Éponine runs her hands down her dress again, eyeing the crowd.
She has not yet become re-accustomed to wearing dresses, and even before the trip, she is especially unused to wearing dresses to such places as these.
It's not a good neighborhood, she thinks dryly.
But there's not much else she can do – she can't go dressed up as Julien Jondrette again. The get-up is too familiar, and the Amis might associate it with the many, many truths she kept from them.
So, for her purposes, the dress will suffice. It's plain, and ragged – bits and pieces of her old wardrobe make it up, with few truly new additions. The only thing that stands out is the bit of color tied around her waist, cloth that was once lavender. It helps her look softer apparently, in place of the leather belt. She's not fond of it. It's far too easy to grab hold of, and much less sturdy.
Approaching them all directly would be simpler, but of course, the ship left the harbor days ago.
However, Gavroche tells her that some remained behind – looking for sympathizers, stirring them up with speeches. (Attracting attention, more like, but at least they are trying to be somewhat discrete.) He'd given her the names of various establishments where she'd be most likely to succeed in her efforts, too.
She needs two audiences. Any of the Amis will work for the first, if she's successful, but the second means she will need to speak with Enjolras, and she cannot imagine that will go smoothly.
Actually, she can't image any of the meetings will go smoothly, and there is so much that could go wrong, but this is beyond her now – the situation is not looking good for them.
She'd found it odd, before. Pirates they may be, and ones that have certainly stirred up trouble, but enough for the Sentinel?
And then Gavroche told her what else they are wanted for.
Seems their benevolent intentions did not sit quite well with every crew. From what she could piece together, the deckhands on that cursed merchant ship decided that, rather than free those below, they would slay the lot and place the blame upon the Amis once they reached shore.
It does not matter that they had not done it. Who would believe their word? Who would believe that they steal from aristocrats to fuel their grand ideas, to raise up the people? Greed is a powerful motivator, after all.
And so, here she is.
From the sound of it, Combeferre's is making quiet speeches, and Courfeyrac is making the rounds here. Éponine can only catch snippets of conversation, but she admires the efforts. (Focusing on the injustices faced rather than on what the people are supposed to do certainly would win them over easier.)
One of the advantages, for gamin or gamine, is that very few people question their paths, or stop them. They become part of the scenery.
She slips away from the wall, meaning to search out Courfeyrac – and her plans change abruptly at the sight of curly black hair.
There is Grantaire, leaning against a post not far off from Combeferre.
The dress only does so much.
As she gets closer, she sees his eyes skip over her, then widen and return.
He frowns. "Julien?" he starts, and then his face closes off. She winces.
"Grantaire," she greets as he turns his gaze away. She knows he is still listening to her, and so she continues, lowly. "I made a mistake, and then more after that, but you have to listen to me."
Now she gets a moment of eye contact. "And why should we trust you?'
She's wondered this herself, wondered how to explain. "You shouldn't. Not really. After what I've done? Cutting all ties would be smarter. But I wish you wouldn't, because I know – it seems terrible, but I didn't want any of this to happen like this."
He is quiet, but at least he is looking at her. Éponine hisses out a breath between her teeth. It is not what she had planned. He is bitter, but more than she expected, and she tries to remember why, thinks back.
The glance over his shoulder to them, not gaping at her, and then earlier –
"You knew," she breathes, the words spilling from her lips. "You knew and you didn't tell him?" Realization dawns. "'What he doesn't know won't hurt him,'" she says softly.
He jerks his chin away. "Except it did," he mutters.
She winces. "Yeah. I didn't mean it to, I never – "
And another voice cuts in, one she recognizes. "Combeferre's just about made his point here, he thinks, and he's –"
Courfeyrac stops, eyes wide, gaze darting from her to Grantaire and back again. He sucks in a breath, and she breaks the silence before he can dart off. "Éponine," she tosses, "not Julien. Éponine. If you care to know."
He shakes his head and steps back.
"Wait a moment," she pleads. "Look, even if you don't trust me, even if you send me off, you – " They are watching her, hurt and betrayed, and she knows what she says here matters. She has never, never, never had such trouble with words, never had such trouble convincing, because isn't that what she does? Isn't that what she has been taught, all these years?
But she doesn't want to lie.
So she breathes in deep and tries for the truth. "They've got the Sentinel after you. They think you thieves and murders both, and would hang you at the first chance."
Courfeyrac's eyebrows shoot sharply down, and Grantaire no longer looks so at ease where he stands.
Éponine falters. She doesn't know what she expected – for everything to be fine and dandy again? To be beckoned back, made a part of the family? "Just… know that," she finishes quietly, and turns away. She cannot make them trust her.
And then there is a hand on her arm.
"Éponine. Wait."
They move quickly.
They've got to, of course – revolutionary leaders turned pirates can't stay in one place too long.
Yet, somehow, they can make speeches in disreputable places. She knows she must tread carefully still, yet her face twists up at hearing this. "What, are you mad? They'll catch him in a second, they will, if any one of that crowd is a pinch loyal to the crown."
Grantaire chuckles quietly at this, and the smile she gives feels blistering in its wideness as her heart aches.
They leave her to it – their appearance behind her would give her the air of solidarity, and they aren't sure whether they can actually trust her. She understands, and though that doesn't stem the unpleasant feeling in her gut, she
She can do this, right? Of course she can.
He is not hard to spot, though it may have been more difficult had she not been searching for him, as he did have enough sense to leave off the red coat.
Still, it is ridiculously easy to sneak up behind him.
Enjolras seems frustrated, but given the lackluster appearance of the crowd, it isn't hard to imagine why. They appear more interested in drinking themselves to a stupor than in hearing about all the ways they have been slighted.
She is almost, almost smiling as she leans in close and murmurs, "don't you remember? It'll take more than words to rouse this crowd."
He stiffens. Turns. "Mademoiselle, I – " And if she thought he was tense before, it is nothing compared to this.
"Jondrette," he greets tersely.
"Thénardier, actually." She executes a little half-curtsey, her eyes never once leaving his. "Funny how a name can change so much, isn't it?" But she didn't come here to dance around the issue. She will find some way to articulate this – this – this change of heart, as it were, find some way to explain that she has never seen someone seem so sure of themselves and the words they speak, that he is likely the most well-intentioned man to ever step foot in this room.
So she takes a step back and steels herself, lets the false sweetness bleed out from her voice. Honestly is what matters here, and she must not forget that. When she speaks again, her voice is low, and fragile. "Before the monsieur would condemn me completely, hear me out. I've about had my fill of secrets. I will… explain, if you permit it."
Mouth still set in a line, he scans her face. She holds her breath and offers him a wobbling half-smile, and whatever he finds there, he must deem her worthy. He nods.
"You will speak," he says quietly, "and I will listen."
And the smile of relief that breaks out on her face is genuine.
A/N: Made a few changes to chapter 8 – when she has just boarded the ship, if you're curious – which hopefully make it less… jumbled. Also: just watched Les Mis again, which helped with this a bit, but also maybe made some parts feel more disconnected.
(Those are the parts I wrote through my tears.)