A/N: I got the idea for this story when we watched a Civil Rights film in Social Studies, and I wondered to myself: Hmm, what if the Amis were in the US in the sixties? And thus, this story was born. I own nothing except for the plot, "Civil Rights In America" and my OC.

January 1st, 2010
The set of the new film, "Civil Rights In America"

"Who was he to you?"

"He was my hero. He was my leader, he was my friend."

A young man, golden curls matted with blood and dirt. He bleeds out of multiple wounds as he lies on the ground, growing weaker and weaker. A young woman, brown hair brushing her shoulders as she kneels beside him, tears in her green eyes threatening to spill down her dirty face.

He smiles, and she fumbles in her bag for something, anything, to help him. But he stays her hand. And slowly, slowly, he pulls her down and whispers something in her ear, something which causes the tears to burst forward in full force.

"He was an inspiration. He was untouchable. He was our little group's Martin Luther King."

The young woman is openly sobbing now, her hands desperately trying to heal his wounds. He simply smiles slightly.

"And, you know, I do believe I was a little bit in love with him."

47 years earlier
New York City, near Columbia

"Whoa there Joan, what's the matter?"

"Can't talk – already late!" Joan Roland called over her shoulder to her neighbor as she ran out the door of their apartment building. She was late, in fact, for the second time that week. The first time had been due to homework, but this time it was her family's fault. Or rather, her brother's fault.

Her brother, James, had shown up that morning to express his wishes for Joan to return to their home state of Missouri at the end of the school year.

"You haven't been home in ages, Jo," he had said to her, "I miss you, I really do."

She would have loved to explicitly state to his face why she had to stay in New York during the summer, but this was Missouri they were talking about. Her cause was just, but none of the people back home would agree with it.

But none of that mattered right now, because the leader of their little band of college kids was going to murder her if she was more than ten minutes late, which would be around the time that Grantaire got there. Grantaire's arrival was the cutoff – if you arrived after him, you were in for a very scary talking too.

The reasoning for this was that Grantaire was always drunk. He never did any other drugs, but he drank everywhere, and all of the time. He could still function, somewhat, but he could have been much better if he didn't drink.

Joan wasn't going to bother with a taxi; she had never had luck with flagging one, and even if she did it would take her longer to get to the meeting place. So, she elected to walk.

She managed to slip into the Musain seconds before Grantaire stumbled in, even more drunk than usual. The Musain was a little café from the early nineteen hundreds, when it had been opened by a Frenchman and his wife who immigrated to New York. During the twenties it had been a speakeasie, one of those illegal clubs serving alcohol during the prohibition. After the Prohibition had ended, the Musain retreated to become a small restaurant-slash-café, and the couple's daughter, Musichetta, had taken it over. Their little group had stumbled upon it and decided it was perfect.

Joan sat at a table next to her friend Courfeyrac, whose wavy dark hair seemed to be shorter than she remembered.

"Haircut, Courf?" she asked with a grin. Her dynamic friend nodded with a slight frown, touching his short locks.

"Yea, the Old Lady was really hacked about how long it was getting. Lucky you, not having to deal with an Old Lady or an Old Man."

"You forget – I have my big brother. He's basically my Old Man now."

"Your brother is square," Marius piped up as he moved to sit between them, before saying, "Has Enj told you yet?"

"Told us what?" Joan asked, glancing at Marius, who was wearing an outfit more pleasing to the eye than the monstrosity he had worn the day before. The redhead seemed pleased that he was aware of something before Joan, who was usually the first to know everything.

"Well, Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr..."

"You mean the African-American preacher that rose to the top of our activist 'ranks'?" Courfeyrac asked, and Marius nodded.

"He's organized a march on Washington this summer…"

Joan leapt to her feet, eyes glittering in excitement.

"Are we going?" she asked, and Marius grinned widely. She squealed and jumped up and down, short curls bouncing as they framed her face. Running over to Enjolras, the leader of their little group, she asked,

"Is it true?"

The blond looked up, confusion in his blue eyes.

"Is what true?"

"Are we going to the march?"

He nodded, before tensing up as she engulfed him a hug, beaming. This was what she dreamed of. This cause was everything to her, and she was so glad that she could finally meet one of the most famous men in the Civil Rights world. Enjolras managed to disentangle himself from Joan's hug and got her to sit back down, before the meeting began.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"Find out what?" Joan asked, managing to keep a straight face and steady tone despite the fear coiling in her chest, "James, I don't know what you're talking about?"

"How long did you think you could hide your little club from me?" her brother demanded, anger flaring in his grey eyes, "It's not right, this little goal of yours."

The fear washed over her. She had put her friends in danger, not cutting ties with him. But somehow, she managed to snort and ask incredulously, "Not right? How is it not right?"

"They – those Negros – are a menace!" He spat out 'Negro' like it was a bad taste in his mouth. He was leaning closer to Joan, whose jaw was firmly set. He continued, shouting, "I won't have you cavorting with them or those who are near them!"

"I'm not a child anymore! I can do whatever the hell I want!" she yelled back.

Something – his hand – slapped her across the face, and she reeled, yet somehow remained standing. Now shock was filling her. Her brother had hit her?

"You listen to me, Joan," James growled, his face dangerously close to hers, "They are beneath us."

"That's what all of the men said about women too, when they wanted rights," Joan shot back, "they weren't right."

"Maybe they were," he snarled, "If all of these rights we gifted to you make you think you can disobey your betters. We should never have given in." A split second passed, and then he added, "You belong in the kitchen."

Anger coloured Joan's vision blood red and she launched herself a him, screaming.

"Take that back! Take it back right now, you bastard!"

His hand collided with her face once more, and she fell back against the wall, blood welling from a split on her lip. Her head collided with the wall and he vision blackened for a split second, leaving her with a splitting headache. But the fire of her anger was not quenched, and she propped herself up, not finished.

"You think you're better than us, than them," she spat, "But you're the lowly ones. Here you are, preaching about how much better you are, when, in reality, you are the lowest dregs of humanity!"

He struck her again, and then his fist hit her, causing more pain to explode behind her eyes.

"You are a child!" James yelled, "A child, and a woman! You know nothing of the world!"

"I know more than you," she began, but he cut her off with another strike.

"You will come back with me to Missouri," he said, panting, and Joan laughed through the blood flowing from numerous cuts on her face.

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"I am your brother, and you will listen to me!"

"I have grown up, James! I will not come with you. I have found a new family."

James snarled and shoved her back against the wall, her head colliding again.

"I'm giving you ten minutes to pack up and get out, bitch," he growled, "You can find somewhere else to live. And forget about your precious Columbia. I'm not paying for you anymore."

She spat in his face and kneed him below the belt before storming into her room and stuffing things into her suitcases, also grabbing canned foods from the kitchen. As she walked past James to leave, she said, "Change is coming, James. I'll be glad to see the look on your face when this whole thing is over, and you have lost. Also," she laughed, "You forget that Mama and Papa left me half of their fortune. So I will be continuing in college."

With that she left, slamming the door behind her. She headed back to the café, knowing that almost everyone would still be there.

Halfway on the way, tears began to prick in her eyes. By the time she stumbled into the café, she was sobbing.

"Joan?" Jehan asked, standing up in worry, "Are you alright? What happened?" He sat her down at a table.

"I did it, Jehan," Joan said, the tears slowly coming to a stop, "I left my bastard of a brother. He found out about our Cause, and tried to disown me." She laughed, adding, "He forgot that I'm the heir to our parent's fortune, and I have half of it waiting in my bank account for use."

"Joan, are you okay?" Enjolras appeared in her vision, which was quickly narrowing, "Did he beat you?"

"He insulted the cause," she said, a faint grin showing on her face, "I got a good hit in."

"Joan, listen to me. Focus on my face." His hands were on hers, and she focused her blurry vision on his statuesque face.

"Does your head hurt? Do you feel sick?"

"A little bit, yea," she said.

Jehan wrung his hands, asking, "Is she going to be…"

"I'm not a doctor, Jean! Fetch Joly if you want to know how bad she is!"

Jehan ran off in search of their doctor friend. Her vision was fading out.

"Eyes on me, Joan," Enjolras said, "You have to stay awake, hear me?" There was a note of desperateness in his voice.

"But I'm so sleepy…" she muttered, and he shook his head.

"If you fall asleep now, you'll miss Martin Luther King."

That was the key to get her to focus all of her will on staying awake. Joly knelt in front of her, blurred by her half closed eyes. His fingers danced across her face, examining her.

"She's got minor concussion," he said, "She should be fine." He turned to her and said, gently, "Rest, Joan."

She closed her eyes, and slept.

The guys breathed a sigh of relief as Joan's eyes closed and her breathing deepened. Her delicate face was marred by scratches and her lip was starting to swell. There was a gash on her forehead.

"Who did this to her?" Joly asked, brow furrowed in concern.

"Her brother," Enjolras scowled, "Before he left her to the streets."

Joly frowned and said, "We can deal with him later. Someone should keep an eye on her while she sleeps."

"We could take shifts," Jehan suggested, but Enjolras shook his head, cutting him off.

"No. I'll watch her."

"You need to sleep too…"

"No."

"But…"

"I said no, Jehan!"

The poet jumped and Joan murmured in her sleep, moving around in the chair. Enjolras sighed as he looked at her and said,

"It's my fault she's like this."

Joly shook his head, replying, "Not it isn't, Enjolras."

"It is!" The blonde insisted, "We should have gotten her away from him a long time ago."

"She's away from him now," Combeferre said, placing a hand on Enjolras' shoulder, "But she'd be more comfortable somewhere that isn't a chair."

"She can stay at my place for now," Enjolras said, and Joly nodded in approval.

"Call me if there's any change."

Joan opened her eyes and squinted against the bright light that was flooding the room. She attempted to sit up, but whimpered slightly when pain shot through her head and neck, and decided against moving too much. Looking around, she noticed a neat apartment with white walls and tan carpet. She was lying on a rather comfortable couch, near which there were windows that looked out over the city.

"Joan? Are you awake?"

For a moment she panicked, not fully recognizing the voice and thinking for a moment that it was her brother. But then a familiar face appeared, golden hair out of its normal ponytail and instead hanging around his face. Light shone behind his head, encasing him in a golden light.

Enjolras.

"Yea," she answered, "What happened last night?"

He knelt down beside her, face darkening as he scowled.

"That damned brother of yours beat you and disowned you."

Shock spilled into her. Is that what had happened? It was a blur of pain and anger, mixed with tears.

"He- he did?"

Enjolras nodded and hung his head, whispering, "I'm sorry."

A sob burst from Joan's chest. Her brother had abandoned her. He had promised that he would take care of her, and then he abandoned her. Tears ran down her face and she sat up, ignoring the blood rush to her head, and hugged her legs close, letting the tears wet her knees.

Strong, yet gentle arms wrapped around her, and she allowed herself to be pulled into a hug.

"He used to be s-so kind," she sobbed into Enjolras' shoulder, "I don't know what happened to him."

She was turned so that she looked into Enjolras' eyes, startling blue meeting grey-green. He reached up and brushed tears from her eyes, looking at her with gentle sincerity as he said,

"People change, Jo."

"That much?" she asked, "Enjolras, what am I going to do?"

"You can stay here for now," he said, "After that, I don't know. We'll find you a job; I'm sure Musichetta can get you a position at the café. You'll make it through, Joan. I promise."

She smiled through her tears, and he slowly helped her to the table, where she sat as he made her breakfast.

"Thank you, Enjolras," she said, and he looked at her over his shoulder.

"It's my fault you were hurt," he said, "It was the least I could do."

A/N: And there's the end of chapter one! Like it? Love it? Hate it? Leave a review, and tell me how you feel. Or just rant. Or tell me your favorite Barricade Boy.