Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't profit. Et cetera, et cetera.
A/N: Mostly show-based, with some weird mixes of movie and book here and there. This is a three-parter that's already complete, but I need time to edit the 2nd and 3rd parts. So any constructive feedback is verily appreciated and encouraged.
Chapter One: Liberty, Winter 1831-32
Winter had settled in Paris.
Eponine Thenardier darted left and right, skidding across the powdery snow with a stack of letters tucked under her arm. She was chilled to the bone, but for once, things could have been worse. Montparnasse had given her a new pair of boots the other week, and though they did little to keep out the cold, her feet were dry. Small miracles. It didn't matter where—or how—he got them.
Biting her lip, she forced a burst of speed from her tiring legs. It was Wednesday, the day when students and workers alike swarmed the streets. If she didn't hurry she'd miss him—the freckled student with the thick chestnut hair and warm green eyes. Her lungs burned as she swallowed gulp after gulp of sharp December air, and despite the biting wind that howled through the city, it was hard to keep a smile from her face as she rounded the corner.
What happened next came without warning. Later, when she arrived home, wet and shivering, she would replay the incident in her mind over and over again. She studied the collision from all angles, and yet reached the same conclusion: He had ghosted in from nowhere.
One minute she had been running at full speed, and the next there was a strange sense of gravity abandoning her, a brief weightlessness punctuated by a throbbing in her right shoulder. Blinking, Eponine realized she could feel the cold seeping through the rags on her back as she stared up at the snow wafting through the air. Somewhere beyond her sight, she could hear a man groaning and the shuffle of boots scraping against cobblestone.
"What in God's name...?" A golden-haired man in a red coat sputtered, his hand covering his face.
"Watch where yer going!" Eponine hissed, staggering back onto her feet. Shaking the snow from her hair, she flexed her fingers and rolled her ankles. Her shoulder pulsated with pain, but it was nothing compared to the panic that seized her once she saw the fine stitching of his clothes and the thick books scattered around them.
Not a man, but a student. Another bourgeois boy undoubtedly on his way home from a rally.
Shoulder forgotten, Eponine spun on her heel and sped down the street before making a hard left. She thought she could hear the student calling after her, but every second wasted was another week of waiting.
She weaved in and out of alleyways, zigzagging across main roads and hidden pathways. These were her streets, and to Eponine alone they spoke their deepest secrets. But for all their whisperings, the only things waiting for her in the square were fading footprints in graying slush.
Catching a cold for a boy who had most likely already left would be foolish. But Azelma was unwell and her parents were out on another job. So instead, she stood there, scanning each and every face until her fingers and nose turned red and numb from the cold.
She never noticed him until a hand clamped down on her arm.
"Fuck!" Eponine spat as she doubled over, eyes shut in a feeble attempt to blot out the white-hot pain coursing through her shoulder. There was a warm hand on her back as someone tried to help her upright, but she batted it away as soon as she caught her breath.
"Forgive me. I did not see that you were hurt."
"Wot do you want?" she snarled.
Eponine looked up and was met by a pair of stormy, bluish-grey orbs framed by a thoughtful brow and long golden curls. The man's expression was severe, though his face held the same sculpted gentleness as the angels she sometimes saw in churches. Hair tousled and cheeks reddened, he seemed out of breath. It was then she noticed he was wearing a red coat.
It's him. That bourgeois student I crashed into...
"Mademoiselle, I believe you dropped these."
Confused, her gaze traveled down to his outstretched hand and the familiar bundle grasped in his slender fingers.
"Those ain't yers!" she blurted, eyes wide as she groped under her arm to where her stack of letters should have been.
"I know. But they don't really belong to you either, do they?" he said with a reproving glare. His voice was clear and crisp, and though he spoke no louder than a whisper, to Eponine, his words seemed to ring out across the square.
Eponine felt the heat return to her cheeks. A girl had to eat and girls who didn't fancy a stranger's embrace had to be willing to compromise their dignity in other ways.
"Doncha know it's rude to stick yer nose where it don't belong?" She made a grab for the letters, but caught only air.
"It was rude to run off without apologizing," he said stiffly.
"Is that all? So sorry, yer Grace," Eponine sneered, spreading her chemise in a mock curtsy. "Now gimme my letters."
"Your manners, mademoiselle, are not in question." He said, eyebrow raised as he deftly dodged another attempt to steal back her letters.
"Cut the fancy talk. Wot d'ya want? A roll in the hay will cost ya pretty."
She tried not to be offended by the way he scrunched up his nose and turned in disgust. "Nothing of the sort. Just answer one question, and I will return your letters."
The student was too tall—the top of her head barely reached his shoulder—and too sturdy. Even if she scratched and clawed, she'd lose a fight. And she knew the price of returning home without those letters. No, there would be no cheating her way out of this one.
"Go on," Eponine folded her arms across her chest. "Ask it then."
He paused, brows furrowed in disbelief. For the first time since their crash encounter, Eponine thought he seemed unsure of himself.
"Were you on your way to the rally?"
The question hung in the air between them. Of all the things she had expected, that was nowhere near the top of the list. She let out a short bark of laughter. "Don't be daft. Wotcher think I'd do tha' fer?"
"Because we are hoping to help people like you," he said uneasily.
"Is that wot they teach you to do in them fancy schools? You are daft. Wot's a bourgeois boy like you goin' ta do? Change the world? Don' make me laugh."
It wasn't a total lie. And it had done exactly what she hoped. Anger made boys, especially passionate boys, careless. He had let his guard down, unconsciously lowering his arm until the letters were within easy reach. Eponine stilled. She had one shot, and one shot only.
"Then why are you here?"
"That's two questions, bourgeois boy." Quick as lightning, she snatched the letters out of his hand and disappeared down the nearest side street. She ran and ran and ran, through alleys and backstreets, until she was out of the Latin Quarter.
Later, when she was nursing her cheek from the slap her father had given her for the soggy letters, Eponine told herself she was only mildly disappointed he hadn't followed.
The bourgeois boy was a good speaker—that much she was certain. From her spot at the edge of the square, Eponine decided she liked the way his body moved when he got to a particularly rousing part of his speech. And even though most of what he said went over her head, the way his eyes burned made her want to believe.
It almost made up for the fact that she hadn't seen her freckled student since the new year.
Sighing, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Down the street, her loving parents and three-quarters of the Patron Minette were putting on a show for the charitable ladies slumming on their side of Paris. Today was Friday, and the con was simple. Draw them in with some story about a starving babe and graciously accept whatever they gave before nicking the rest. Her part was even simpler: Stay out of sight and watch for Javert.
It would have been even easier if her father hadn't insisted Montparnasse keep an eye on her.
Dangerous and wild, her partner in crime was currently at his post between the bakery and wine shop. He might have been just as poor as she was, but it was impossible to tell. Though a tad too skinny for his height, Montparnasse cut a fine figure in his stylish clothes, the sharp angles of his face softened by a shock of raven-black hair.
Suddenly, she was glad the boy with freckles was nowhere near. For the first time in a while, Eponine was keenly aware of her ratty hair, swarthy skin and the tattered scraps of fabric hanging from her bony frame. She might have been pretty once, but now she was too scawny and too dirty to be anything but pitiful.
Turning her gaze back to the rally, she watched as the bourgeois boy worked the crowd into a frenzy. The wind carried snippets of a clear voice, which was then drowned out by the impassioned roar of the crowd. Sunlight glinting off his golden hair, he waved his arms as if he were conducting a symphony of political unrest.
Preoccupied, she didn't notice Montparnasse sauntering over until her nostrils were assaulted by the acrid scent of his cologne. She hoped if she ignored him long enough, he would get the hint and leave her be. To her annoyance, he seemed content to simply stand there and stare.
"What d'ya want?" Eponine spat.
Montparnasse's pale lips twitched upwards. "Is that how you say hello to an esteemed colleague?"
"Go back to yer post, 'Parnasse."
"You're one to talk. You've been in here," he tapped his forehead, "all afternoon. Imagine what daddy would say."
"Piss off," she hissed. "Go bother someone else if you're bored."
Montparnasse frowned as he closed the gap between them, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. "Why 'Ponine. What lovely boots."
Eponine fought the urge to shudder as she plucked herself from his grasp. "If I'd known you'd make a fuss, I'd have tossed 'em into the river."
The crowd erupted into a loud cheer, startling them both.
"I wish he'd shut up," Montparnasse muttered. "I can barely concentrate with all this racket."
"Yeah, well at least he's got somethin' interestin' to say."
Montparnasse's eyes glittered darkly as he licked his chapped lips.
"It's no skin off my back," he drawled as his finger began tracing circles on her right shoulder, making her wince. "I'm sure Azelma—"
"Shut yer mouth," Eponine snapped. Her sister was fourteen and stupid. All it would take for Montparnasse to ruin her would be a few kind words and a smile.
"Oooh, hit a nerve," he said, lips twisted in a wide grin. Once upon a time she had liked his smiles. Then it had been light and full of mischief. Now they only promised sinister plots and calculated truths. "No need to be jealous, 'Ponine. You've always been my favorite Jondrette."
His breath was warm and moist as it tickled her ear. Spindly fingers slid up her arm to the column of her neck, as his other hand slowly began hiking up the edge of her chemise.
Shutting her eyes, Eponine tried to brush off the fear she felt at the sudden hardness pressing into her hip and the way his breath hitched as he whispered her name. When she opened them again, she saw her freckled student staring at her from the stage.
Grabbing his wrist, she wrenched Montparnasse's hand from her skirt as she landed a hard kick to his shins. "I'm not yer whore," she spat, heart racing as she turned and took off for the opposite end of the square.
She felt rather than heard his footsteps thundering after her, his ghostly fingers squeezing her neck as they left ten purple reminders of how she had wronged him.
Eponine dived into the crowd, hunting for the spaces between jostling bodies that would put more distance between her and Montparnasse. Her vision tunneled on the backstreet next to the Cafe Musain that led directly to the winding pathways behind the old convent. She didn't dare look back.
Briefly, she wondered what it would be like if things had been different, if her parents hadn't made a royal mess of everything. Maybe then she wouldn't have to fend off street rats and vipers. Maybe then she would have been beautiful. Maybe she could have been friends with her freckled student.
She was nearly there when she heard the shrill of a familiar whistle. Voices that minutes earlier had sang for the dawn of a new republic now cried in fear of one man. Eponine sucked in a deep breath through her teeth. The old inspector might not know her face, but he would know her name. Both her names.
The students had abandoned the platform, scattering to the four winds in a mad dash to evade arrest and certain expulsion. Even the bourgeois boy had disappeared into the chaos. It's now or never.
Throwing out her elbows, she shoved and kicked and scratched until she managed to wriggle free from the confusion. Escape was quick and easy after that. Peering out at the riot, Eponine cloaked herself in the shadows of Paris' forgotten nooks and crannies. Amid the chaos, she watched a young police officer wrestle a student to the ground, while another clocked a worker on the head with his baton. She had no illusions that they would be kinder to a girl. Pressing herself against the wall, she jumped as she heard the click of boots behind her.
"For such a clever girl, you're surprisingly predictable." Montparnasse sneered, his eyes brimming with a cold fury. Taking a step back, Eponine debated the merits of jumping back into the fray and letting the first officer she saw arrest her. At least then, neither Montparnasse nor her father would be able to lay a finger on her until morning.
"Go away 'Parnasse." Eponine crouched as she circled around him. "Don' you dare take another step. I'll scream if you do, I swear to God I will."
"Scream all you like 'Ponine. No officer would waste his time on you. Not in this mess." Montparnasse smirked as he opened his arms toward her. "If you beg for forgiveness, maybe I won't let Daddy beat you so roughly tonight."
"You'd have to catch me first."
Montparnasse gaped at her dumbly, not registering the barb until she had already doubled back into the riot. She slipped through the fingers of one officer, and then leapt over another student writhing on the ground before spotting an opening. Her insides burned as she sprinted past and each step was heavier than the last. But she didn't stop running, even as the ruckus behind her grew quieter and quieter. Up and down, up and down, her feet thudded against the pavement like hammers until finally, she fell to her knees. Let him beat me to death then. I am ready to go.
But nothing came. Glancing around, Eponine realized that the streets had guided her into unfamiliar territory. The buildings weren't quite as rundown as in St. Michel—the signs on all the stores were freshly painted and there were fewer people milling about. And the few that did were well-dressed. Most didn't notice her, and the ones who did quickly averted their eyes.
"Just as well," she muttered to herself. There was no going home tonight. She'd abandoned her post, failed to warn her parents about Javert—though she was certain his hands were too full with students to notice a con—and Montparnasse would be sure to spin some tale her father would only be too happy to believe.
No, tonight she would take her chances on the streets.
Eponine had been wandering for the better part of an hour when she found him slumped against the wall, his cravat undone and golden hair tangled with sweat. Eyes shut and breathing heavily, the bourgeois boy's face was turned up toward the sky. He was not so fearsome now—not while the sound of his labored breaths echoed in the alley. Again, she marveled at his cold beauty and how different it was from the warmth she felt whenever she saw the freckled student.
She could touch him if she wanted. All she would have to do was take a few steps. Eponine wondered whether his skin would be warm underneath her fingers, or if he would feel like the cold stone he seemed to be made of. It was strange that a boy—she didn't think him a man, not with such an angelic face—could burn so brightly for a cause and yet seem so...unfeeling. But there he was, hiding in the shadows with her, his friends nowhere in sight.
The march of boots sounded in the distance. Eponine froze. Had they followed him all them all the way here? Poking her head around the corner, she spotted a group of police officers knocking on doors and stomping into alleyways. It would only a matter of time before they found him.
When she turned back his eyes had opened and were fixed on her. Dull recognition flickered over his features, but before he could open his mouth, Eponine held a finger up to her lips. Come with me, she mouthed before reaching forward and grabbing his hand. His skin was unbelievably warm, even in the frigid winter air. Warm and incredibly soft.
She retraced her steps, leading him a few paces further down the alleyway before shoving him behind a few discarded crates. "Stay," she whispered, silencing his questions with a stern look, "and don' make me regret this."
Squaring her shoulders, she strode out into the open, humming an off-key tune from her childhood. It didn't take them long to find her. Four officers—thankfully young, and from what she could tell, rather green—immediately surrounded her. Their leader, a dark haired man with a mustache, grabbed her arm.
"You there, have you seen a young man with blonde hair run through here?"
"Evenin' officer." Eponine smiled prettily, sashaying her skinny hips toward him. "Aren't you a pretty one."
"Answer the question." He said stiffly, though Eponine's smile widened as she caught his gaze flicker down to her chest. "Any assistance would be well-rewarded."
"Might be that I saw a handsome boy run off not too long ago," she said through lowered lids. "Toward the old convent near Rue Plumet. Dunno if he were blonde. Didn't catch a good look. Just that his face were pretty."
"You better not be lying," the officer sneered, grabbing her wrist, squeezing tightly. "What business does a gamine have in a neighborhood like this?"
Despite the desperate pounding of her heart, Eponine laughed. "When you don't got a proper house, everywhere is your home, m'sieur. 'Sides," she pulled out the corner of a crumpled paper from her bosom, "I were paid to deliver a letter."
Relief flooded her veins as the officer let go and the other officers averted their gazes elsewhere. He thanked her roughly, pressing a sou into her hand as he left. Well rewarded indeed. That's why no one helps the police.
She waited until they had disappeared around the corner before hurrying back to where the bourgeois boy was hiding. "Quickly, m'sieur," she hissed, grabbing a fistful of his jacket before dragging him behind her. If they were unlucky, they would only have a few minutes before the mustached officer told Javert her piss-poor story and then they would come looking for her too. Or if luck was on their side, they would chase down her fake student to the convent—and if they were to just so happen upon Montparnasse, her father and the rest of the Patron Minette in the middle of a heist...well Eponine wasn't going to complain.
He kept pace with her quite easily, even when she suddenly ducked into narrow spaces between shops barely wide enough to fit a full grown man. He only stumbled once when she had skidded to a halt after spotting another officer prowling around an empty intersection. She had clamped her hand over his mouth, and the two had slowly backed away into the shadows.
They only stopped when the sun began to sink in the horizon, staining the sky brilliant shades of pink, red and orange. What an unlikely pair, she thought as she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. He did the same, sweat trickling down his brow despite the cold air. They had twisted and turned their way through Paris for hours, and had now reached the Seine.
"Best you stay out of sight tonight." Eponine watched the sunset. "They really don' like ya, bourgeois boy."
He paused for a moment, eyes closed. "My name is Enjolras."
"That's a bourgeois name if I ever heard one." She ignored her aching feet as she brushed off her skirts and made to leave. The nights were cold and she had no desire to freeze by the river.
"I know you," he said slowly, opening his eyes. "You're the girl with the stolen letters who lied about showing up to every rally looking for Marius."
Heart thumping wildly in her chest, Eponine struggled to appear calm. Marius, she thought, testing the sound of it in her head. Marius, Marius, Marius. Now she had a name to keep her warm on all those lonely walks at night, to give voice to her sighs of longing when no one was around to hear. She was so excited, she forgot to be surprised Enjolras had even noticed her hovering at every rally.
"I dunno know who yer talking about," she mumbled when she noticed his cold eyes peering at her strangely.
"Sorry to disappoint, but he wasn't here today. He hasn't been coming for a while." His mouth twisted as if he had eaten something sour.
"Oh?" she said dumbly. That couldn't have been right. She could've sworn she'd seen Marius when Montparnasse had...and just like that, Eponine came crashing back down to Earth.
"The fool is a Bonapartist," he spat, as if that explained everything.
"Wot's wrong wif Bonaparte?" Her father had idolized the man when she was a little girl. Or at least that's how she chose to remember it. Back when the inn was prosperous and her mother would dote on her with kind words and expensive presents.
"There isn't enough time in the world to explain what's wrong with Bonaparte," he muttered darkly.
"That's wot yer having a tiff over?" she snorted. "Some freedom fighters you lot are—squawkin' amongst yerselves like old hags."
"Freedom fighters?"
"You fancy yerselves liberators. Like we're too stupid to know just how wretched we are. Yer all jus' schoolboys and you don' know nuffin 'bout nuffin. You've never starved, hungered or gone cold to th' bone. You've never wotched the riv'r and wonted to throw yerself in 'coz dyin' couldn't possibly be worse than this. Well I don' need no liberator, m'sieur and I don' want one."
She sniffled, wiping away at the angry tears that had leaked down her cheeks with the rough wool of her coat sleeve. It chafed her skin, but it was better than letting some hoity-toity rich boy see her cry. There wasn't any point in her tears anyway—they wouldn't change the fact that her father would beat her if she went home, that Marius had no idea she existed and that nothing would ever change no matter how much she might wish it.
Eponine didn't have to look to know he was staring off at some distant point in the horizon. He had barely regarded her since her tirade, though he showed no intention of leaving. Fidgeting, her fingers played with the fraying hem of her chemise.
"What is your name?"
She hesitated. It would be wiser to walk away without a word. But he had given her Marius' name, and she hated the thought of being in his debt.
"Eponine. That's wot they call me."
They didn't speak another word. Instead, they sat together in silence as vibrant purples, pinks and oranges bled across the Parisian sky. She stayed until twilight fell and then slipped back into the shadows. He didn't follow.
She hadn't expected him to, but if she were being honest, she was still disappointed.