Author Note: Welcome to our first published non-anime fanfiction. (Wow, that's a mouthful.) We hope you give it a chance despite our newness to the Les Mis fandom.
Most of the story be based on the musical/the-movie-of-the-musical, though elements will be borrowed from the book as well, and inspiration taken from a various myriad of conscious and subconscious literary influences.
Much thanks and gratitude goes to unicornesque (youarethesentinels on tumblr) for beta-ing this story!
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
Chapter One: like stories that end but won't begin
She goes by Jondrette these days.
(Éponine Thenardier was a lifetime ago and, besides, it's safer not to use your given name in a city jam-packed with mages.)
She lives in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with her two siblings, one sister and one brother. She's forcibly cut ties with her parents, even if they keep on creeping back like particularly pernicious weeds, and one of these days she will simply take an axe to her father and have done with it.
(She wishes but she knows she won't.)
She has three jobs: one at a café as a waitress, one at one of the seedier taverns as a serving wench, and one at the hospital as a maid/messenger/general-odds-and-ends girl, where her not-best-friend Cosette also happens to work. She barely makes enough to pay the rent and feed her siblings, but this is nineteenth-century Paris, and as a woman she's lucky she has work at all, luckier still that it's even legal.
(Sometimes she looks at the way Gav's coat is too big for him and notes how Zelma's dresses are too short, and she's tempted to slip back into old ways and bad habits—but she remembers the looks on their faces the last time she did that and knows that she can't.)
She is twenty years old. She likes the rain. She doesn't like cats (that much).
She wears a bracelet of tin, and this means she is one who can work small magics.
Not an artisan. Not a mundane.
She is a worker, one of the miserable.
"Gavroche, did you wash behind your ears? Gavroche!"
Her brother merely grins at her as he bites down on a mouthful of bread. He is eleven years old and prone to stuffing his face whenever he has the opportunity, which is more often these days, thank heavens.
Azelma rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't bother; it's not as if anyone cares if he's clean."
"I care," Éponine mutters. They've left the gutters behind them and they ought to at least look the part of respectable citizens, even if the hard edges and sharp scars poverty left on their souls never quite disappear. She grabs hold of her brother's ear and pulls him towards the washing basin. "Come on, you."
"'Ponine!" he whines. "Let go!"
"No. You are going to school. You have to look presentable," she says. She thinks, You are going to get out of the slums. You are going to be somebody. You are going to have the chances I never had. And by the Virgin, it starts now.
Gavroche struggles but ultimately lets her take a rag to his face and scrub away the dirt. "How did you get this dirty?" she grumbles. "You had a bath last night." She'd had to bribe him into it—running water was a luxury they'd recently acquired these past few months, but Gavroche had gotten rather used to taking baths once in a blue moon and didn't appreciate cleanliness as much as Éponine would have preferred.
Azelma giggles, frying a few eggs on their little stove. "Don't you know? Gav's gift is attracting dirt."
"Is not!" their brother says, sticking his tongue out at her.
Éponine gives him one last scrub and deems him presentable. "There you go," she says, smoothing out the collar of his uniform. "Go grab your satchel; we're heading out. Zelma—"
"I know, I know," Azelma interrupts. "Madame Pierron wants me to come in early today, so don't be late." Azelma is sixteen and works at a fancy millinery, sorting pins and stitching beads on hats. She'd rather work at the café and tavern with Éponine—they'd get more money that way—but the older girl isn't going to let the younger tax her fragile health any more than necessary.
Éponine gives her a wry look. "With your tendency to daydream, I have a right to worry."
"My tendency? What about you and the way you sigh over Monsieur Mar—"
"Gav, let's go!" Éponine gives Azelma a quick kiss, collects her brother, and opens the door, ushering them out to another day with their sister's laughter following them.
"You look dead on your feet, Éponine."
Éponine stops scrubbing at the tables long enough to look over her shoulder at Musichetta. "And you look like you spent last night deep in the cups, and probably cozy with a boy to boot, if that mark on your neck is anything to go by."
Musichetta laughs, the sound light and bold and absolutely shameless. "But my dear Éponine, at least I'm living! You look like something the necromancers would love to study—that's never a good sign, darling."
Éponine shrugs. "There was a brawl at the tavern last night right before closing. Glass got broken and Roberge had me cleaning the mess. I got home a little later than usual."
Musichetta clicks her tongue in sympathy. "Why are you still working there? With Zelma's new job, I thought this one and the hospital would be enough to pay the rent."
"Gav's scholarship doesn't cover all his books."
"But surely Monsieur Fauchelevent would help—"
"He's done enough for us," Éponine cuts her off. And he has, more than enough really. Monsieur Fauchelevent got Gavroche the scholarship, paid for his uniform and shoes, introduced Azelma to Madame Pierron, and wrote the recommendation to the nuns who run the hospital where she works on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Honestly, he could have just ordered them to hire her, since they practically worship the ground he walks on. The man is a saint.
And Éponine is grateful, she really is, but charity has never sat well with her (though she would beg, she would lie, she would steal, she would murder to give her siblings a future, and damn her pride and damn her soul). She wants to provide for her family as much as she can, and she's not going to impose on the sympathy of Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette any more than she has to.
Musichetta gives her a look, and lifts one dark-skinned shoulder. "Whatever you say, darling." She tosses her hair back, the black, springy curls barely contained under the fancy cap that's part of their uniform. Her eyes flick to the door and she grins, pleased and vaguely predatory. "Oh, now here's something to brighten your day."
Éponine straightens as the bell over the door rings out, signaling a new customer. She turns around a plasters a smile on her face. "Bonjour, Mon—Monsieur Marius!"
Upon seeing him, she nervously smoothes her hands over her skirt, wishing a customer hadn't spilled coffee on it earlier and that she'd had time to brush her hair this morning and that Musichetta was really exaggerating about her looking like a corpse—
"Good morning, Éponine!" Marius says, smiling at her and taking her hand to place a kiss on the back on it, as if she didn't wear a bracelet of tin that clashed with his bracelet of silver.
She drops her gaze to the floor and bites her lip to hide her smile. "It's good to see you," she says softly.
"What, no greeting for me?" says the boy next to him, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. "Did Bahorel place a concealment charm on me? Because I know I'm not powerful enough to accidentally turn myself invisible."
Éponine sheepishly bobs her head at Courfeyrac. "Hello, Monsieur Courfeyrac. Would you two like to be seated at your usual spot?"
The boys nod, and she seats them at their favorite table by the window, leaving two menus with them before retreating to the kitchens, where Musichetta is laughing at her.
"Shut. Up," she growls, taking off her cap and running her hands through her hair.
"I can't help it! The look on your face! Merde, you lit up like a fireworks show the minute you saw him!" the older girl says, bent over with her hands on her knees, still giggling. "Honestly, you should just invite him to the alley behind the café. I'd cover for you."
"It's not like that!" Éponine hisses. She tubs her tin bracelet. "Nothing would ever happen between he and I."
Musichetta straightens, her eyes turning sober. "It's not against the law for a worker and an artisan to see each other."
"Oh, and we all know how much people value the law," Éponine scoffs. She runs a hand through her hair and replaces her cap, sighing. "Come on, the boys will be expecting their order."
"Chocolate-covered croissants and black coffee?" Musichetta says, letting the subject drop, though her eyes still retained a hint of seriousness.
"Yup. You know they never order anything else," she says, grinning.
"What would you have done if we'd decided we wanted fried eggs and toast?" Courfeyrac demands. "Or one of these fancy sandwiches?" He waves the menu at her.
She rolls her eyes. "You have been coming here for six months, and neither of you have ever ordered anything besides this." She gestures to their plates before putting a little pot of sugar and a cup of cream on the table.
Courfeyrac glares at them. "We take our coffee black!" he announces, as if she hasn't noticed the way they wince whenever they actually attempt to do so. Boys and their strange notions of masculinity. She wonders who they're trying to emulate—oh, wait. It's probably him.
She covers up her quick grimace by picking up the menus and giving them one last curtsey. "Monsieurs," she says, "enjoy your meal."
Marius gives her another smile that sends her heart racing. "Thank you, Éponine, but no need to curtsey to us. We're only mages-in-training, and not very good ones at that."
She answers with a close-lipped smile of her own and says nothing in reply.
She goes about serving other customers in the café, but watches the two of them from the corner of her eye until they leave a few minutes later.
The warmth kindled by the gentleness in Marius's green eyes stays with her for hours.
Her shift ends at four in the afternoon, and her work at the tavern doesn't start until seven in the evening, so she heads home to make sure Gavroche is staying out of trouble.
Thankfully, he's there and scowling at one of his schoolbooks instead of out on the streets, playing with the other gamins. Azelma is with him, a few hats from the shop ranged around her, and she is patiently sewing a few dyed feathers on one made of black velvet. Éponine thinks it looks hideous—dear God, what is with the artisans and their love of ugly clothing? She shakes her head and takes off her shoes.
"Welcome home, Ponine!" Gavroche says. "I put a tack on Monsieur Mellour's chair! And when he sat down on it, he squealed like a stuck pig!"
"Gavroche!" she exclaims.
"What? He didn't see me," Gavroche says. "I had my glamour on."
She rubs her forehead. "That's not the problem." The teachers dislike them enough as it is without Gavroche indulging in tricks that could get him expelled.
"He's mean to me and the other scholarship boys," Gavroche says, his eyes darkening and his words starting to slip back into the speech patterns of the street. "He calls us gutter trash an' worker scum an' knack-knockers like we're supposed to just sit there an' take it. Well, I won't, and I showed 'im what-for, din't I?"
The sound of the hurt beneath his anger twists something in Éponine's gut.
She reaches over and cards a hand through his hair, the touch gentle, reassuring. "How loudly did he squeal?" she asks.
Gavroche chuckles and proceeds to demonstrate. The three of them are all doing their best impersonations when a knock sounds at the door.
Éponine shushes them and goes over to open it cautiously. She smiles widely once she sees who their visitor is. "Monsieur Fauchelevent! Welcome! Come in, come in," she says, throwing the door open and letting him in.
The gentleman looks oddly at home in their little apartment, despite his large, physically imposing frame and his fine clothes. Éponine supposes it's because he possesses the kind of self-assurance that makes him at ease anywhere he goes, though she notices that his confidence is irrevocably wed to acute awareness of his surroundings. He has the touch of the streets upon him, with how he always keeps track of exits in any room and doesn't like having his back to a door or other people.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Fauchelevent," Gavroche says brightly.
The older man smiles back. "Good afternoon, Gavroche. How are your studies going?"
Éponine and Azelma exchange amused glances as their brother grimaces. "Monsieur, school is boring!" he complains. "Especially history!"
Monsieur Fauchelevent laughs. "Oh, but surely you learn about interesting things like battles and assassinations and how the Mage Councils of old could raise armies of the dead and set cities on fire."
Gavroche scowls. "Monsieur Mellour could make even the Hundred Years' War and Saint Jeanne d'Arc sound boring, and she was the greatest earth mage in history! I don't know how he can do it, if it's a spell or enchantment or what, but he can!"
"I hope you try and stay awake anyway," Monsieur Fauchelevent says kindly. "School is important."
Gavroche nods and Monsieur Fauchelevent turns his hazel-eyed gaze on Éponine. "Éponine, one of the nurses at the hospital is getting married and has decided to retire, and the nuns were wondering if you would like to have full-time hours, now that they'll be short of hand?"
Éponine wonders how he does this, how he knows not to offer her money point-blank, but instead creates opportunities for her to earn what she needs anyway. "I'd be happy to do so, Monsieur."
He beams at her. "Good. Now, Cosette's birthday is coming up, and I was wondering if you all would be available next Saturday…?"
"Will there be cake?" Gavroche demands.
"Of course," Monsieur Fauchelevent says.
"Chocolate?" he asks hopefully.
"And strawberry," the man answers.
Azelma and Gavroche turn hopeful eyes on Éponine, who mock-frowns and says, "Only if you brush your teeth afterwards! And for heaven's sake, wash behind your ears!"
All four of them erupt with laughter, and Monsieur Fauchelevent leaves their home with a hug from Gavroche, a grin from Azelma, and Éponine's solemn-faced, laughing-eyed promise that they will come, of course they will come.
There is cake to be had, after all, and who can resist that?
Later, as the whistles of the distant trains pierce the night like the screeches of owls, she walks along the lamp-lit streets, humming softly to herself. The tavern closed early today, Roberge actually gave her a few extra sous for working past her shift the night before (she thinks it has more to do with her informing him of potentially quitting now that she has a steadier position at the hospital), and none of the patrons groped her or spilled drinks on her skirts. All in all, it's been a good day.
She pulls out a pocket-watch (her one possession of any value—it's from Cosette, of course; the other girl had used her kitten-eyes and she'd found herself incapable of refusing) and checks the hour. It is a few minutes before midnight—she has a little bit of time to herself.
She closes her eyes and mentally reaches within herself to find a warmly glowing thread, bright and earnest and ever so beloved. She gives it a small tug and follows where it leads, her steps sure and steady, as confident of her direction as a compass facing north.
After a few twists and turns down familiar streets, her lips quirk in a knowing smile. Really, she doesn't even know why she bothers using her magic to find him when he's always in the same place, predictable as the sun rising in the east and wild magic waxing with the moon. She continues tugging on the thread anyway, feeling a thrill at this secret connection between them, near-tangible proof of her attachment to him (and his to her, she imagines).
She stops in front of La Musain just as his laughter pours out of the second-story window, loud and carefree and entirely oblivious. He sounds like a child, she thinks.
He's wonderful, she thinks.
She leans against the opposite wall and basks in the sound, closing her eyes and pretending he's laughing just for her.
Marius. Marius. Marius, whispers her heart.
Unfortunately, another familiar presence pricks along her senses, its owner's thread jangling alongside Marius's as he approaches.
Cursing softly to herself, she melts away into the alleyways and shadows, retreating before the man comes into view.
She leaves as easily as she came, but not before she catches a glimpse of golden hair and a fire mage's swirling red cloak, which is settled comfortably on a pair of broad shoulders belonging to a boy who is really much more trouble than he's worth.
(Though they are nice shoulders, she'll give him that, and he certainly knows how to wear his clothes, but still.)
She has no desire to come face to face with Enjolras tonight—after all, it had been such a good day.
They've left a lamp on for her when she gets home, one of Gavroche's latest school projects. Complain as his teachers might about his marks in maths or history, in mage-craft he's twice as gifted as any other student. She reaches up and dims it with a touch, the familiar glow of her brother's magic fading with it, and walks into the bedroom, navigating her way in the dark. She tries to make as little noise as possible, but she still rouses one of her siblings.
"Ponine?" Azelma murmurs, turning sleepily to face her.
"Shhh," Éponine replies soothingly. "It's alright, it's just me. Go back to sleep."
"Mmn." Her sister obediently does so, curling her slight body around Gavroche's on their narrow bed. Gavroche mutters in his sleep and spits out a few bits of her hair, but he doesn't relinquish his tight hold on her arms.
Éponine shakes her head fondly. Honestly, those two. What was the point of getting Gavroche his own little cot in the corner if he was just going to crawl into bed with her or Azelma?
She pulls the blanket over them and tucks it in, then presses a kiss to both their foreheads, the threads connecting them to her humming softly in the dark and winding themselves tight around her heart.
She makes her way to her own bed and closes her eyes, lulled to sleep by the sound of her siblings' breathing and the gentle pull of their heartbeats on hers, just like always.
One more day, successfully survived.
Endnote: Thank you for reading and please review! :D