A/N: Before anything else, I just want to give a massive thank you to Mel (whatupoprah) for being such an outstanding beta. Seriously, you're amazing. This fic is a small, two-chapter thing, but I guess it's kind of a prequel/background of a much longer fic I'm writing. So, you don't have to read one to read the other, but I'd recommend reading this one to get a clearer idea of the characters in the other, which I'll start posting in a few weeks, once this is up.
This doesn't pull from just one canon of Les Mis. It's mainly pulling from the Brick, but there are also aspects taken from the musical and various film versions.

Warnings for this fic (there will be less for the other): Sexual assault, attempted rape, domestic abuse

Disclaimer: ...I'm not Victor Hugo?


An Introduction

October 1828

The boy - though he would never allowed himself to be called anything less than 'man' - smiled when he approached the group before him and took off his hat - though that was more for the sake of the wind than that of politeness. The mother was sitting on the ground, braiding the younger girl's hair. The older girl sat beside her mother, bouncing an infant on her lap as two small boys ran around her. The father, however, was standing in front of his family, staring at the newcomer.

"Monsieur," the boy began, wasting no time. "Your family is safely in Paris. You were given enough bread for you and your children for a week, maybe more - you failed to mention one was still on the tit. Three weeks have passed for you to repay your debts. You owe us."

The man scoffed, uncaring of the underlying threat. "How old are you, boy?"

The boy smiled, knowing, in due time, the man would learn not to ever call him "boy" again. "I am fifteen," he responded, not bothering to give the man a title. The time for niceties had passed.

The man nodded slowly, looking back at his family.

"My Éponine will be thirteen next month."

The man's wife looked up for the first time, her eyes wide as she stared at her husband in disbelief. The boy looked at the older girl for the first time. She continued to stare at the child in her lap, occasionally rubbing his arms in her hands as though that would protect him from the cool autumn wind. He laughed and turned his attention to the mother.

"Don't worry, madame. I could never accept your husband's offer." Smile dropping, he turned to the man before him. "If I wanted a whore, I'd get a whore. If your daughter ever finds herself in my bed, she will be there willingly, she will enjoy it, and her only payment will be her own contentment." He put his hat back on his head. "I've been instructed to tell you that this is your final warning and, rest assured, monsieur, it is."

Before leaving, he walked over to where the woman sat with her children and knelt before the girl holding the baby. "Are you Éponine?" When she nodded, he took her hand and pressed a coin into it. "For your father's foolishness. If you ever need me, ask anyone for Montparnasse. Even if it's just my name, use it as you will."

Without a backwards glance, he walked away, leaving the family behind.

It was 172 days before he next saw her.

It was March and unseasonably cold. With only a little hesitation, her father had given a few coins, demanding that she find a way to make the boys stop crying. She had been absentmindedly wandering the streets when she felt someone staring at her. A boy not so much older than she was was standing across the square. With the relief of recognising his face, she smiled at him and, tipping his hat, he smiled back.

And that should have been the extent of it.

But if things were always as they should, Éponine Jondrette of Paris would still be Éponine Thenardier of Montfermeil, happy, healthy, and plump in her father's inn. Instead, she was miserable and starving, no more than a skeleton roaming the Parisian streets. Without glancing back at the boy, Éponine continued towards the bakery, intent on buying some sweet breads for the boys and Azelma and, perhaps, if enough money was left over, for herself.

"He'll gyp you."

She turned and found herself face to face with a man old enough to be her father. "I'm sorry?"

"Ain't the place for bread. He'll take your money and give you a stale crust. Better places for bread."

Éponine wrapped her arms around herself. "Then why, monsieur, are you here?"

"Stop him from playing with ones sweet as the likes of you. Rotten as a gypsy, I tell you."

Éponine glanced around the square. This had been where Maman had been taking her in the six months since their arrival in Paris. True, there was never enough to eat, not in nearly a year now, but this was the only place she knew.

"I'm just looking for a sweet for my brothers," she murmured, glancing down at her feet.

"Good girl you are," the man told her and held out a hand. "Well, don't look so shy, sweetheart. I'm only gonna show you a cheaper place for bread. Make sure you get your money's worth."

With the confidence and naivety of any thirteen year old, Éponine accepted his hand.

"There's a good lass," he laughed, leading her away from the bakery.

For a few minutes, the pair walked in silence, winding down an alley, further and further from the Paris the girl knew.

"How far, monsieur?" She was getting cold and knew her father would worry about her. Or at least he once would have. In response, the man laughed.

"So impatient, ma chérie." He stopped and turned to face her. "Now, tell me, how much do you have?"

Éponine reached into her pocket and held out her hand.

"Three sous?" He smiled and stooped to her level. "Well, you may very well be able to get what you need and still have a bit for yourself." He stared at her a moment longer and Éponine could have sworn the wind on the back of her neck grew magically five times colder.

"I should go home, monsieur. It's getting dark and my family -"

"And now you're simply being lazy. I thought you were getting a treat for your brothers."

"Yes, well-"

"Then perhaps you just walk too slow." And, with that, he reached to grab her, this time by the wrist, and continued to pull her along. "If you would only speed up, I'll let you get more than you bargained for. Now, come along."

She let out an indignant shriek and tried to pull her arm away. "You're hurting me!"

The man stopped and, for a moment, Éponine thought foolishly that he would release her. But then the bitter taste of blood filled her mouth as his hand swung back across her face. She let out another shriek, this time of pain, but was cut short as that same hand grabbed her, the taste of the man's sweaty palm mixing with the blood of her mouth.

"I said," he growled, squeezing her cheeks. "'Come along.'" And again he began dragging her through the alley.

Éponine's breath caught in her throat as she searched her mind for words of protest. Her eyes burned with tears unshed as she tried to dig her boots into the ground. Had it not been only a few weeks before that her papa had pulled her and Azelma to him and told them, in that soft voice only used for them, that the city was different, that a stranger wasn't always a friend, that not everyone knew who her papa was and would take her home to him?

She pulled back again in futile desperation and the strength of his response brought her to her knees. And yet he dragged her still. A small stone imbedded itself in her knee as he pulled her around a corner. What little light had been left in the sky was now blocked from her view. Tears and darkness obscuring her vision, she reached out with her free hand and dug her nails into the hand holding her. With a low growl, the man spun around and, now clasping both her wrists in his hands, flung her backwards. Using her now free arms, Éponine pulled herself back until she could feel the cold stone of the alley wall through her tattered bodice. She shut her eyes and brought her hands to her ears. Perhaps if she could not see him, could not hear him, he would cease to exist.

From not too far above her head, she could hear the coo of a birdsong. Come down here and save me, she prayed childishly. I am not so heavy.

The air around her thickened and she could feel hot breath on her face. A rough hand grabbed her leg, squeezing through the thinning fabric of her pantalettes. She felt herself pulled down until she was lying flat on her back. She coughed, choking on a mixture of snot and tears and, trembling, she took her hands from her ears and thrust them out in front of her. Her assailant merely laughed and took his hand from her leg, using his arm to knock her hands away. Scarcely able to breathe, Éponine brought her hands back to her face. If she could just make this all go away!

Suddenly, a sound like thunder rang out, booming so loudly that, for half of a second, she wondered if the bird had indeed come to her rescue and taken her into the clouds. And then a heavy weight fell upon her, heavier than anything she had ever held, covering her from head to foot. A warm wetness began to grow between her and The Weight. She could feel it trickling across her face, down her nose and over her lips, slipping between them with a sour, metallic taste, too familiar and too foreign all at once. She began to scream.

"Éponine!" A pair of hands, soft and smooth and gentle, slipped between her and The Weight, grasping her and pulling at her until she slipped from the weight pinning her to the ground. She scrambled away from the hands that were holding her, immediately pulling herself to her knees, the pain meaningless as she bent over, spilling the contents of her stomach before her and panting. For the first time in her life, she was glad for the taste of bile in her mouth. She continued heaving until the taste of a stranger's blood no longer burned her tongue. Even when there was nothing left, she kept retching.

"Éponine," the voice was much softer this time, whispering her name into her ear. She hadn't even realised that an arm had encircled her waist from behind as the other hand held her hair tightly out of her face. She allowed the arm to turn her around, continuing to pant as her hair was released and fell in tangles upon her shoulders.

"Éponine," he whispered again, taking off his cravat and, so slowly, so delicately, reaching forward to wipe her face. "Éponine, do you know me?"

Scared to speak, the girl merely nodded and felt her eye fill with fresh tears. He had given her his name to use for her safety, her protection. And she had done worse than take his offer for granted: she had forgotten his name. Ashamed, she buried her face in her hands.

"Éponine." She felt his hand ghost across her face, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. There was a soft sigh and the rustling of fabric and then his coat was wrapped around her shoulders. "Can you stand?"

In lieu of an answer, she grabbed his shoulders and began to pull herself up. A pain shot through her legs, causing her to cry out and cling to him all the more desperately. His arms immediately found her waist and pulled her close, steadying her. Moving his hands from her back to her arms, he stepped back, eying her from head to toe.

"If you come with me," he said, staring at her knees. "I know someone who may be able to help you."

Éponine looked down. Her entire front was soaked in blood. What was hers, she couldn't say. But she could feel it still slowly dripping down her legs. She glanced back at the boy. He was looking at her with kindness she had not seen since before she came to Paris. But friendliness isn't always goodness, she reminded herself. She coughed into her elbow before speaking.

"I should go home. My papa will be worrying."

"And your maman would die the second she saw you. White as a ghost, painted red, and, take my word for it, lips blue as ice. Why, if I let you walk all the way home, wherever that may be, your brothers would mistake you for the Tricolour."

Éponine said nothing, simply wrapping her arms tighter around herself, causing his hands to slip to her elbows. Were he not certain that she would fall if left to her own balancing, he would have released her immediately and retreat with outstretched hands.

"Are you scared of me, 'Ponine?" He was answered with silence. "Don't fear me. I'd never hurt you."

"You have a gun."

"But not for you! I'd never hurt a girl, Éponine. Some people deserve to hurt." With a glance at the corpse still staining the pavement, he took a breath and pulled her closer to him. "Some people deserve to die. But not you. Now, please, let me get you home. You'll never make it on your own."

He was right, she knew it. With a gulp and a nod, she wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed him to lift her up. For the whole of their journey, she pressed her face into his chest, not daring to look at where he was taking her. After what could have been five minutes or an hour, she felt one hand slip from her and let out a gasp.

"I've got you, I've got you." And then the wind was gone and both his arms were clutching her as he ascended the stairs at a surprising speed, kicking the door hard when they reached the top.

"And there he is," a voice growled. "Where in the bloody hell - fucking Christ, Montparnasse! The fuck did you do?"

"She - she was alone. She was l-looking for the b-baker." Several pairs of heavy footsteps approached the pair and Éponine buried her face even deeper into the boy - into Montparnasse's chest.

"And you thought you'd take her as your own?" Another voice growled. "And bring her here? HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING?"

"I DIDN'T HURT HER!" Montparnasse roared, causing Éponine to shriek in his arms. Immediately, she felt herself lowered to the ground, cradled in Montparnasse's lap. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, holding her close. "You're safe here, I promise. Babet, please?"

"Tell me what happened."

"I saw her walking earlier, but thought nothing of it. But then she wasn't in front of the bake-"

"Not you. Her."

Éponine bit her lip and slowly pulled her head from Montparnasse. And man she assumed was Babet knelt before her, gaunt with wisps of grey hair tucked into a cap. His eyes were silver and studied her with such scrutiny that she began to cry the moment she opened her mouth.

"Please, monsieur. I just want to go home. My papa will be so worried."

"Don't cry, petite. It's never solved any problems. Now, who's your papa?"

Éponine sniffed and stared at him, saying nothing. She was in a room of strangers, men she had never met before so much as seen. She had only just gotten used to Jondrette, she'd hate to force her family to change again so soon.

"She's the Jondrette girl," Montparnasse said, as though her family was the most popular in Paris. "Éponine."

"The oldest?"

Both Éponine and Montparnasse nodded.

"Claquesous said his oldest was more or less a woman grown."

Montparnasse squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. "Less, then. She's thirteen."

Éponine turned to him in astonishment. How did he remember such a silly thing as her age?

"Hmmph. Very well, then. Go get Jondrette."

"Babet-"

"For all the faults you and Claquesous have named in him, he is still the child's father. Go. Now."

She could feel Montparnasse nod against her head. "I'll be back," he told her, lifting her easily and bringing her to the table. "And I'll bring your papa."

And then he was gone. She sat there in silence, still wrapped in his coat.

"If you want me to help you, you've got to get rid of those pantalettes."

Éponine's blood ran cold as she stared up at him with wide eyes. "P-please, monsieur. I just want my papa."

Babet looked at her in confusion, but, as Éponine pulled her knees to her chest, gritting her teeth at the pain, he let out a bark of laughter that sounded as though it came more from rage than amusement. He sat down beside her and cupped her chin in his hands. The girl released a choked sob.

"You're thirteen," he told her, as if she herself were unaware. "Jesus Christ, you're no more than a babe." He released her chin and stood up, walking across the room to retrieve a tattered black bag. "You've got a lot of blood on you, girlie. Your papa won't be able to buy you a doctor if you get an infection. Come, now. No one will hurt you here. Never hurt a woman. It's you lot that are the strong ones, truly."

Éponine tried to consent to an examination. She wanted to, truly. But the moment she opened her mouth, she found herself sobbing once more. She had left her parents barely an hour before and had already forgotten what it felt like to be safe. She sat there on the table, feeling Babet's eyes on her, but her sobs continued. She cried until no more sound came out, no more tears. She was sure she was about to be sick again when the sound of heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs graced her ears, combined with the deep shouting of her name.

"Papa!" she shrieked, pushing herself off the table only to land in a heap on the floor. But the pain couldn't bother her anymore. Montparnasse had been true! He had found her papa - no easy task, she was sure - and brought him to her. With her papa there beside her, she was safe. "Papa!"

And then his arms were around her and, for what may have been the first time since their arrival in Paris, her father was holding her tight and peppering her face and hair with gentle kisses.

"See, Éponine?" she was vaguely aware of Montparnasse asking, breathless from his mission to find Jondrette. "I told you: you're safe with us."

For the next several weeks, he took her around the city. Not the city of artists and students and adventurers, but the city of the urchins, the city of rats and criminals.

"In their Paris," he explained to her. "Grown men fight to show off how much money they've got, how many books they've read. They fight to let others think that they care. But in our Paris, all people, grown and little, fight. And we don't do it to show off. We do it to survive. I personally find our Paris more fun. What's a game without high stakes, what's a life without risks?"

For weeks she followed him, studying the way he slipped between shadows, the way he made people want to help him. She studied the way he made people laugh and the way he made them cower in fear.

But, as the months went by, their time together spread thinner over the days. Days would pass without a word between them. But still, every Tuesday morning, she'd find him in front of the bakery, fresh bread in hand.

On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, they sat together eating a sweet that she was sure had not been in his pocket when she had met him this morning.

"I shan't see you next week." She didn't even look him in the eye as she spoke.

"Oh?"

She nodded. "Papa has some letters that must be delivered."

"Do it Wednesday, then. Or Monday evening."

"Papa says the recipients must be home."

"I'll join you."

Éponine laughed and shook her head. Smiling, she looked at her lap and let her fingers trace the holes of her skirt. They grew larger each day. She was sure Montparnasse had noticed by now, but was just as sure that he was too kind to say anything.

"What's wrong, 'Ponine?"

Éponine looked up in surprise. "Why should you think anything was wrong?"

"You always become more self-conscious when you're nervous."

She sighed. "We're asking them for money, 'Parnasse. There's barely enough left to feed one, let alone seven. If you're with us, we'll look like a con. If it's just me and Azelma...well, someone's bound to take pity on us."

For a long while, they sat in silence. Both were fully aware of the Jondrette's finances and both knew full well of the other's awareness. But there was never any talk of it, never any pity.

"I suppose I'll have to find something else to occupy my time, then."

"I could send Gavroche. Oh, you'd like him!"

"Gavroche?" He looked at her, perplexed. As far as he knew, the men of Patron-Minette were the only ones in Éponine's life.

She nodded excitedly. "My brother. He's eight, but he's awfully clever."

Montparnasse smiled, praying his relief didn't come through. "I didn't even know his name."

Éponine shrugged. "Yeah, well, he came home last week - hadn't seen him for days, I was so worried - and told us his name was Gavroche."

"What was it before that?"

Éponine shrugged again. "I always called him 'little one.'"

"And the babies?"

"'Sweet one' and 'baby.'"

With a laugh, he pushed a piece of hair from her face. "Some days, my Éponine, I'm quite glad that you seem like you may not be your parents' daughter at all."

Before she could retort, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips.

She blushed.