Hello again, and welcome to chapter 2!
Thank you so much for the enthusiastic response to this story! It really is fun to write, and it's a treat to know that y'all are having as much fun reading it as I am writing it.
Thanks to Inge, my beta, who always has overwhelming encouragement and advice and feedback to offer to help me make this the best it can be.
Finally, I think I mentioned last time that there would be much more time between updates than there was with Tides. This will be particularly true after this chapter here. I am relocating from the United States to France next Monday, Sept. 23, to teach English for seven months. I will have plenty of time over there to write and will certainly be continuing the story, but it might be a few weeks before my next update, as I will need time to settle in and reacquaint myself with Paris and learn my new town and get used to speaking French again. That said, I have a rather long flight, so hopefully I'll get at least a bit written. No promises though, as there is a good chance I will be a) drunk, b) reading, c) watching in flight entertainment, d) sleeping (though that's unlikely - sleeping on airplanes seems impossible for me). But it'll probably option a, that seems to be my default state. :P
So without further ado:
Pairings (eventually): e/é, jetaire, feuilly/azelma, a crapton of brotps, idek what else...
Warnings: Some descriptions of violence/violent scenes (could get more graphic), language, possibly some blood and gore, maaaaaybe somesensuality *wiggles eyebrows*
Disclaimer: Only the situation and interpretation of the characters are mine. Thanks Vicy. The title of this chapter comes from Ben Howard's song "Esmerelda." I just love him.
Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks
by Alice in Somewhereland
Chapter 2
and with such ease the rafters surround us
It was hardly even a challenge to dodge the forces that had responded to Lamarque's panic call. Eponine followed the Revolutionary, easily running up the fire escape and onto the roof, only to jump to the next building, climb down that fire escape, and disappear into the shadows. She barely broke a sweat.
They went their separate ways with few words, especially on her part. He reminded her – in the way he thought was so intimidating, but really made her want to both hit him and laugh at him – of the importance of keeping Lamarque's location secret.
"Don't sweat it, pretty boy," she murmured as seductively as she could, patting his cheek a little harder than necessary. She backed away, smirking at what she could only imagine was a glare boring into her from his shaded eyes, and as she turned, tossed a casual, "You're welcome," over her shoulders. Then she melted into the shadows, leaving him behind, silhouetted in the darkness that loved him so. It was a sight to behold, she thought idly, turning to glance back at him before she disappeared into the night; his cape billowing lazily in the cool breeze, and his hair silver and waving in the breeze, and his large hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his gaze undoubtedly glowering in her direction.
It had been several weeks since she had seen him. She hardly minded – she was quite ambivalent toward whoever-he-was, though what managed to annoy her was the fact that he saw her. Repeatedly.
Eponine sat heavily in the desk chair before the monitors, propping up her feet and staring at the top right corner of the screen with interest as she spooned frozen yogurt from the shop around the corner into her mouth. She thought she had just seen–.
"Hey, babe, come here often?" a teasingly seductive voice asked, pulling her from her reverie. Eponine swiveled the chair in surprise to find a girl several years her junior leaning in the doorway, arm propped on the frame and hip popped suggestively.
"Shut up, Azelma," Eponine ordered mildly, grinning at her sister.
Azelma was tall, like Eponine, but was more model than athlete. She was thin as a rail, with legs that went on for miles, and an impeccable sense of fashion. Currently, her hair was dyed a lethal shade of red, one that perfectly matched her honeyed skin tone, and was cut into a short, angled bob.
"But really," Azelma said, walking over to the desk and pulling herself onto it, "You've been spending an awful lot of time in here. What are you looking for?"
"Nothing," Eponine replied, slightly more tersely than she intended.
"Well is someone looking for us?" she asked patiently.
"No."
"Then what is so interesting about being in here that you can go out with Gav, buy him ice cream, but then not spend the time to eat it with him?"
Eponine looked at her sister in surprise. The younger girl was angry, she realized. Their little brother, Gavroche, just barely a teenager, lived with them. In fact, Eponine had raised them – both of them. She had always thought, especially with Gavroche, that she was pretty good at playing mother, father, and sibling simultaneously. She had let them get away with things that she knew other parents wouldn't; whether to attribute that to her own young age and immaturity, or her desire to keep them close to her in a way that didn't have to work around the familial hierarchy of a parent-child relationship, she was unsure, but she thought she had done a decent job. Especially with Gavroche. She emphasized his education over his life on the street, and diligently kept on top of him about his work and being a good student.
She and Azelma – well, Azelma was on the cusp. She was taking fashion and business classes at the community college, but was not a stellar student, nor had she been one in grade school. Eponine desperately wanted to go back to school and get a degree; ironically enough, she wanted to work in a museum – she figured she'd do pretty well, considering her time spent around art as a master thief. Not that that could go on her résumé.
Still, looking at her angry little sister, Eponine couldn't deny how right she was. Recently, Gavroche had started to fall in with a bad crowd. It was easy, in this city, when the government had forsaken all those beneath a certain income level, to get involved with things that were, well, less than savory. It scared her, and she knew it scared Azelma, as they had both been there. In many ways, they still were. No matter how hard Eponine and Azelma tried, it seemed that their brother was slowly slipping into that life.
But Azelma didn't seem to think Eponine was trying hard enough. Luckily, however, Eponine was saved from answering by the flash of golden hair that glinted in the stale orange glow of the street lamp across from her dilapidated apartment building.
She grinned at the computer – noticing Azelma's disapproving scowl out the corner of her eye – and murmured, "You sneaky bastard," at the screen.
"What the hell," Azelma began to ask, turning, before dropping her jaw mid-sentence. "Is that–?"
He was standing, for the first time ever, in full view of her security cameras, silhouetted by the moon and staring out from those masked eyes with what she imagined was a challenging glare. His black cape swept about his calves in the breeze, and his red mask and bright hair shone brilliantly when contrasted in the lights that spilled into the night from apartments with the dark figure he cut in the shadows. There was something equally intoxicating and terrifying about him, but somehow, she knew what he wanted.
"The Revolutionary," Eponine finished for her triumphantly.
"Is he watching us?" Azelma inquired, her disapproval of her older sister's habits suddenly, gloriously, forgotten.
"That he is, dear sister," Eponine affirmed, springing from her chair and racing from the room. "Shout if he moves!" she ordered her sister, quickly stripping her clothes and pulling on her own suit. It wasn't so much for him as it was for anyone watching from other buildings or on other security cameras – it would not be safe for a girl such as Eponine to be seen fraternizing with the city's most notorious renegade.
She had known he was sneaking around for weeks. Her suspicions had been aroused before he had sought her out for her knowledge of Lamarque's whereabouts, but since then, she had seen glimpses of him – at night, following her through the streets, waiting outside or on top of buildings as she robbed the inhabitants inside, outside her apartment at night.
It wasn't every night, or if it was, he hid well and made himself scarce by the time Eponine got annoyed enough to even think about approaching him. It was like he knew just how long it would take to piss her off enough that he should disappear; the thought that he knew her that well pissed her off even more. However, the only time she had ever actually considered approaching him from his vantage point was on a night that it was storming. She had donned a raincoat and boots, but he was gone by the time she made it onto her fire escape. Her instincts had told her she would not find him, so she didn't bother going further into the night to make chase. She figured that, despite how annoyed she was that he was studying her private life with her siblings, she would catch him at it eventually and yell at him then.
Tonight, however, he was calling her, asking her to come.
So she did.
The Revolutionary watched as the Wolf emerged from the shadows, looking at him both warily and hungrily, as though he were her prey but she was unsure of how best to attack.
Her chin was held high, her dark hair flowing behind her wildly, flying like the tatters of a once-loved flag in the wind. She gave off an air of one who was fast approaching the line between relevance and obsolescence, as though very soon, her time would be up and there would be no more thieving, and those who sought her, those who hunted the huntress, would win.
He watched as she approached, her eyes glinting at him in the combination of man-made and natural light, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.
"Eponine," he greeted, nodding.
Her jaw clenched. "So I was right," she said, ignoring his greeting and crossing her arms and doing her best to look menacing. He wondered why they even bothered with show anymore; he feared her no more than she him. "You've been watching me."
"I had to make sure you didn't reveal Lamarque's location," he explained.
"I gave you my word," Eponine snapped, clearly affronted. Her chin went up even more; it was as though she was pulling up a barrier between them, protecting herself from his words and his presence and his uncertainty by the sheer effort to make herself seem haughty and untouchable and indifferent.
"I needed to make sure," he replied, pretending he hadn't noticed her take offense.
"Haven't I proven myself yet?" she asked. "You were watching me before I took you to Lamarque's, you've been watching me since. When am I going to seem trustworthy enough for you to leave me alone?"
The Revolutionary shrugged indifferently. "I'd be a fool to trust you," he answered honestly.
Eponine grinned, seemingly in spite of herself. "You're smart, pretty boy," she teased; he could hear the slightly venomous edge to her tone, and wondered how much farther she'd let him push her before she attacked. Her cold smile abruptly faded. "I remain loyal to those who pay me, Revolutionary," she told him matter-of-factly, taking a confident, dominative step forward. "You promised me something in return for my services. And I always get paid, willingly or not. You promised me something, and I will take it if you won't freely give it."
The Revolutionary watched the dangerous figure approach. She was sizing him up, evaluating how much of a threat he was, circling him like the predator she was. But he was a predator as well. Though his hunting was done differently than hers, he could easily play her games.
"I need your help first," he said, watching her closely.
Her eyebrows shot up over her mask.
"No. No, no, no, no," Eponine cooed, trying to keep her unconcerned air. Her tone, however, was strained, and her fists were clenched at her sides, and her jaw was clenched. "That's not what we do. You offered to help me in exchange for my aid. This isn't a 'take-Eponine-for-all-she's-worth' deal where you pay me when you get around to it. I do one thing for you, and you do one for me."
The Revolutionary briefly considered her words. "You're asking a lot of my people. We can deliver, but it takes time. You will receive your payment, but it cannot be instantaneous. Nor is it cheap; simply acting as a tour guide to Lamarque's safehouse is not worth three individual hacks. No, you remain indebted to me based on what you're being paid. When my people tell me we're even, we'll be even."
"So what, I'm your indentured servant until then?" she snapped incredulously, eyes flashing. "You just said yourself, you have people. Have them do your bidding. I'm not your dancing monkey, available on your whims, so find someone else. There are other places I'm needed tonight, and I have work of my own that does not involve you."
"You mean ignoring your siblings while you sit in your office watching your monitors for a sign of me?" he asked cheekily.
She scowled at him, and for a moment he thought – almost wished, really – that she would hit him. He had pushed her too far, and done it on purpose. He wanted to see the Wolf howl.
"My life is my business," Eponine snapped. "Aren't there, like, eighty-five of you Amis? Go get one of them to help you. I'm not available at your beck and call, even for what you've promised me."
It was the Revolutionary's turn to take a step closer; he could've reached out and brushed his fingers against the leather of her jumpsuit if he wanted to, and some primitive instinct deep within encouraged him to do so. He pushed away the distraction, unwilling to allow himself to fully wonder what the contrast of her leather to her skin would feel like beneath his fingers.
"Ah, but they aren't you and I, Eponine," he murmured, throwing her name in her face for the first time. "They don't understand why I do a lot of what I do."
"Neither do I."
The Revolutionary grinned, stepping closer yet again, catching the scent of her wild hair as it whipped about her face in the wind.
"But you don't ask questions. They do."
Eponine crossed her arms. "How is any of this my problem?"
"Because they are not willing to do what is necessary, and they do not understand why I must take certain actions. They do not understand the gravity of the situation; no, they are still boys playing at battle, while I'm a man fighting a war," he muttered, absently wondering whether he was talking more to himself or to her.
To his annoyance, Eponine burst out laughing. He bristled beneath his clothes, and found himself baring his teeth at her. This dangerous woman, this feral lone wolf, this untamed creature of the night was getting to him. He wondered whether she would eat him alive.
"A man fighting a war?" she repeated shrilly, still caught in the throes of hilarity. "You know nothing," she spat at him, her grin fading to a condescending smirk as she closed in on him, her face inches from his own. "You think you understand us? You, a pretty, bourgeois boy, understand us gutter rats, us miserable dregs of society, scraping from trough to trough for a sliver of hope to take home? No. You understand nothing."
"I understand more than you think. I understand that you have a record you can't get rid of. I understand you're doing your best to keep your siblings from following your path, but you and your sister both have extensive records, and your brother is quickly falling victim to the disease that plagues this city. I understand that you fear the day that he just does not come home, or calls you from prison, or passes you on the street – a shell of who he used to be – and does not recognize you."
Eponine let out what appeared to be an involuntary cry of distress, then she turned to him and shoved him so hard she even knocked herself off balance. Still, the Revolutionary persisted.
"My friends live in a fantasy world, but we do not. I know what becomes of people in this city; I've seen it happen firsthand. And I'm determined to stop it."
"You can't," she croaked at him, the uncertainty that he could not see in her shadowed eyes all the clearer in her voice.
It was his turn to laugh; cold, ominous, humorless. "I understand, too, you know. My friends all think they will come out of this unscathed. They think one day they'll unmask, face an adoring crowd of fans, be rewarded with money and women and notoriety for what they've done for this city. But we know differently, you and I. Don't even think I don't understand, because I do." His voice was hoarse, almost desperate, and he knew he had struck a chord with her. "There's no way to be who we are and come out of this alive, Eponine."
She shook her head, but said nothing.
"I know you want to do right by your brother and sister, Eponine. But you're a smart woman. You know exactly where all of this is going to end. You'll get what you need to help them as best you can, but you can't fool yourself anymore than I can fool you. You grew up here, and you have perhaps the harshest view of reality. You understand as well as I do what that means."
"No," she snapped, breaking his trancelike hold over her and stepping away, as though distance from him would distance his words as well. "There is no 'we.' You and I are not the same. I do not plan on dying anytime soon. In fact, I plan on living an obnoxiously long life. That begins with doing my work and keeping my head down, not getting mixed up with your convoluted attempts to change the status quo."
"Don't you want to help Gavroche and Azelma? Don't you–."
"Do not, for a moment, presume to know a thing about me, Revolutionary," Eponine retorted venomously, rounding on him with the quick grace of the wolf for which she was named. "You think you know me so well, because you've been stalking me for weeks. Because you know my name and you watch me through my fucking window and you've learned about my brother and sister. You try to keep me guessing, to keep me subordinate to you, because you act like you know me so well when I don't even know your name. But really, you don't know anything about me. So don't pretend like you can use your pretty, urgent words on me, like they'll get me to take up arms and fight your little war beside you simply because I don't bother you as much as your friends." She shoved him, then turned and walked purposefully away, floating across the roof like a shadow. As she turned to climb down the ladder, she snapped, "You're on your own, bro. Good luck, and leave me the fuck alone."
Then she was gone.
There will be no escaping this time. The boy has slipped up, and I have won.
He will lead me to the rest of les Amis.
He will lead me to the criminal Valjean.
He will lead me to salvation.
No, there is no escape. He is a broken child; surrounded by the authority he so violently denounces, with nowhere to turn, no one to go to.
Try and run, Revolutionary. Ah, but you can't.
No, the city will once again rest in peace.
Eponine emerged from her room, now changed back into her sweatpants, still bristling. She joined Gavroche on the couch and tried to focus on an episode of The Simpsons with him, but she could not. The Revolutionary's words were still running over and over and over through the rivers and streams of her mind.
Eventually, she gave up, and picked up a sketchbook and pencil from the coffee table, allowing her mind to empty and wander.
The lead glided across the thick paper as if of its own accord, slowly allowing her frustration and fear to dissipate, allowing the drawing to absorb all her tension and negative energy. As her racing mind began to quiet, she opened herself back up to the chatter of her siblings, their laughter at whatever program it was they were watching.
She was almost finished the drawing – a detailed crescent moon with an exotic city sprouting from its alien rock – when an odd noise came from the hall. It sounded like something falling, followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the door.
Eponine stood, motioning for her younger siblings to stay where they were, and crept to the front door. When she peered through the peephole, there was nothing she could see but a smear of blood – it looked like a bloody handprint, actually – across the wall adjacent to the door.
She leapt back in shock, heart racing as she darted into her room. She returned with a handgun, ignoring Azelma and Gavroche as their wide eyes followed her movements.
Carefully, quietly, she approached the door, turning the handle as slowly as possible, then yanking open the door with her gun pointed straight into the hallway.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"
Before she could even see who it was, a body toppled onto her heavily, knocking her to the ground under its weight. They lay tangled in the foyer of her small apartment, Eponine trying her hardest to suck air back into lungs that had expelled her breath too quickly, trying to free her gun arm from under the dead weight of the groaning sack of skin, trying to spit someone else's hair out of her mouth.
Something wet was seeping onto her arm, and she laboriously wriggled her way from beneath the human, rolling him off her and standing, stumbling backwards and away from him in terror. Hands gripped her from behind, startling and steadying her, and she turned to Gavroche, who was staring at the intruder with wide eyes.
It was he; it was the Revolutionary.
"What the everliving fuck are you doing here?" she cried, only half conscious of the fact that she was probably waking up half the street.
"Eponine," Azelma whispered from behind, placing a hand on her shoulder and examining her arm, wet with blood that was not hers, "He's hurt."
Eponine sucked in a breath, about to start screaming again, when she caught sight of him: laying in a pathetic huddle on the floor, moaning in pain, bleeding all over the foyer.
"Jesus Christ," she repeated, gingerly approaching him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered at her touch, or maybe from the pain. She couldn't really tell.
"What the hell happened?" she murmured to him, still stuck between shock and awe.
"Help me," he rasped, voice wrought with agony and fear. His eyes were still concealed behind his stupid red mask.
Without a second thought, Eponine slipped an arm around his shoulder, sitting him up. He cried out in pain, but did not fight her when she pulled his arm over her shoulder. "Gavroche," she called, rousing the young boy from his shocked observance.
He did not hesitate, immediately coming to help her lift the vigilante. They half-dragged, half-carried him to Eponine's room, depositing him carefully onto her bed. He moaned again, and Eponine briefly considered taping his mouth shut.
She found the source of the blood – a grisly slash in his side, just below his ribs – and shouted for scissors and a few trash bags.
Gavroche raced in with the items a few moments later, and Azelma followed, close on his heels, with a First Aid Kit.
"Gav," Eponine said absently, rolling the Revolutionary a bit to push one of the bags beneath him so he wouldn't bleed out all over her bed, "Go clean up the blood. There are handprints on the walls out in the hallway. Make sure you go the whole way downstairs and even outside. And be quick about it, and thorough. We don't want anyone following him up here or anything."
Gavroche immediately turned and exited the room, though neither Eponine nor Azelma noticed, as they both were leaning over the bleeding boy, heads together above his abdomen as Eponine struggled to remove the thick, heavy, protective layers he had on.
Honestly, it was a wonder someone managed to get anything in there. It was good body armor – strong, but light, and thick – though clearly not indestructible.
When they finally managed to cut through the layers of cloth and armor, the wound revealed itself. The coppery scent of blood hit Eponine's nose instantly; she tasted bile in her mouth. The gruesome sight that accompanied the gushing blood almost expelled her dinner.
"Oh my god," she whispered, trying not to be sick.
"This is bad," Azelma agreed, though she hardly looked worse for the wear. She had always been into medicine and anatomy and everything, so she probably found this cool. Eponine was no pansy, that was for sure, and she could stomach a lot, but not a self-proclaimed superhero bleeding to death on her own bed. Not a wound like that. "Should we call an ambulance?" she asked Eponine, eyes wide.
"No," hissed the older woman, taking just a moment to stare incredulously across the bed. "You idiot, if we call the cops, he'll be caught, and they'll look into us for aiding him, and for him coming the whole way up here to us, and we'll be just as fucked as him. No, we have to figure this out on our own."
Without waiting any longer, and without responding, Azelma ripped open all the gauze that was in the small Kit, and pressed down on his wound with both hands, hoping to slow the blood loss by applying pressure.
He gasped in pain, crying out, and grabbed Eponine's hand, startling her. She had almost forgotten that he was still there, in the sense of him being conscious and cohesive. He pulled her close, close enough that she had to sit down on the edge of the bed next to him and lean in.
"I'm dying," he hissed.
"No," she replied half-heartedly. Eponine had never been one to sugarcoat anything, and even trying now, even to bring him peace, was too difficult for her.
"My friends," he rasped, squeezing her hand as tightly as he could. It wasn't a tight grasp at all. "Joly and – and Combeferre. They're – doctors. You'll have to – fetch them."
"I don't even know where they are!" Eponine exclaimed.
"A grate on – the other end of – Shadyside. Down on the – corner of 10th and – and Mondétour. Go in. Follow it until – the fork, take the left. Take the first – tunnel to the – right, then the – middle fork. Follow it – down, past the – 15th Ave metro stop – then take the tunnel – on the left. At the end – is our hideout. You'll find everyone – there. Got it?" He was gripping her tightly, pulling her close to him as he gasped out the directions, as though he could transfer the route from his head to hers through osmosis or sheer power of will.
"I'll remember," she promised, sincerely hoping she would. She could end up lost down there for years if she didn't. Then rather than just a dead revolutionary, there would be two dead twenty-something criminals in the heart of the city. "But how will they trust me? They're not just going to let someone waltz in and lure them out with the promise of their dying leader two miles away."
"Tell them – tell them 'Enjolras.' 'Enjolras' sent you," he replied faintly, and his hand slipped from her grasp, just as he slipped from consciousness.
She was about to shout in his ear, trying to keep him awake, when Azelma snapped, "Go! Gav and I will take care of him. The sooner you come back with help, the better off he'll be. The better off we'll all be."
Eponine bolted into her room, stripping her clothes as she ran, and pulled her leather suit on, then her boots, then finally her mask and gloves. She took only a moment to scrawl down the Revolutionary's instructions – hoping to god she remembered them correctly, before running from the room and into the little office, slipping easily onto the fire escape and into the night.
To be continued..
