Morning brings a stiff neck and aches in her back. It's no wonder, really – as she slept, her head flopped back against the bench, and she has curled into herself in an attempt at warmth.
Cosette seems to have had an easier time of it – at Éponine's urgings, she curled up on the bench. Éponine is, after all, used to uncomfortable sleeping situations. Still, she imagines they will both be sore after this.
The ability to choose her own sleeping arrangements will be a welcome change, she notes, but this thought brings little cheer.
She wiggles her fingers until they pop and unfolds herself slowly. The cell is not overly large, but she has enough space to stretch her legs, and so she walks.
When she is feeling more like herself, Éponine gathers her hair and knots it back, and it stays, caught on tangles. Undoing it will be a long and arduous process, but at least it keeps it from her eyes. She wishes for the obscuring qualities of her cap, but that is beyond her, now.
So she leans against a wall, crosses her arms, and waits.
Cosette wakes with a fluttering of eyelids, and a yawn that ends in a squeak. She sends Éponine a sleepy grin which fades when, the reality of the situation seems to dawn on her. "What do we do when they come?" she asks.
Éponine puffs out her cheeks, thinking of how best to phrase what she has been thinking. "Nothing," she admits. "We're going with their plan."
Cosette sends her an inquisitive look, and Éponine lets her head loll back against the wall before responding. "They know," she explains quietly. "They won't be waiting any longer than they have to, and they certainly won't be giving us any more of a chance to run. If we tried, it'd be… risky."
"But not if we go along with it." It's not exactly a question, and Éponine shakes her head, and pushes off from the wall to sit by Cosette. She cannot hear anyone outside the cell, but she knows this is not proof that they are alone.
"No," she says, "not if we go along."
They have little to say from there, but it is better for their nerves to talk, and so they make quiet conversation of silly plans.
Éponine would estimate they have been at this for an hour when they are sent for, and suddenly, there goes every attempt to still her nerves.
Bahorel is the one to bring them, and the silence that follows in their wake is strange.
Combeferre is the only constant, as the rest rush about making preparations. The bright flag has long since been lowered, and makes the ship look duller, somehow.
They are not above for long, but it seems to Éponine to take a lifetime though every averted gaze and, every set of pursed lips.
Grantaire makes as if to say something when he passes, pausing before her, but he turns away, and she finds that her own words fail her.
The sound of footsteps is her only warning, and then Enjolras stands before them. He looks worn-out, more than she's ever seen him, and his voice has an edge of something she doesn't like. "And now, mademoiselles, if you will but follow –"
And Éponine cannot bear this. "Please," she says a whisper the most she can muster, "don't do this. Please, I –"
He holds up a hand and keeps his gaze steady, and the words falter in her throat.
Her heart thuds uselessly, and her mind is eased little even when Cosette slides her hand into Éponine's in silent solidarity. A job gone wrong results usually in, in – in harsh words, or a slap across her face, or prison, sometimes, when she cannot run fast enough, but never in this.
Enjolras continues speaking, and his tone is clipped. "The carriage will bring you to Baron Pontmercy, and then you will have the freedom you so desire."
"Two for the price of one," she hears, and she tries not to notice the tinge of bitterness in his voice, and neither does she let herself note how Bossuet hesitates before nudging her forward, or the look on Courfeyrac's face – or how Enjolras won't even spare her more than a passing glance as he walks away.
They are led. Blindfolds are a bit too obvious for their purposes, she supposes, and so they are hurried as quickly as possible
They take too many turns to get there pass through too many alleyways to remain close to the docks.
She cannot say she is familiar with every twist and turn – Paris manages to keep a few secrets from her even after these years – but if there is a place of ill repute, there is a fair chance that Éponine will know of it, or of who runs it, or of who frequents it.
So she can guess the approximate location of this establishment by the few faces she recognizes, though its name escapes her.
A middleman is sent for, and bought, on both sides. She does not see the exchange take place, but she knows how these things work.
Courfeyrac and Bossuet leave them in the care of an aged gentleman who escorts them politely to a carriage. She wonders if they pay him more because he is one of those miserables they want so badly to elevate, or only what he asks for, given the unsavory nature of his job.
And then it's done. Like waking from a dream, Éponine has emerged from a world of boldness and bright ideas to the muted streets of Paris, where life surrounds but hides, life that is praised by the boys – too idealistic and hopeful to be called anything else – she has left behind.
She is home in these streets where she learned to run, to talk so as to be heard, to move so as to be ignored, but she feels far away.
Éponine is silent as the carriage begins its slow rumbling over stones, silent as the docks bleed away, silent as she lowers her head against her thoughts and tries to forget.
A/N: Bear with me for a bit I know what I'm doing (sorta)
(And thank you so much for the reviews, oh my goodness, it's so nice to hear your thoughts ;u; )