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Raising a heavy, tired arm, Thénardier groggily banged on the door of Bob's house. After a minute or two - during which Thénardier was continuously banging on the door and yelling incoherently for Bob to come out – Bob's thin, weasley face peered around the door.

"What d'you want? I'm not doing another one, two in two days?! You need to sort your girls out, Thénardier"
"Naah, you idiot, I don't wan' anotha one – an' watch yer attitude – I just wanna collect the las' one an' al be off"
"Collect the last one?"
"Yeah"
"She's gone. You were hours, and I'm not a nursing home."
"Gone where?"
"I've no idea!"
"Tha's my kid, you fuckin' idiot!" he roared "the last one left at home, only one with any fuckin' loyalty!"
"Oh, I thought she looked familiar! Sorry about that."
"SORRY?! WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?! THE MRS'LL MURDER ME WHEN SHE GETS OUT IF SHE 'EARS ABOUT THIS!"
For the first time, the visible slither of Bob's face looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, really. She won't have gone far, not in that state. Goodbye."

And with that, he slammed the door closed. Thénardier let out a roar, spewing curses and promises of revenge. But first, he needed to find Azelma. She wasn't as street smart as Éponine, so she wouldn't stay quiet. She knew far too much to be left alone.

Staggering angrily back towards home, he pulled out his phone. Time to make a few calls.


Éponine hung up her apron just before the meeting started and sat down in her usual spot between Courf and R at the now full table in the corner.
"Hey, Pony. How you doing?" Courf asked as soon as she sat down, the concern in his voice obvious.
"I'm ok thanks, Courf. How are you guys? Sorry I bailed so suddenly yesterday."
"You REALLY don't have to apologise for that, Pony"
Unsure what to say, she responded with only a small smile.
"You know what's great about wine, Pony?" Grantaire slurred, his philosophical tone showing no indication that Éponine hadn't been there the whole time.
Glancing at Courf with a grin, she replied "you know, R, I really want you to tell me."
"The great… the REALLY great thing about wine – there're a lot of great things about wine, but this one, right, is the best thing…. The great thing about wine is that it never wants difficult things from you, like it never wants you to paint a masterpiece, or fight for your country, or just get over the love of your life, or do something about poor people, or shower."
Her insides felt a lot more uncomfortable than they had a minute ago, but Éponine kept her smile firmly in place as she agreed "wine is great that way."
"It is, isn't it? Why do I even talk to people, when I have wine?!"
"If you'd asked yourself that this time last year, you'd have saved all of us a lot of time listening to your drunken ramblings." Apart from Grantaire, every member of the large group around the table looked up as the commanding voice of their leader cut across the conversation. Éponine's insides started to churn again, as the familiar gleam of mischief flashed across Grantaire's features at Enjolras' harsh tone. This wouldn't end well.
"My drunken ramblings are the most fun we ever have at these meetings" R cheerfully replied, taking a purposeful swig out of his bottle.
Enjolras' reply was dangerously calm "these meetings aren't about having fun."
"Clearly"
"If it is so boring for you to be here, feel free to leave."
"No, I think I'll stay, actually; the wine's good, the company is generally excellent…"
"Actually, why should we let you? Are you any good for anything?"
"I have a vague ambition in that direction"
"This is about changing the state of things, about believing in something, Grantaire and since you don't understand that –"
"Who says I don't understand that?!"
"You've made it pretty obvious you don't believe in anything –"
"I believe in you." Grantaire announced angrily, his dishevelled head rising to look at Enjolras for the first time.
A heavy silence fell across the café as the two men looked at each other; one confused, the other angry, and mildly embarrassed. Éponine's heart thumped wildly in her chest, unsure of what to do or feel, other than avoid eye contact with anyone.
"In that case you won't mind me starting the meeting?" Enjolras asked. All the anger had gone out of his tone, and his calm voice had been reinstated.
"Fire away." Grantaire grumbled, taking another swig of wine.

"Ok. Combeferre, do you want to run through what happened at the rally after we had to, erm… leave?"
"Sure" the sandy-haired man stood up and looked around at everyone with a gentle smile "We closed the rally yesterday with just a final word about what we wanted, and how everyone could help, and then we went out into the crowd to gather some feedback. Basically, yesterday's speeches were a huge success, with Éponine and Enjolras making particularly strong impacts on people. Pierre's support was invaluable, as most of the people there had heard about us either directly from him or from people who'd heard it from him. Everybody we talked to was in favour of the cause, and almost everyone we talked to said they'd be prepared to take major action if it was organised. So all in all: a success."
"Good. Good news. Now –"
"I propose a toast!" announced Courfeyrac, ignoring the irritable glare from Enjolras for interrupting and jumping up out of his seat, beer raised. "To Éponine, who not only helped make yesterday our most successful rally ever, but also came here to help MORE, even after probably the shittest day I can imagine. Everybody, drinks up please: to Pony, our favourite potty-mouthed, arse-kicking firecracker with a heart of gold and the voice of an angel!"
"TO PONY!" the Amis all shouted at the top of their voices. Éponine could feel a certain gaze on her as she shared a smile with Grantaire, knocking his (now almost empty) bottle with hers. When she was sure she wouldn't blush, she raised her head to meet the piercing blue eyes she felt burning into her skin. Shining above a slightly crooked, closed-mouth smile, they were filled to the brim with an emotion Éponine had rarely seen but knew immediately: pride.


He staggered into the cemetery, a tourist map clenched in his hand. It never stopped annoying him that the boy always insisted on meeting at specific graves. Who the fuck was Baltasar Lobo anyway? Finally locating the grave he needed, he stood impatiently in front of a statue of a mourning man.

A smooth voice from behind surprised him. "I thought you weren't coming for a minute there, old man."
The frustration rose in him again. "Well if ya didn't insist on a different bloody grave every time – an' less of the ol' man from you, ya little shit. I'm still ya boss an' al' be talked to like it."
A smirk graced the elegant features of the young murderer as he nodded his head at the grave. "Baltasar Lobo. Best known for his uplifting bronze sculptures of mother and child. I thought it seemed fitting… boss."
"Do you know where she is or not?" Thénardier snarled in response.
"Pitié-Salpêtrière."
"The 'ospital?" his stomach twisted in panic. What will she have told the doctors?!
"Your Éponine and her posh friends found her. One of them's a doctor there."
"Shit, what'll she 'ave said…" he spat out, running a grimy hand across his thinning hair. "'Ang on… 'Ow did Éponine know anythin'?"
Montparnasse shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, leaning casually against the neighbouring grave. "Nina's cleverer than she lets on. Probably has people looking out for trouble for her."
When Thénardier replied, his voice was low, filled with threat. "People? I 'ope ya don' mean you...?"
"I got what I wanted from Nina a long time ago. Nothing I want to keep her happy for now."
Thénardier considered for a second, the niggling doubt in his gut refusing to go away. "'Ow'd you get that black eye?"
The smirk was dropped. "I was punched."
"Not like you to lose a fight."
"You should see the other guy" Montparnasse replied smoothly. Thénardier regarded the boy for a second, internally debating with himself.

Naah, 'Parnasse wouldn't tell the girl. He owes me too much. A low chuckle rose from his belly. "I like ya, boy. I like ya… the 'ospital, ya say? Know any ward numbers I might need?"
"Oh, didn't I mention? She's not on a ward."
"What d'ya mean?"
"She's in the morgue."

She's dead? An unfamiliar sensation pooled in his chest, sending uncomfortable prickles along his spine and up his neck. My girl… dead?

Swallowing his weakness, Thénardier coughed. "No worries then."
"I suppose not."
"I'll 'ave to tell 'er motha… ah well. Can't be 'elped."
Montparnasse said nothing, his icy cold eyes motionless.
"Al see ya, Montparnasse. Good work on the er… fact-findin'"
"Bye… boss."


Grantaire loved to watch Enjolras speak: the fire crackling in his eyes, the passion spilling out of him into his very movements; every gesture filled with belief and meaning. When he spoke, Enjolras exuded a quality that the cynical Grantaire deeply admired, a quality that reached into his soul and made him sit up and just look. He'd tried desperately over time to represent the feeling on paper – usually in the form of some avenging angel, rising up to fight for the shapeless, undeserving people below – but could never quite replicate it. He supposed the mystery of it was what tied him to the beautiful man at the head of the table; it kept him coming back, day after day, unable to let go. Grantaire was an addict, it was true, but not in the way they all thought he was. Despite every cutting remark, every disinterested sneer, he craved basking in the beautiful revolutionary's glow with every fibre of his being. Simply put, he loved him. And there was no moving on from that.

And yet, something about today was different. It was partly that Grantaire felt different – maybe it was the events of yesterday, but for some reason he wasn't in the mood today. But it was partly something else: something in Enjolras had changed – the glow was more powerful, and somehow fundamentally different – and Grantaire couldn't figure out why or how… and it pissed him off.

It didn't help that an hour later they hadn't moved from that table. Discussions over their next move had been typically extensive, but not hugely productive.

It also didn't help that he was out of wine.

He looked over at Éponine, her face staring straight across from them as she watched the meeting unfold. Gently nudging her bare shoulder (why does she never dress for the fucking weather? A fucking tank top, it's January for Pete's sake!) he whispered "Are you as done with this as me?"
Hiding a smirk, she glanced over to Enjolras for a second, before turning to look at him again. "Yep."
"Are they talking more than usual today, or are we being bitchy?"
"I think maybe both" she replied, laughing under her breath.
Some disruption was in order, and Grantaire's mind whirred with the possibilities. "Sidekick?" he offered, a challenging eyebrow raised, his whisper filled with amusement and mischief.
Once again, Éponine looked guiltily over at Enjolras; this time lingering a little longer before turning her gaze back around. "Sidekick" she agreed with a grin.

They both looked over at Enjolras again, who was continuing his argument, oblivious. "– The important thing is making a statement, without attracting too much attention. Pierre should help with that by –"
"Hey, Enjolras?" Grantaire piped up, careful to fill his voice with innocence. Silence fell as Enjolras turned to fix those inconsiderately beautiful blue eyes on him.
"Yes, Grantaire? Do you have a question?"
"Yes. You know if we actually succeed with all of this?"
"Not if, when" Enjolras snapped back.
"Sorry, when… what'll happen to all the people in the government?"
"I don't see how this is relevant to our discussion."
He decided to push his luck. "So you don't know what'll happen to them?"

A collective breath was taken in by the group, amused and wary expressions suddenly fixed on the two of them. The tension had woken everybody up: the Amis were all sitting up straighter in their seats, Feuilly had looked up from his "notes" (he'd actually been doodling fan designs, not that Enjolras needed to know that), and even Musichetta was openly listening from her position behind the bar.

"They will be tried by the people, according to French law, for their varying levels of complicity in the oppressive regime of Bêcheur." Enjolras replied, his tone determinedly level.
"So who'll run the country?" he asked, surreptitiously nudging Éponine to get her to join in. "Will you be in charge?"
"Oooh President Enjolras" Éponine suggested cheerily, ignoring the furious glance sent her way. "No – KING Enjolras"
"Yes! King Enjolras!" Grantaire agreed. "We'll need to adapt the national anthem – LET'S GO CHILDREN OF ENJOLRAS, THE DAY OF GLORY HAS ARRIVED…" he sang loudly and tunelessly, puffing out his chest with a fist over his heart.
"I am NOT going to be the king" Enjolras was visibly annoyed now, he'd crack any minute…
A cheeky voice from across the table surprised Grantaire: Courfeyrac had caught on. "Who's going to be the King, then?"
"THERE WON'T BE A KING."
"YAAAAAY! NO KING, NO KING, NA NA NANA NAAAAAAA!" The three of them chanted, sing-song voices rising from wide smiles, their arms waving like disco-dancing 8-year olds.
"WILL YOU SHUT UP?!" Enjolras shouted. Grantaire's eyes met Éponine's, then Courfeyrac's. BINGO.
"We just want to know the plan for if – oops, sorry, when – we're done" Grantaire replied, eyes wide with false innocence. "You know, if this meeting ever ends."
"It won't if you don't shut up"
"Ooooooh burn!" Éponine teased, a grin lighting up her features. Enjolras shot her a furious glare, but she didn't even blink. That's my girl he thought with satisfaction. Tough little Pony, smiling in the face of deliberately inflicted righteous irritation.

When Enjolras continued, his dignified voice was laden with unspoken threats. "I suggest you retreat back into your bottle, Grantaire. Or better yet, go off somewhere and sleep yourself sober."
"Back to the bottle? What an excellent idea!" he replied, chirpily. Raising his bottle to eye-level, he saw that it was empty. "Hmm." He stood up and turned to face the bar, bottle raised triumphantly. "Musichetta! Merlot me!"
"I'm out of your Bordeaux I'm afraid, Grant. Delivery tomorrow, though." The barmaid apologetically responded.
Sinking to his seat dramatically, Grantaire announced haughtily "I hate the human race." The tension was diffused as the group laughed, before starting cheerful conversations amongst themselves. Enjolras sighed, running an exasperated hand through his hair before sinking into his seat, defeated. As the handsome leader turned his attention to the conversation that Combeferre and Jehan were having, Grantaire's attention was diverted by Éponine ruffling his curls affectionately. He winked at her conspiratorially. Mission accomplished.


Ok, this one was fun to write. Sassy R is my favourite R.

Please review, it really makes my day!

There should be an update in the next week, I want to get another one in before I go and see Les Mis in the West End next Friday (EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!).

In other news, 50 favourites and over 100 follows?! I can't actually believe my luck, your support means the world, guys. I mean it :) Thank you all so, so much, I hope I can live up to it!

As ever, much love to you all x