I thought of this idea at mig¡dnight last night, and it seems something of a better idea then. Anyway, this is a quick little drabble to preface what I hope I will be able to continue.
Enjolras had never been a stranger to police raids. His adoptive father, Jean Valjean, was always being investigated for some petty crime or other, and it never occurred to the boy that it wasn't normal to be wholly unsurprised to return from school and be greeted at the door by the weary-looking Inspector Javert, who would tell him that 'your room's already been searched, so you're okay to do your homework'. Privacy was not an easy thing to come by in his house, so he learned to carry his secrets in his bag wherever he went.
His first taste of the thrill of criminality came when, at the age of sixteen, his father shook him gently awake.
"No, it's okay, you're not going to school. Today, you're working with me."
It was still pretty early by the time the two of them arrived downtown, and none of the shops were open yet. Nevertheless, Valjean strolled casually up to a shop called 'Tux and Tails' and rapped smartly on the glass door. When he got no response, he knocked again. Eventually, a flustered woman appeared, and opened the door just enough to tell the pair that the shop didn't open for another hour.
"Please, Madam. I'm so sorry to ask this of you, it's just there's been a death in the family," Valjean spoke with such calm assurity that Enjolras couldn't help but marvel at his father's daring. "Very sudden, and the funeral's this afternoon. My son just needs to rent a black suit from you for twelve hours, I promise we'll get it dry-cleaned for you and everything." The shopkeeper wasn't fazed.
"Look, we don't rent out suits, and we're. not. open." She began to shut the door, but Valjean started forwards, reaching his hand out towards her.
"Hey, hey, wait. What's your name?"
"Marcy," she sounded suspicious.
"Marcy," Valjean repeated. "That's a pretty name." He stuck is hand in his pocket and brought out a silver locket on a fine chain. Enjolras knew his guardian well enough to realise it was probably a tin knockoff, but it was a good one.
"Is this yours?" He asked, walking forwards and proferring the chain. "Must have slipped right off your neck." Marcy giggled and, at Valjean's raised eyebrow, stepped back to allow them into the shop. Enjolras followed his father, awkwardly ducking into the shop, eyes wide in a mixture of joy and horror at the nonchalance of the deceit.
Six months later, when Social Services finally decide that letting a boy grow up with a criminal for a father is perhaps not the most responsible course of action, Enjolras slips into that same black suit, packs his suitcase and runs.
