like the Lark's mother had?

Families were supposed to stick together. Tout pour la famille – all for the family. Through thick and thin, to hold on to each other and be each other's light in the darkest of times. But families were also supposed to want the best for each other. To do all they could to make the ones they loved happy. Gavroche had once expressed these thought to Azelma; she'd laughed and laughed and called him the greatest gamin poet in all of Paris. He'd begun to recite a ridiculous love poem he'd heard from Jean Prouvaire, and Azelma had laughed some more, the hoarse cackle Gavroche loved to hear from his sister. The incident was quickly forgotten.

Gavroche knew he shouldn't waste his time on speculation. He would never leave Éponine or Azelma – the thought of them getting a chance of becoming wealthy was ridiculous. He put those thoughts out of his mind. For now, he loved his sisters, and they watched over him like roughened, scarred street angels. They shared stories, bread, blood, and even breath, it seemed. He taught them to smile, and they taught him to cry. He gave them companionship, and they gave him love. Tout pour la famille.