Between the Raindrops

Chapter 1: Echo

Song for this chapter: Echo by Jason Walker

Hello readers!

I've fallen in love with the enjonine pairing since the movie, and now it has spread like wildfire on Tumblr. I've loved the musical since I was 9, it's one of the best out there. I've tried to blend the book with the musical/movie, but this is primarily based off the musical.

AN: For the lyrics from A Little Fall of Rain¸ Eponine's lyrics are italicized, and Marius's lyrics are in bold. The words in italicized bold are excerpts from the actual novel.

Also, Montparnasse speaks in slang, so please don't think I have poor writing form. Javert's whole thing is being religious, so I made him like that in his thought process.

"Now, for my pains, promise me—Promise me! Promise to kiss me on the forehead when I am dead, for I shall feel it."

And rain

And rain

Will make the flowers…

…grow.

"And then, do you know, Monsieur, I believe I was a little in love with you." She closed her eyes, letting out a sigh into the rainy night. Marius kissed her brow and bent his head. From behind him, Enjolras approached.

"She is the first of us to fall, the first to fall on the barricade."

She had a name, Marius angrily thought in vain. "Her name was Eponine, and her life was dark and cold, yet she was unafraid." Combeferre joined Enjolras and stood by his side.

"We fight here in her name!"

"She will not die in vain!" Prouvaire added from the balcony above.

"She will not be betrayed." Lesgles commented from his spot in the doorway. Marius lifted up her limp body and carried her to the table inside. They left her body and went to regroup outside. After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open again. She let her head fall back on the table again, sad that she was not dead and that Marius would not be there to join her. She heard the boys talking outside, and she tried to straighten up, but the bullet in her shoulder sent pain rippling through her. The gamine longed for death to claim her. She could still hear the boys rallying together outside.

Eponine understood that she was severely wounded, and that if she did not receive medical attention soon, she would surely die. She smiled at the thought of that, glad that death would soon be near. Her pulse had slowed and her own blood had soaked her thin jacket, but she still didn't feel like she was dying.

Taking matters into her own hands, she slowly got up from the table and staggered out the back door and into an alleyway. Eponine grew dizzy and collapsed into a heap on the muddy street. She resigned to leaning against a brick wall for support so she could tilt her head up and look at the starry sky above. At least I'm dying on my own terms and in the beauty of the night. The gamine grew light-headed, and she was struggling to keep her eyes open. Despite the warm air on that summer night, she was shivering with sweat. Suddenly, her world was fading into blackness, and Eponine passed out.

From the sewage gutter below, something stirred. The grate was popped up and moved to the side, revealing a young man dressed all in black. His top hat cast a shadow over his face, leaving his yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. He skulked over to Eponine's form, prepared to steal from one of the first victims of the Revolution. As he grew closer, he could see that it was not a he, but a she. Upon further inspection, he could make out a face in the misty moonlight. Eponine. In a moment he was by her side, checking her pulse. She's alive, but barely so. He scooped her up and rushed to the hospital a few blocks away.

During the fast-paced walk there, he didn't know what to say. Things had been awkward between them since her confrontation with Patron-Minette on Rue Plummet. Montparnasse admired her for standing up to her father like that, but he didn't know how to say it to her without sounding pathetic. Granted, his talking would be pointless since she was out cold, but still… His thoughts were interrupted by his arrival at the hospital. With Eponine limp in his arms, he was struggling to open the door. The vagabond assassin was forced to swing her over his shoulder like a sack. She's too light he somberly thought. He had often offered her a portion of his food, but she refused to take it if he had killed for it. Despite the fact that she was a thief herself, she still had a moral compass, and it told her not to take the bread won from blood. She's too stubborn for her own good. He opened the door, startling the doctor dozing off at the little desk in front. He strode forward and answered the other's question before he could voice it.

"She's severely injured-got shot in 'er shoulda and 'er hand." He thrust her into the doctor's arms and began to walk away.

The older man stammered, "You're…you're just g-going to l-leave her?"

Without turning around, he replied, "Yes," and walked out of the hospital. I'll check on her and say goodbye before I have to leave. He hadn't told a living soul, but he was traveling to England in two week's time. He'd spent the entire spring saving the majority of the blood money to buy passage, and he almost had enough. Luckily, he had a fellow gamin who now worked at the boat yard who owed him a debt. Montparnasse could easily cajole the rosy-cheeked fool into giving him a nice discount. He heard his coworkers banging around in the gutters, most likely looking for him. Time to earn my wages. And with a tip of his hat, he slithered back into his underground maze as suddenly as he had appeared.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Enjolras stood bravely as the National Guard aimed there weapons toward his heart. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but others will rise and take our place. Someday, France shall be free. And I will watch on from above and smile because I will have died for the best possible cause, Patria.

"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them." Grantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat which he had missed, and in which he had had no part, appeared in the brilliant glance of the transfigured drunken man.

He repeated: "Long live the Republic!" crossed the room with a firm stride and placed himself in front of the guns beside Enjolras.

"Finish both of us at one blow," said he. And turning gently to Enjolras, he said to him: "Do you permit it?" Enjolras pressed his hand with a smile. This smile was not ended when the report resounded. Enjolras, pierced by eight bullets, remained leaning against the wall, as though the balls had nailed him there. Only, his head was bowed. Grantaire fell at his feet, as though struck by a thunderbolt.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The rebellion had ended earlier that morning, around dawn, but the bodies of the dead would not be picked up for cremation until later that day. Montparnasse took his chance to look for glitteries while the few National Guards still left went for breakfast elsewhere. He was scrounging through a tall boy's jacket pockets when he heard something rustle. To his dismay, a body was slightly moving on the floor. Montparnasse left the dead boy to investigate the body. He leaned his ear towards the young man's chest and listened. Faintly, very faintly, there was a murmur of a heartbeat. He took a moment to look at the body before recognizing it as the silly boy who led the student rebellion. He had heard a few of the boy's speeches, and they were quite good. Invigorating, he correct. Got 'ta improve me vocab.

From outside the café, Montparnasse heard someone approaching, and he scuttled away from the body and into the shadows of the corner. Montparnasse watched as Inspector Javert glanced at the dead bodies. The younger of the two noted the older man's hair, similar into color to his own. Both of them had the same facial structure as well. He also picked up on the fact that the man worn a shiny badge on his jacket. Could it be? The gamin squinted a little more and saw the small, wooden cross hanging out of his pant pocket. It's just like the nun said. Lost in his own thoughts, the younger man did not pick up on the fact that Javert had discovered the last living rebel. As he pulled his sword from his sheath, ready to cut the blonde man's throat, Montparnasse called out.

"Stop!" Javert turned around as Montparnasse stood, meeting the older man's eyes. Chills went through Javert's body as he looked at an almost mirror image of a younger version of himself. Except for the eyes. Those brilliant yellow eyes like Emile had.

"Who are you?"

The younger man bowed and took his hat off in greeting. "I'm whoever I need to be to survive."

"Don't be cheeky with me boy, who are you?" Javert turned the sword from the rebel to the shadow.

"I'm Montparnasse of the Patron-Minette. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"Not particularly."

"Oh, that's right, you've spent the majority of your time here in Paris hunting the in-fe-mous convict."

"How did you-" But Montparnasse cut him off.

"In fact, you've spent most of your adulthood trying to get tha codger, ain't ya?"

"How would you know such things?" Feeling bold, Montparnasse pushed away the sword and stepped closer to the older man.

"I think you know tha' answer to that." Javert stepped back in horror.

"No, it can't be. Emile died, and so did the baby." The gamin grew angry at his father's denial of his existence.

"It's nice ta meet you too, Daddy dearest." Javert gripped his hands into angry fists and glared at him.

Montparnasse continued talking. "I always wondered what it be like if I met you…neva thought you'd be such a shit. Figures my fatha' would be the strictest cop of the bunch. And he ain't he respec'ed amongst his own." Javert sneered at his son.

"I don't know how you know any of this, but Emile died, and so did our son."

"Oh really? Then how come I'm here righ' now?"

"It can't be, no, no, no." Javert sunk to the floor, his hands covering his face.

"The nuns at the orphanage in our little town told me all about you. Said you was a coppa, and that you left me. When ma died after me birth, them nuns tried to make you hol' me. Said you woud'nt. Said you refused. Said I killed me ma and that I was the devil's spawn. And then you left to work at a little shithole some'where else. And you left me to rot in that hellhole." Javert looked up at his son and gave him a knowing glance, confirming Montparnasse's story.

"Knew it was you when I saw ya cross. They always said you was a nutta for God." The gamin crossed his arms and spit on the floor towards his father.

"What do you want boy?"

"Oh, I want a lot of things. More importan'ly, I got somethin' you want." From the breast pocket of his coat, Montparnasse pulled out a small silver locket. Inside it was a grimy portrait of his mother, a young, beautiful, but sickly woman. He let it fall a little from his hand. Javert reached out to catch it, but Montparnasse stopped the fall by clutching the chain in his palm. He let it sway for a bit, watching his father's eyes desperately follow it.

"You and Is is related, alright. We both like glitteries." Montparnasse gave a toothy grin.

"I haven't seen that in years…where did you get it?"

"Well, you see," the gamin man began to walk with his hands clasped behind his back around the heap of his father on the floor. "It was yours, but you ditched it at the nunnery where ma died. Said it made too much nose and that you couldn't wear it when catchin' criminals. Sold your ring too, you needed a new horse." He stopped to look down at his weary father, offering out the locket in his palm. "You want it?" Javert snatched for it, but Montparnasse pulled it away before he could. "Ah-ah-ah, let's not be rude here. I wanna trade."

"A trade? Of what kind?"

"I figured you'd like that. It's nice and legal."

"Stop playing games and answer the question. What do you want to trade?"

"Anything I want. This is a priceless valuable here. I'm sure you'd do anything for it. Am I right?" Javert kept his head low, but he kept making sneaking glances at the locket. "Of course I'm right….here, take the damn thing." He tossed it to the floor, and Javert quickly caught it, cradling it in his calloused palms.

"So, now you owe me pops." He leaned and grinned maliciously at his father. "I ain't ever asked you for nothin', and this is all I'll ever ask of ya. One: see that boy? The one who's breathin?" He pointed over to Enjolras's evanescent form. "Yer gonna save 'im. You see, one of me friends is injured, and she'll need him. I won't be here to protect her no more. I'm sure he'll need her too." He grinned and that and waggled his eyebrows.

"Why don't you just do it yourself?"

"Cas I've already been to jail plenty of times. Don't need to have me head cut off trying to save 'im. You, on the other hand," Montparnasse pointed at his father. "No one will question what you're doing. Even if the think you're crazy, they'll let you pass." Javert nodded in understanding. "Also, you'd have to do somethin' with his face…people will recognize 'im for sure and he'll be dead by the end of the month."

"Have we got a deal?" Javert scouted away on the floor, still clutching the locket in one hand.

"What's your second request?"

"Eh, don't worry about it." He offered at his hand to shake it. Javert slowly got up from the floor while putting on the locket and tucking it underneath shirt. He walked over to his son and shook his hand firmly. Montparnasse forced his father closer to him, for underneath the friendly looking handshake, his gun sticking into his father's gut. He leaned in a whispered in his father's ear.

"And two: yer gonna take a nice long jump into the riva Seine, cas' dead's the only thing you've ever been to me." Javert's face paled and the pupils of his eyes dilated in shock. "Got it?" he jabbed the police officer in the gut, enforcing his request. A little more gently, he added. "You can finally join Ma. The nuns said that was the only good thing about ya-that you luved her." He took his father's shock as opportunity for escape. He knocked his father down, running out the back door and into the alleyway's he knew so well. He called out behind him. "The boy doesn't have much time, be quick about it cop!" Javert watched as his son became a blur in the background.

Turning to the leader, he glanced down at him. He's barely older than you. A boy calling others boy. He didn't want to save this traitor, no, he wanted to cut his throat. But he had made a promise to the boy. Then again, he had made a promise to Emile, to look after their son, but he had neglected that. Looking for guidance, he grabbed the locket from his undershirt and opened it to look at her. He furiously wiped away the grim of the sewers to gaze at his dead wife's face. What do I do Emile? A voice, her voice, came to mind. He hadn't thought about her in such a long time.

Save the boy.

It's against the law.

He's just a boy. Would you want a child to die?

He broke the law, he's a traitor.

All little boys make mistakes. Let him learn from his, let him live.

You make it sound so easy, darling.

Because it is Javert. It's like closing your eyes or saying your prayers.

I don't know what to do.

Let God guide you. Her voiced faded away from his mind, and he was left alone again. He crouched down to look at the boy when he noticed his hand. The boy had been hit in the shoulder, and the blood had run down his arm to his fingertips. The droplets of blood intersected with a nasty gash on the boy's handing, forming a perfect cross. God's given me the sign… Javert's brow furrowed as he took out his knife and made a deep, jagged cut diagonally across the young man's face. It ran from his right temple, over his nose, through the edge of his lip, and ended at the left side of his chin. He'll be the ugliest thing on this side of the Seine. Pity too, the boy had been handsome. Perhaps beauty was a small price to pay to survive. Javert swiftly wiped the dark blood off his knife with the boy's red vest. That's too distinct. He stripped the boy of his prized vest before begrudgingly scooping up the boy and walking out the back door. He headed to the hospital, receiving stairs the entire time. Not a word was spoken though. Upon his arrival at the weathered building, he silently walked in, handed him to a doctor, and promptly left. He began walking, not caring where he was truly going.

You did the right thing love.

How will I know if it was?

Your conscience will be clear.

His mind was empty of the leader, he felt nothing. But for his son…My conscience is far from clear.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

After spending four days in and out of consciousness, Enjolras finally woke up. From behind the screen on his right, someone had let out a ghastly scream. It reverberated through the room and shook the thin wall. He tried to get up, but it pained him to much. He glanced down to see a field of bandages, some white, some red with his blood, and some yellow from the pus that leaked from his wounds. His shoulder was wrapped, and a sticky substance was on his face. He turned his head and looked around. The hospital had its usual crowd: the elderly, the sick, and the pregnant. On the wall across from him, a small mirror hung on a bent peg. He caught a glance at himself and didn't recognize the man who emptily gazed back at him. Red, tired, bruised, and scarred, he was no longer the "Apollo" his friends had always claimed he was. I'm Hephaestus…that suits me more; a downcast. A doctor with a towel and a bowl of water came in and put them on the table on the other side of the screen. He began wiping the patient's forehead. Another doctor came in with a glass of water.

"Ah, you're awake!" Enjolras didn't know how to respond. "Now son, do you know where you are?" He shook his head. I was dead just moments ago. "You're at the Claude Prevot hospital. You've been shot eight times-twice in your shoulder, four times in your chest, and twice in your abdomen. You're lucky to be alive." Enjolras nodded. "Do you know who you are? How old you are?" Enjolras knew the answer, but shook his head 'no'. The doctor was about to say something when Enjolras's roommate screamed again. This one was blood-curdling and it made Enjolras's hair stand on edge.

What was more insane is that he recognized. From the barricade…it's a girl from the barricade.

"Eponine!" He cried, but his throat was parched. The doctor had him sip some water before he made him talk.

"You know her?"

"Yes, but barely so…Is she alright?"

"Yes, she's recovered beautifully. The doctor pulled away the screen so Enjolras could see her. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and her shoulder and hand were bandaged. "The wounds were clean shots, so there's no chance of infection from the bullet. If we keep them clean, she'll heal just fine."

"Well, almost." The other doctor, who swung the towel over his shoulder, picked up the bowl.

"What do you mean, almost?"

"She's blind." Enjolras let his head hit the pillow. The doctors gave each other sad, knowing glances before leaving the room.