Hello, friends! Happy New Year! Originally, I had planned on getting this update up before Christmas, but of course it's a busy time of the year and that didn't happen. (But today is Second Christmas, so Merry Christmas if you celebrate today!)
I'm not sure when there will be a new update. I'm working on grad school applications, and have some classes starting toward the end of January. That said, I don't want to drag this fic out too long, as I'd like to start building up a body of original work and entering some writing contests. I'm thinking we're a little more than halfway through this story, and now that the stakes are getting higher, things will begin moving more quickly.
As always, please enjoy.
Warnings: Violence, blood, weapons, language, eventual sex, and who knows what else?
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Hugo except the cracky situation and the original characters. Today's chapter title comes to us from Keaton Henson's song "You."
Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks
by AliceInSomewhereland
Chapter 6
if you must fight, fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night
Chapter 6
The day of Lamarque's funeral dawned grey and chilly, the icy breeze and heavy clouds harkening the quickly approaching winter. Enjolras adjusted his scarf - tightening it around his neck and pushing it over the bridge of his nose - and pulling his hat further over his ears. Locks of unruly hair brushed the bare skin of his forehead and neck, but the air was too crisp for him to pull his hands from his pockets to brush them aside.
Though the funeral and the procession were not until later in the day, Enjolras had been unable to sleep, and had climbed to the roof of his apartment building to watch whatever kind of sunrise there was.
Suffice it to say, he was worried. His friends, in his opinion, still didn't entirely fathom how deep their movement went. To them, it was still social activism, a hobby, really, to be done after class or after work. They didn't seem to understand that this was a war, and the price was very real, very costly.
His stomach churned as he thought of each of them. Combeferre understood, of course - he was the smartest out of all of them, after all - but to the others it was just a game. The police weren't truly a threat in their minds, and Louis-Philippe would back down with just a bit of pressure. Enjolras, however, saw the bigger picture, and the danger that they were all in.
He didn't believe in any god, but he couldn't help saying a silent prayer to whatever entity was listening that his friends be spared, that if there had to be any casualties, it would be him. With a bitter grimace, he was reminded of the age-old saying, there are no atheists in the trenches. Perhaps it was true.
Enjolras watched as the sun struggled to rise, light slowly banishing the shadows of twilight as a few tendrils of light fought to break through the heavy clouds. Taking a deep breath of chilly air, he closed his eyes, trying to dispel the dread that the morning light had failed to burn away.
It began today, and he wasn't sure they were ready.
The stairs creaked as Cosette noisily descended, heading for the front door with her arm outstretched and wrapping a blue scarf around her neck as she went.
"Where are you going?" Valjean asked, trying to seem curious rather than interrogative with his hands casually stuffed in his pockets.
She turned slowly, a distant, cold look in her eyes.
"To Lamarque's funeral. I'm participating in a demonstration with my friends," she explained shortly.
She was still angry after their fight the other night, and had barely spoken with him since.
"Be careful," he warned, unable to help himself. He was still her father, after all.
She rolled her eyes. "It's gonna be fine, Dad. I can take care of myself," she reminded him tightly, reaching again for the doorknob.
"I just mean - there could be riots. People are unhappy. And I'm sure that vigilante group - Les Amis - will be there, too."
Cosette tossed him a withering glare when he brought up the self-styled superheroes. "I happen to think they're doing important work. Someone has to stand up to the oppressors, and if they can get the ball rolling and get the people involved, good on them."
Sensing her anger, and pushing down his own suspicion over her impassioned response, he held up his hands in surrender and abruptly changed the subject.
"You were right, Cosette," he called, stopping her in her tracks as she turned and opened the door to leave. Slowly, she turned and looked at him, obviously a little surprised.
"I haven't been honest with you, or fair. You're not a little girl anymore, and you don't deserve to be treated like one. You're a grown up woman now-"
"Papa," she interrupted, clearly a little embarrassed.
"-And from here on out, I promise to try harder to treat you as such," he finished.
"Well… thanks, Papa," she replied slightly awkwardly, "But I really need to get going-"
"Wait, please," Valjean said, and she paused again, hand halfway to the doorknob. He retreated to his favorite armchair and sat, gesturing at the empty couch opposite him. "I'd like to answers some of your questions, Cosette, if you could give me just a few minutes."
Cosette stood for a moment, regarding him uncertainly, before moving towards the couch and slowly sitting down. "Well, your timing could be better, but I suppose I can spare a few minutes before I need to go," she told him.
He took a moment to steel himself, then dove right in. "What do you know about Jean Valjean?" he asked, a little curious in spite of himself.
Obviously nonplussed, having not expected the conversation to start this way, she replied, "Um… well, he was a vigilante in Paris a few decades back. He went after everyone from corrupt government employees to big criminals. Until his capture several years later, he had only been known to the public as 24601. He escaped before his trial, though, and Javert has been searching for him here in Corinthe for years…."
He nodded as she spoke, but didn't immediately reply when she was finished.
Taking advantage of his silence, and glancing pointedly at the time on her phone, she asked, slightly suspiciously, "Why, Papa? What has that got to do with you?"
He supposed he took too long searching for the words, trying to decide how best to reveal himself to her.
"You're Jean Valjean," she said, too impatient to wait for him to speak. It was not a question.
He looked at her then, meeting her eyes, unable to help but worry about how she would receive the news. To his astonishment, she didn't look surprised. She just regarded him a little warily, as though she was seeing him for the first time. He realized that he was essentially a stranger to her, and although it hurt him a bit, he couldn't blame her.
He nodded. "Yes," he affirmed. "Yes, I'm Jean Valjean."
Cosette nodded, digesting the information for a long, tense moment. "So the name Fauchelevent…?"
"Your Uncle Robert was, in fact, a man whose life I saved back in Paris. He became a friend, over the years, and when I escaped prison, he helped me forge an identity as his brother Jean Fauchelevent, and get me here, to Corinthe."
Cosette nodded again. Her cool detachment unnerved and disquieted him. He hoped it was only shock, nothing more, though she seemed unwilling to meet his eyes.
"And my mother?" she asked after a moment.
Valjean felt a pang in his heart. "I loved her very much, Cosette," he told her seriously. "Your biological father left you two when you were a toddler. I loved Fantine from the moment I met her to the moment she died. Even now, I still love her. There was never anything false about my feelings for her."
"Did she know? About you, I mean?"
"Yes, she did. I told her the truth before we were married. She married me anyway," he said, unable to keep a small smile from his lips.
When Cosette did not respond, staring at the ground in contemplation, he hesitantly told her, "She didn't want you to know until you were older, if at all. When I lost her… When I became your only parent, I had to make the decision on my own, and I chose to protect you. The best way I knew how was to keep you in the dark. I did it because I love you, because you're my daughter and you're the most important thing in my life. You have been since she introduced you to me."
Whether or not she heard him, Valjean could not tell. She merely asked, "What about my father?" She must have caught sight of his pained expression stemming from how deeply her unintentional comment had cut him, and she quickly amended, "My biological father?" She still refused to look him in the eye.
"He never knew a thing. He was gone long before I was in your lives. Last I knew of him, he was working for the policier de Corinthe. He didn't even come to Fantine's funeral," he couldn't help but add contemptuously.
Yet again, Cosette's only response was to nod as the information sunk in. And then she was abruptly standing, pulling on her coat and scarf. "I have to go now," she said, turning away from him and taking large strides towards the door.
Valjean stood and followed her, holding it open as she stepped out onto the porch. "Be careful, Cosette. I love you."
At the last moment, she turned and looked at him, never quite meeting his eyes. "Thank you… Papa," she told him quietly, unsurely, before turning on her heel and hurrying on her way.
His stomach churned with stress and hurt and fear as he watched her walk away, wondering if she would even come back, or if she was walking away for good, lost to him forever.
As soon as she was out of sight, Valjean closed the door, turning and taking the stairs two at a time. He entered his room, pulled a large painting of the Paris skyline off the wall, and opened the wall safe behind it. He pulled his handgun from inside, double checking the safety, before slamming the door closed as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and replacing the painting that hid it.
Cosette was involved in something; Valjean didn't know what, exactly, but he had his suspicions. Whatever it was, she was in danger; there were vicious people in this city willing to ruthlessly cut down anyone in their way. He would die before he saw his daughter hurt. If he had to become Jean Valjean again to protect her, he would do it.
He grabbed his keys and his jacket, and closed and locked the door behind him, heading off after Cosette, towards the Metro which would take him, too, to the funeral.
Enjolras stood on the top of a closed office building, dressed as the Revolutionary, flanked by a masked, blue-clad Combeferre on his right and hooded, dark grey Courfeyrac on his left.
Several stories below were thousands and thousands of people, lined tightly on each side of the street, pressed back into the narrow, old alleys and nearly flush against the closed storefronts. Despite the sheer numbers, it was eerily quiet. The people waited in near silence, and from their vantage point on the top of the building, all the trio could hear was the gentle rustling of the trees mixed with unintelligible whispers, carried to them on the wind like loose leaves in a breeze.
Despite his stoicism and outward calm, Enjolras' heart was pounding in his chest with anticipation. This was it. There was no going back. Adrenaline was already pumping through him, and it was all he could do to stay still, breathe steadily. Still, his fingers twitched and rubbed together at his sides, and his muscles were tense, ready.
After what seemed like hours, though it was likely only a few short minutes, the funeral procession rounded a bend and came in full view of them as it crawled slowly up the boulevard. The three vigilantes watched, each doing their best to push down their impatience, until it was nearly below them.
Enjolras held up his left hand, and felt, rather than saw, Courfeyrac pull an arrow from his quiver and nock his bow. To his right, he heard a match flare to light, struck against the rough stone of the flat roof, and suddenly the arrowhead was on fire.
"On my mark," Enjolras murmured, voice deadly calm.
Courfeyrac drew the string, and the bow quietly creaked as he took aim.
They only needed to wait a few more seconds, before the black, horse-drawn carriage serving as General Lamarque's hearse, was directly below them.
"Fire," Enjolras ordered, hearing the twang of the string loosing the arrow before he even finished the word.
It stuck in the building opposite them, and immediately the fire on the arrow grew into a blazing trail that traveled the whole side of the building - even over the windows. Just an instant later, the boys on the roof and the crowds below were greeted with the entwined ABC insignia of Les Amis, burning brightly for a few seconds before dying, leaving the charred symbol behind on the building like an ugly scar.
The procession stopped, and for a long, blissful moment, there was complete, stunned silence. Then, somewhere far off, police sirens blared to life, and chaos ensued.
"Be careful, my friends," Enjolras told them, before running and jumping over the side of the building and onto the fire escape, leaping gracefully from landing to landing.
He was on the ground in only a matter of seconds, and the people nearest him screamed at the sight of him, or took photos, or fled. All parted for him as he approached the carriage and climbed on top, standing at the head of Lamarque's coffin.
Enjolras' text this morning had said nothing besides the junction of two streets. Eponine had assumed that's where he wanted her to stand - god, she couldn't even go to the funeral like a normal civilian in peace without him attempting to control her - and had showed up early enough to be able to push through the crowds, right to the front.
She waited impatiently, wondering what was so important about this spot, an oversized hoodie hiding as much of her leather suit as possible and the hood pulled up over her face. Luckily, it was long and baggy enough to cover partway down her thighs, and hide the guns and ammo that were nestled in their holsters on her hips.
Finally, the funeral procession could be seen coming around the bend. The conversation of the people in the crowd around her died down as the large black carriage approached. It was drawn by four white horses, and covered in white lilies. The coffin itself was mahogany, raised high for all to see, and draped in the Corinthian flag (the city's seal on the same field of blue, white, and red as the French flag). A squadron of soldiers marched silently behind him, bearing flags, followed by a limousine that carried his wife and family. Behind the limo were police, led by Chief Inspector Javert himself, sitting tall in the saddle of a white horse and surveying the crowds around him closely.
Suddenly, people were screaming and buzzing around her. Someone was shoved into her, pushing her farther out into the street than she wanted to be. A soldier glanced at her, and Eponine quickly backed into the crowd again, not wanting anyone to see her face for too long.
She followed the gaze of so many others, and managed to catch sight of the burning insignia of her allies. It blazed for a few moments, before abruptly fading to no more than a shadow that seemed permanently emblazoned onto the wall. She couldn't help but be impressed, wondering who had managed to paint the flammable ABC onto the side of a several-storied building. She was even more impressed with Courfeyrac's marksmanship, and she could see the arrow he had shot stuck fast in the stone at the edge of the burn.
Then there was shoving again, and the crowd seemed to almost spit out the Revolutionary. He easily vaulted onto the roof of the hearse, next to the encased body of the general. Even with all of the panic around her, every eye in the vicinity was trained on him.
Eponine watched him place a tender hand on the coffin, sharing a private moment with his deceased idol, before turning to the crowds. His blue eyes blazed beneath his red mask and the golden curls that were only just visible beneath his black hood burned as bright as the fire had as he looked around at the people, who stared back at him with awe and fear.
Two others among Les Amis seemed to melt out of the crowd, one on each side of the street, and they approached the driver of the coach. The horses pranced and nickered nervously, despite the blinders on the sides of their eyes. Suddenly, the hearse sprung forward again, though it hardly even jolted the statuesque Enjolras.
"People of Corinthe!" the Revolutionary shouted. His voice seemed lower, and she realized he was using something to disguise it. She imagined the others were as well. "Join us! Honor General Lamarque, honor our savior! He fought to set us free from corruption, from those who would keep us enslaved, and he died doing it! Now the rest is up to us! Join us, Corinthe, join us! For our freedom! For Lamarque!"
She could see the police running forward towards him as he spoke, and, despite the fact that nearly anyone from the Patron-Minette could be here and recognize her beneath her hood, she knew she had to do something or he would be caught.
As she debated, she recognized other hooded and masked figures appearing on the edges of the crowd, before rushing toward him. The rest of Les Amis had joined them. That was all she needed.
Eponine grabbed the two people closest to her, and, before they even knew what was happening, pulled them into the street with her.
It was as though a wave had broken, then, as people on both sides began spilling into the streets, behind the hearse and in front, taking up the chant, "Lamarque! Lamarque!" as they went. She looked behind her, relieved to see that the advance of the police had been completely cut off by the mob. She could barely see the limo, though the flags of the military squadron stayed even with the parade as it slowly advanced.
They went nearly half a kilometer like this, the people of Corinthe, chanting for the Man of the People, honoring him in death as he had honored them in life, united with Les Amis. A few of the boys had climbed onto the sides of the hearse with the Revolutionary, but they paled in comparison to him.
His red cape flapped behind him in the breeze like a flag as he led the chanting, quite like a general himself leading his troops into battle. The image of him winded her as she walked just behind the carriage.
But all too quickly, the procession came to a halt and the chanting in the front faded, replaced with panicked screaming and chaos.
As the crowds parted, people running for the side streets and alleys, she saw that the road in front of them was blocked.
Not by police or soldiers of any kind, but by two lines of heavily armed, rough-looking men, dressed in all manner of clothes save the identical ski masks that covered all of their faces.
Louis-Philippe's personal, civilian police force: the Patron-Minette.
Most terrifying of all, though, was the man at the very center of the front line. He was significantly larger than the rest, and dressed in what appeared to be some sort of armored black suit. His head was covered in a black helmet that revealed only his eyes and mouth and jaw. He grinned dangerously at the Revolutionary as the carriage halted.
The rumors that had been reported for weeks were true, then. The Patron-Minette had a human weapon of their own, clearly meant to be the answer to Les Amis.
She turned and ran for the nearest alley, climbing and climbing until she found her way to the roof. It would not do to be caught among them, but at least from here she could watch.
Dread twisted inside of her; the boys weren't prepared for this. Not to mention, Cosette had unmistakably been among them, and she was no fighter at all. Eponine hoped that she had run with the rest of the crowds.
She was able to pick out Musichetta from her womanly figure alone, and Jehan and Courfeyrac from their weapons. The rest, she couldn't figure out, as all of them were hooded and masked. She desperately watched what appeared some kind of exchange between Enjolras, still atop the hearse, and the Patron-Minette.
He abruptly left his place to face the threat head-on, and as soon as he was off, the hearse turned and thundered down the nearest street, nearly running over one of the Amis in the process. The street cleared, they lined up on either side of Enjolras, measuring up the men in front of them just as they were equally measured.
Eponine held her breath, nearly unable to contain her fear for her friends as they faced what would surely be their undoing.
Suddenly, simultaneously, they scattered, darting away in several directions, too fast for the gunmen, who started firing after them.
Rage built inside her then, and she nearly reached for her own guns. There were still innocent civilians in the streets that could be caught in the crossfire! She understood that Enjolras must have been stalling as long as he could to allow the people to clear out, but there were still many around.
The sirens were much closer, and the gunmen also scattered, with the Big Bad barreling off after the Revolutionary.
Moments later, several cop cars rounded the corner, and a riot police van pulled up as well, and she stood. It was time to disappear. Luckily, Enjolras and several others had run towards her side of the street, and she turned and followed after them, leaping from roof to roof, thankful that they were flatter in this part of the city and less like the Parisian style tin roofs found in older parts.
From her vantage point, she was able to follow the lumbering Big Bad to an empty, run down building on the edge of the arrondissement. Scaffolding lined the facade, and abandoned tarps and equipment littered the renovation's worksite, temporarily closed for Lamarque's funeral.
He ran inside, presumably after the Revolutionary, and a few moments later, several other men of the Patron-Minette caught up and followed him inside.
Eponine could not go in without compromising herself, so she had no choice but to wait on the roof of the building across the narrow street. She kept her hood pulled over her face, but had pulled her guns from their holsters on either of her hips, ready should she be needed. She didn't know how many of Les Amis were inside, nor did she have a sniper's rifle - which would help them more than a pair of handguns - but she was there if they needed her.
The street outside was eerily silent for a few long minutes, and had she not seen them all go inside, she would have thought the building empty.
But all of a sudden, gunshots sounded, repeatedly, evenly, clearly from an automatic rifle, and one of the Patron-Minette ran from the door.
Her heart was pounding, and she was halfway to the edge of the roof, intending to go down and hide around the side of the building, where her aim would be more precise should she be needed, when what sounded like a large, close clap of thunder sounded.
Eponine turned just in time to see all the glass blown out of the windows, followed by massive, booming fireballs that exploded from each empty orifice. The sheer force flung her to her back, several feet away from where she had been standing, and a wall of heat hit her where she lay, momentarily stunned.
As soon as her breath and her wits returned, Eponine rolled over, not even bothering to stand, but crawling back to the ledge of the roof, her guns abandoned several feet away. Her heart was pounding in her throat and she realized that she was screaming, though the noise was drowned out by the burning fire.
For a few heart wrenching moments that lasted entirely too long, nothing happened.
But then, someone stumbled out.
Her heart sank; it was one of the Patron-Minette. Belatedly, she reached for a gun, but by the time she had retrieved it and returned to the ledge, the man had been cut down. The unmistakeable figure of Jehan was staring down at the man writhing beneath him, a single katana in his hand. His arm was around someone else - she couldn't tell whom - supporting them, and just as she had been about to try screaming at them to run, it appeared they came to their senses, and they disappeared.
They trickled out slowly, a few at a time; first a couple Patron-Minette, who grabbed their fallen comrade, then two more of Les Amis.
Still, there was no sign of the Big Bad or, more importantly, Enjolras. Eponine's heart pounded frantically in her throat, and she vaguely became aware that something on her face was bleeding, but there was no pain and the adrenaline and panic quickly made her forget.
Four of Les Amis had emerged, but she had no idea how many had entered, just that Enjolras surely must be among them, to have drawn in the Big Bad and so many Patron-Minette thugs.
She waited with baited breath, prepared to wait for hours, if necessary, as somewhere in the distance a fire engine went off, then another, then two more. The would be here soon, and the police. Perhaps she should go in -
No! There he was, stumbling out of a blown-out window on the first floor, his hood fallen and revealing the golden curls that glinted in the firelight. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and turned back toward the building. It seemed almost as though he was going back inside, but then he was helping - oh no - he was helping to lift someone through.
He nearly fell under the weight of whoever it was, and Eponine's heart dropped with a deep foreboding. A third Amis leapt down from the window ledge, kneeling down to lift the body over his shoulder, and the three limped across the street.
Get him and get out of here, the police are coming! Eponine willed, but instead, they carefully laid the body down. She watched as Enjolras pulled the hood off and her stomach clenched. She thought she would be sick.
It was the distinctive bald head of Bossuet. Her heart sunk and tears built in her eyes as Enjolras and the third, who had pulled down his hood - it was Bahorel, she belatedly realized - began CPR. It was hard to see, as she was several stories up and they were partially obscured by the awning of a building, but she could tell they were frantic.
The sirens were closer, however, and she saw both boys exchange words, slumping their shoulders in defeat and heartbreak.
Bahorel reached out, placing a hand on the boy's bald head, and Enjolras leaned forward, appearing to bury his face in Bossuet's chest. For a long, quiet moment, they remained like that. But a siren sounded, only a few blocks away, and it seemed to wake them.
Suddenly, to Eponine's horror, they were stripping Bossuet's body - his mask, his weapons, as much of his suit as they could get, leaving him only in his leather pants, boots, and a sooty, burned, white t-shirt. With a last look at their fallen friend, they turned and ran.
Eponine wanted to go to Bossuet, to see if he was perhaps still alive and they had left him for the paramedics to find, or to just wait with him.
But she was armed, and in her suit, and given her reestablished position in the Patron-Minette, could not be allowed to be found with the body of one of Les Amis. Still, it didn't seem right to leave him there, and Eponine found hot tears streaming down her face and mixing with her blood. She remained torn, but when a fire engine turned loudly down the street from whence she and the others had come, she felt forced to leave him, telling herself he would be well taken care of by the firemen.
She turned and ran then, allowing the cool air - chillier the further she got from the inferno - to dry her face as she ran from roof to roof.
Eventually, the roofs became less flat and more slippery, and she was forced to descend. She kept her hood up, hiding her face in shadow as she walked, taking only side streets and back alleys. She didn't want to be found, not by police or by her father's people. She didn't entirely know what to do with herself, but finally decided that it was probably best to make some kind of appearance at her temporary, tiny apartment, just in case there was someone still there watching her.
Tears were still falling as reality began to crash down. Bossuet. Dear, sweet Bossuet, with his witty puns and bad jokes, his terrible luck and unbridled optimism and clumsy habits. It was all she could do to not completely break down there on the sidewalk. She hadn't even known him that well, but she had grown fond of all of them over the past several weeks. The knowledge that someone so bright and so sweet and promising was gone broke her heart and coaxed out memories that she had worked years to bury deep in her mind.
Eventually, tears of mourning gave out to tears of anger, as she remembered how he had died, and how Enjolras and Bahorel had stripped him of everything they could, like new-age grave robbers or something, and then just left him there, all alone, as though he meant nothing. The sheer coldness of it surprised her - even the chilly Revolutionary, she had believed, wasn't capable of such a heartless act. For all his flaws and misguided plans, he had always seemed to value his friends more than anything else. The act had left her angry and reeling, and she wondered if he cared about them at all, or was merely good at pretending.
Yet despite her shock, Eponine understood; in fact, she would have done the same. Firefighters and police would have arrived only moments later, and the dead weight of a huge man would have slowed them down, possibly enough to be caught. The only option was to remove anything from his person that could possibly connect him to Les Amis, because if that happened it was game over. It would take a matter of days to narrow down his connections and identify the others. Plus, what would they have done with the body? Far better that he was found by authorities so he could be given a proper funeral and treated with the respect he deserved. Better that his friends and family got to say goodbye, got to remember him as an innocent man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The war for Corinthe had begun, she reflected with a heavy heart, and had claimed its first victim.
Eponine had taken her time to shower and change. Part of her felt an increasing sense of urgency and dread - what if Bossuet hadn't been the only one to fall? They had split up, after all - yet the other part of her wanted to stay away from the Musain and Les Amis as long as possible. Going there would make it all real.
The only motivation she had at all was the prospect of seeing Azelma and Gavroche. Even though she had only been back with the Patron-Minette for a few short days, she missed them and worried about them down there.
So she dressed herself, cleaned the wound on her eyebrow that had bled so profusely, and, taking a deep breath, left her crappy little apartment.
A short while later, after ensuring that there was no way anyone could have followed her (assuming she was still being tailed today in all the chaos), she was following the now-familiar path that would take her to these people that had, all too quickly, become so important in her life.
She was nearly running by the time she reached the entrance to the Musain, and burst in, only to be immediately disappointed to see that the place was nearly abandoned.
Azelma, hearing her footsteps, turned as she approached, and cried out her name in relief, vaulting off the couch and running into her arms. Gavroche followed, plowing into the two of them. Over their shoulders, Eponine could see Enjolras, slumped in a chair, staring down at the ground without seeing. Feuilly was there as well, on the couch, watching them despondently.
"We've been so worried about you," Azelma told her, pulling away.
"I'm fine," Eponine replied softly. "I wasn't involved, I was only there to observe."
She walked towards the boys, feeling a degree of apprehension as she approached Enjolras.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to them, feeling her throat tighten. "I'm so sorry about Bossuet."
Enjolras just flinched at the name, head bowed so she couldn't see his face.
It was Feuilly who responded. "Thank you, Eponine."
She turned to face him. He was on the couch, between her siblings, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Azelma was flush against him, her arm rubbing comforting circles on his back as she gazed at him with sadness and concern. Gavroche was curled, looking just as depressed.
Eponine looked around for anyone else, but the only other person she saw was Grantaire, fast asleep on one of the cots in the corner. An empty bottle was overturned next to him, and his hand hung down near its neck, as though he had passed out holding it. She did not blame him, almost envied him, in fact, for drowning his pain this way.
"Where is everyone else,?" she asked, unable to keep the urgency and fear bottled within any longer.
"Gone. They went home." It was Enjolras who had replied, but he still didn't look at her. Relief flooded her as she realized that everyone else had made it back.
"I don't think you should be in here right now, Enjolras," she remarked uncertainly.
"Someone needs to stay here with your brother and sister," he snapped, finally looking up at her with a withering, bitter glare.
Eponine was shocked into silence. His face was blotchy, his eyes red.
"I'm staying," Feuilly murmured. "I'm staying with Azelma… and Gavroche," he added belatedly, but Eponine understood. He was in pain, and Azelma's empathy was the only thing helping him.
"Come on, Enjolras," she gently urged, placing a hesitant hand on his forearm. "They'll be fine. You need some time away from here."
They walked in silence. Enjolras seemed to be in his own world, and eventually she had to weave her arm through his just to keep him moving. The streets were not a safe place for either of them right now, and she needed to get him someplace safe.
She realized, belatedly, that she was heading toward her real apartment out of habit. She cursed under her breath, but it seemed to slightly shake Enjolras from his reverie.
"Joly and Musichetta and Bahorel went back to their own place," he explained monotonously. "Joly and Chetta wanted to spend some time alone where they spent the most time with him…."
She unlocked the door with shaking fingers, as Enjolras silently waited, still staring off into the face of someone Eponine couldn't see. She gave him a light push inside, then shut the door behind her, locking it and shedding her winter jacket.
"Go lay down," she ordered after he had removed his own coat, before heading into the kitchen.
A minute later, she reemerged with two glasses and a nearly full bottle of whiskey, following him into her bedroom. She supposed he could have chosen Azelma or Gavroche's rooms, too, but considering all that had passed here when he had nearly died, her room was probably the most comfortable and familiar for him. Which was weird, because, honestly, she had tried her hardest to make it just the opposite.
But there he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the window but staring at the floor, shoulders drooping in defeat and heartbreak.
She padded quietly across the floor, moving to the window sill and perching herself against it so he would see her and know she was there. She doubted he would have noticed her presence otherwise, so lost in his own mind was he.
Eponine cleared her throat, and Enjolras look up at her, startled.
"Whiskey?" she asked, showing him the bottle.
He nodded and reached forward, taking the bottle from her before she even had a chance to put the glasses down to pour. "Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow conscripted to the French Foreign Legion, like your grandfather," he murmured as he removed the cap, tossing it over to her nightstand, and took a long swig, shuddering as it went down. Then another, and another.
She got the distinct feeling that he wouldn't regret being swept away forever if the French Foreign Legion was still a thing; leaving everything behind would help him forget. Obviously that was what he wanted.
Finally, he met her gaze, offering the bottle back to her. She shrugged, setting down the glasses on her dresser to be promptly forgotten, and remarked, "Just my style, then," before tossing back the contents for herself.
It burned down her throat, sending fire into her nose and stomach, and she realized she hadn't eaten since morning. However, she had no appetite, and the thought of food just overwhelmed her. She took another long drink and handed the bottle back to him.
"Are you alright?" she finally asked, watching closely as he drank deeply again.
Enjolras shrugged, looking back down at his hands, clutching the neck of the bottle so tightly his knuckles turned white.
She leaned forward, gently prying the bottle from him, taking another drink before placing it next to the forgotten glasses.
"It shouldn't have been him," he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear. "It shouldn't be any of them…."
Eponine sighed. "I know," she sympathized. "I'm sorry. It's never easy, and… well, it just sucks. Every time."
Enjolras looked up at her. He looked exhausted and broken, sitting there on her bed, eyes rimmed red and brimming with tears. "Yeah," he agreed lamely.
She didn't know what to say then, so she picked up the bottle and took another swig before passing it to him.
"I-I was there, when the explosion…. I was on the roof of the building across the street. I nearly went in after you," she admitted.
His eyes traveled up her face, coming to a rest on the angry wound above her eye. "Is that when that happened?" he asked distantly.
She only nodded, and he seemed to shut down again. She wished she knew what to say to comfort him, even cheer him up, but she wasn't Azelma. She wasn't good with words, and never knew what to say.
"I know how you feel," she finally said. "I didn't know Bossuet that well, but I liked him very much. But you'll be okay, Enjolras. You can't do anything now but move forward."
"How?" he asked, staring somberly at the bottle.
She sat down next to him, placing a tentative hand on his forearm. It was meant to comfort him, to empathize with him, but he twitched under her touch as though she had burned him.
"You… you just move on. You learn to live with the pain, and eventually you get used to it. It takes time," she told him, taking her hand back and knotting her fingers in her lap. "Is this the first time you've lost someone?" she asked kindly.
"My grandmother died when I was little, but no one since then."
"Lucky you," she told him.
"You've lost someone, haven't you?" It was more of a statement than a question. "Last time I was here you told me you couldn't save everyone…."
Eponine took a deep breath through her nose, her eyes pricking as they always did when she had to remember. "Yes," she whispered.
For a long moment, Enjolras didn't speak. Then he said, "If you don't want to talk about it-"
Eponine cut him off by snatching the bottle from his hands and tossing back a long mouthful as she launched herself from the bed. Already, her legs were beginning to feel numb from the alcohol.
"You wanted to know why I hate my father so much," she hissed, gesturing at him with the bottle. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you why."
She took another long swig, and gagged when she swallowed, feeling bile and whiskey rise in her throat. She set down the bottle, breathing through her nose with her eyes closed, trying to prepare herself for the story and overcome the alcohol-induced nausea.
"Azelma and Gavroche aren't my only siblings," she announced, and she could see on his face that he knew where this was going. "In between them, though, were Sébastien and Antoine. Twins… Antoine was three minutes older, but Sébastien called all the shots. They were sweet little boys, mischievous and smart-mouthed and wonderful."
Feeling a lump forming in her throat, Eponine picked up the bottle again, taking another drink. Her head was feeling lighter and all her muscles seemed looser. The words seemed to come a little easier, and she was thankful. This was not an easy story to tell, and it was one she had kept to herself for years.
"I was only just sixteen. Azelma was thirteen, they were seven. Gavroche was still a baby, really, just three and a half. It was during the summer. I don't - I don't remember where I was. Probably out pick pocketing for my father. Maybe Azelma was, too, I don't know. My mother, well, she spent most of my childhood drunk on the bathroom floor or helping my father. The twins were playing outside the house, and they were kidnapped. Right there, in broad daylight, in the middle of the summer."
She tossed back another mouthful, trying to drown the lump in her throat and banish their smiling faces from her mind. "At the time, my father didn't yet have a monopoly on crime in the city. There were other families, and he was in the process of murdering most of them and absorbing their territories, but not without a fight.
"I don't know who it was who grabbed the twins. I never found out, didn't want to know," she continued. "My father insisted he was trying to find them, but he didn't seem too concerned. In fact, in a way, he almost seemed relieved," she spat the words out as though they tasted foul in her mouth, pacing as she talked, barely registering Enjolras' presence in front of her. She took another long drink, grimacing as the whiskey burned its way down her throat. "My mother was more drunk than usual, if possible, but my father kept right on up with his shit, business as usual. After two weeks, I took matters into my own hands. I tried everything - the police, a private investigator, many of my father's contacts, even some of my own…."
Her anger quickly gave way to broken grief as she stopped pacing, turning to Enjolras with eyes that didn't really see him. "I never found out what exactly happened to them. I couldn't bear it. I still wake up sometimes, dreaming that they were tortured - little seven-year-old babies, guilty of nothing at all, murdered to send a message to a man who wasn't slowed down for even a second. So I disappeared, and I took Azelma and Gavroche with me.
"I put them in new schools, created new identities for us, starting stealing. I was raised to get what I can take, and I found my place in the shadows. I found power there, I found acceptance, I found freedom. I became the Wolf, not my father, and I used the name to taunt him, knowing that he would never find me. When I saw him again, all that rage and pain that I had spent years burying deep in my mind came back up. I want nothing more than to kill him, Enjolras," she concluded fiercely, glaring with an intensity he thought she had lost during her story.
He stared at her for a long time. "I'm sorry, 'Ponine."
The grave sincerity was evident, both in his face and in his voice, though his use of a nickname was somewhat startling. She held the bottle back out to him as a sign of thanks. He swayed a bit as he knocked back another mouthful.
"You said you were sixteen when this all happened?"
She nodded.
"So, if you don't mind my asking, was that also when you were arrested for killing that man?"
She sat down gently next to him. "He found us. My father sent him after us. He tried to take me, and I killed him…. The police determined he was a kidnapper. They were astounded that I managed to kill him. Decided it must've been an adrenaline rush." She sounded almost amused.
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the sloshing of liquor as the nearly-empty bottle was passed back and forth. Then, very tentatively, Eponine raised her hand and placed it gently on Enjolras' shoulder, swaying from the effects of the liquor.
"I know it hurts, but I know what you're feeling, Enjolras."
He turned to look at her. "It should've been me," he murmured. "It should never be any of my friends. They didn't understand the cost of - just, it should've been me. Not Bossuet."
"No! Don't ever say that, Enjolras," she snapped in response. "You are this revolution. You started it, and it would fall apart without you. Your family needs you, your friends need you - especially now - and the people of Corinthe need you. Without you, there is no revolution."
She squeezed his shoulder as he scrunched his eyes tight shut against escaping tears, digging his palms into them as if to shut out the world, or perhaps just her words. "I just want to forget!" he exclaimed.
Eponine sat quietly for a moment, unsure of what do to. Comforting others, being all warm and empathetic, was not really her thing. So finally she did the only thing she could think of.
She stood, taking a drink, and came to stand in front of Enjolras. She gently took his chin in her hands and, rather dangerously, said, "Don't ever say that again, okay?" When he nodded miserably, she wiped the anguished tears from his cheeks as best she could.
Then she leaned down and kissed him.
It was tender and quick. When she pulled away, Enjolras was staring at her with a mixture of confusion and awe. He took the bottle from her hands, bringing it to his lips as he hoarsely asked, "Wha- what're you doing?"
She smiled grimly, running her fingers through his blonde curls. "Helping you forget," she replied, before leaning forward again to meet his lips.
This time, he hesitated for only a moment before lightly kissing her back, breaking away just long enough to put the whiskey on the nightstand. When he found her lips again, it was with significantly more fervor, as his hands snaked up her arms and hers knotted in his hair.
He was quick to pull her onto his lap, and she straddled him immediately, swiveling her hips as he moaned into her neck. They shed their clothes slowly, taking their time as they went, trying to overcome some of their uncertainties about each other, about what they were doing.
Finally, Eponine pulled him up the bed with her, almost amused by his hesitancy, wondering idly if he had had very many sexual partners before, given his propensity for work over play. As he settled between her legs, her thighs rose around his hips like doubts, and she wondered if maybe she shouldn't have instigated this after all.
Enjolras kissed her harder, and she knew instincts were beginning to overcome caution, though she noticed when she met his eyes how far away he seemed to be, as though he had gone away and only left a shadow of himself behind for her.
When she moaned his name into his chest, he pulled back, seeming somewhat startled, as though he had somehow forgotten she was there. Or perhaps he had just forgotten it was her. He stared for a moment, frozen, before managing to choke out, "Gabriel."
Confused, Eponine tried to rock against him to get him started again. "Enjolras!" she cried out, frustrated.
"My name is Gabriel," he told her. "Gabriel Enjolras."
She was surprised, but also a little flattered, that he had told her this. She had always wondered if those boys had actual first names, but she had never heard them call each other by anything simpler and, frankly, she had never really cared. Before tonight.
"Okay then," she sighed against him. "Gabriel it is."
For a moment, Enjolras looked pleased, but he was quick to shut down again.
He mostly kept his head buried in her neck, and when his increasingly frantic movements stopped - well before she was ready, she couldn't help but indignantly think - it only took her a moment to notice that her shoulder had become drenched, that he was shaking on top of her. Enjolras rolled off of her then, turning his back on her as he cried into one of her pillows.
Eponine was rather shocked for a moment, and honestly a little peeved, thinking perhaps he was crying because of the sex, but then she remembered Bossuet. Her annoyance immediately melted, and she felt truly sorry for him. Perhaps even a little affectionate as she realized how much emotion she must have drawn out of him in her attempt to help him forget reality.
So she moved towards him, pressing herself against his back, snaking her arm around his shoulder and kissing the back of his neck as comfortingly as she knew how. Being emotionally available to anyone besides her siblings was new to her, but somehow she felt that this would help. And it must have, for Enjolras was quick to roll over in her arms, pulling her tightly to him while he cried for his lost friend.
For Eponine's part, she held him silently, rubbing small, comforting circles on his back and arms, occasionally giving him a kiss. Eventually, he began to calm down, and the last thing she remembered before dropping off to sleep was the sloppy kiss he planted on her forehead….
Eponine woke sometime later to the sky just beginning to lighten behind the city. She was vaguely conscious of the fact that Enjolras was partially on top of her, kissing down her chest as his fingers explored her. She was quick to wake once she realized what was happening, and though she initially tried to take charge, this time it was he who was in control; in fact, she could barely keep up.
It was different this time. He was rough with her, not necessarily as rough as he could have been - nor, indeed, as rough as she might have preferred - but whereas last time was all emotion and uncertainty, this time was intensity and anger. He was full of rage now, and the way he chose to take it out - on her, no less - was nothing short of intoxicating.
Eponine realized she liked him like this, when he took charge so fully that she could do nothing but let him control her. It was a complete change from who he had been just a few hours before, and, when they were finished, she slowly began to understand that Enjolras was so much more than the man she had originally taken him for.
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