The Jailing of H. Combeferre: or, Those Times When Combeferre's Friends Landed Him In Jail, Occasionally Despite His Wishes.

This is an AU set in the modern day, United States, somewhere in the north. All the barricade boys will eventually appear, I promise. Hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: Les Mis and its characters are not mine; I only borrow them.

Henri Combeferre had just gotten his first pair of prescription glasses the first time he saw the inside of a jail. They were pretty thin lenses, but the frames were black and thick, in the style that would one day be called "hipster." Some of the kids at school already called him names for being smart and enjoying school, and today, the bus ride to the jail had been unpleasant at first. As soon as they entered the prison complex, though, and their teacher had informed them that two police officers would be escorting them as their tour guides, Combeferre's glasses had taken a back seat in the conversation. A real jail! With real convicts! Half of the class of his private school wanted to be lawyers, and others were swearing that they would be detectives one day.

But as they walked through the processing area and into the holding cells, gentle Combeferre was near the head of the group, asking questions about holding procedures and rehabilitation. One officer was fairly helpful, but the other one plainly wanted to go through the tour and get these middle-schoolers out of his jail as soon as possible.

There wasn't enough information here; Combeferre resolved to research prison procedure once he got back home.

The holding cells were very occupied today. "There was a protest downtown," the more helpful officer explained. "All protests should be cleared with local law enforcement before they happen, to make sure all the proper permits are obtained; otherwise, they end up here. Most of the protesters will be out within 48 hours, so this is really just a warning. Remember, kids, always check your local, state, and federal laws. No one wants to see you in here."

Combeferre hadn't heard about any protest occurring. That was what came from neglecting to read the morning paper, he supposed. Reading the paper went straight into his mental to-do list.

The group stopped to listen to an explanation of what equipment the officers carried, and Combeferre took the opportunity to fall back through the group, all the way to the back, towards the cells. His classmates parted mechanically to let him pass; most of them took little notice of him. Still lanky, with his nondescript brown hair and new glasses, he had the ability to blend into the crowd when he wanted to. Now he approached the holding cells, keeping an eye out for his teacher.

It was a motley crew, for sure, all of them in cheap clothing, jeans and overalls, caps pulled over their heads, frayed sweaters and fingerless gloves to battle the cold outside. Henri Combeferre knew that most of the working class lived downtown, but in all his eleven years he'd never really seen them up-close. His family ran a walk-in clinic which never refused anyone admittance and gave to charities, but they also lived in a gated community and didn't really go downtown.

There were six or seven protesters to a cell, all of them crammed together and breathing the same foul-smelling air. Miserable expressions on most of them, but a few were laughing and joking or banging on the bars.

One boy with curly hair saw Combeferre's approach and threw him a smile. "Watch out, kid," he said, low enough to carry but hopefully not loud enough for the officers to hear. "They'll throw you in too if you're not careful."

The boy behind bars couldn't have been any older than thirteen, but he favored Combeferre with a smile that was wiser than his years. Combeferre was intrigued. "Why did they arrest you?" he asked.

"The protest," the boy responded. "We're on strike for health insurance. You know, because we don't get paid full-time, so it's hard to get stuff like health insurance."

"Are you allowed to work?"

The boy shook his head. "No, but I'm old enough to protest. Only, the police have rules against people using roadblocks." A guilty expression crossed his face for a moment, shading his green eyes. "I didn't mean to drag anyone into it, though. Maybe you should go before they see you talking to me."

He glanced back at his class, but no one seemed to have moved very much. "You're not dragging me into anything, so I don't see why they would have reason to be upset," Combeferre said sensibly.

"I already kind of got a friend in trouble because of this," the boy admitted. "I didn't mean to land us in jail."

Behind him, two men parted to allow a path for another, younger, boy to approach the bars. This one was small, much smaller than Combeferre, with huge blue eyes and untamed blonde hair, but something in his purposeful movement made both the other boy and Combeferre stand up straighter. "I am here because I want to be," the newcomer said. "You didn't drag me into anything, Feuilly."

He looked nine and spoke with a much more cultured accent than his friend–Feuilly–and Combeferre wasn't entirely certain that they'd never met before. This boy's red jacket was too big for him, but he didn't seem like he belonged to the working class. He put a hand on the worker boy's shoulder, and looked Combeferre straight in the eye. "You attended my last school, I think," he said.

Combeferre had a great memory for names and faces, but he drew a blank on this one. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm Henri Combeferre. I don't think I know either of your names."

"Alexander Enjolras," the little blonde one said. "We were in elementary school together, before I moved."

"Antoine Feuilly," said the curly-haired boy. "Don't think we've ever met. Hello!"

Only the fact that he knew there were people watching stopped him from offering his hand to shake. Instead, he nodded at both of them. "I hope they let you out soon," he said.

Alexander Enjolras looked down briefly. "We may be here a while," he said. "But the protest was worth it."

Feuilly looked over Combeferre's shoulder quickly. "Your group's starting to move. You should catch up with them, Combeferre."

The group was starting to move again, and his teacher was marshaling his classmates together. He'd be missed soon. "Well, good to meet you," Combeferre said, "and hope you get out of jail soon. I may see you later."

"Come by tomorrow. We'll still be here," Feuilly said with a grin. "Good to meet you, kid!"

Enjolras nodded. "See you later, Combeferre."

Combeferre rejoined his group with many a backward glance. Once the tour was over, he pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed his parents' work. "Mother? Hi. I just got out of the field trip…yes, it was fun. I didn't learn as much as I wanted to…yes…well, I just wanted to ask something. Remember when Father said I could have a favor if I agreed to help him with his taxes? Well, I just met two boys in jail…no, Mother…they were arrested protesting for health insurance. Just basic health insurance! No, but they said no one is coming to bail them out until tomorrow, and I was wondering if we have room at our house. They could stay the night…Yes. Bail and board. That's the favor I want. We don't have to adopt them; just the night, I promise."

A/N: First Les Mis AU ever. If you'd like, let me know what you think! More to come.