Éponine is sitting against the wall, one leg drawn up to support the book she is currently bowed over, and leaning in closely enough that her hair obscures her face and the way her teeth are clamped firmly over lower lip in concentration.
Occasionally she will stop to contemplate some feature, and run her thumb over one part or another, smudging out charcoal lines and writing them in clearer.
She is focused so intently on the sketch that she barely notices the talk around her. Éponine is curious, and yet, she does not want to be distracted from this task.
To say that Joly was surprised to see her is an understatement, but she cannot put words to the mix of emotions that crossed his face when she peered out from behind Enjolras.
(She wonders, briefly, whether her disguise was so poor to gain her near-instant recognition, or whether she naturally resembles the gamin she pretended to be.)
She wants to prove herself, to never inspire those looks that inspire such flashes of guilt.
So she acts the part of the whirlwind, with a deluge of rapid questions, requests for something to write on and with, remarks on how he seems to be in good health (she has learned never to insinuate the opposite with him), and, generally, avoiding the issue entirely, and that is how she comes to be sitting here, folded up with her thin notebook.
The book is not her own, but Joly's. It is blank, creamy paper beneath her fingers without question of repayment, and she makes a note to replace it for him, though she will certainly not be able to find one of this quality for him.
Trust is hard to come by for a gamine. It's natural, really – no one to inspire it, no one worthy of it.
But she thinks she trusts them.
So she sketches Paris in grays and blacks, sections of clearly-defined streets fading to boxes when it comes to the larger houses, the likes of which she has only entered in the company of the Patron-Minette, marking and remarking and trying not to pay attention to the conversation, trying not to still when Bossuet arrives, confusion at the sight of her plain without ever having to look up.
Instead she focuses on her work, smiling at another tale of misfortune cheerily conveyed before he slips easily into the discussion, and scratching in 'Montparnasse' along the line of a street.
And then she is finished.
It is barer here, but cleaner, most furniture save for a few crates traded in exchange for wallpaper that does not hang limp and faded. It creates a much more pleasant atmosphere, to be sure, but it means she cannot simply sit on a less rigid surface to wait for the end of their discussion – and their discussions run long.
So Éponine waits for the closest to a lull there is going to be, and she scurries closer to push the sketch towards them.
In the ensuing moment of quiet, she reaches to tap on a particular section, saying, "most of those who frequent this area are employed by some bourgeoisie or another. They don't take kindly to remarks that threaten their income."
She waits, and when she is not brushed aside, continues.
"Here–" A tap. "–they are too tired and too sick to listen to either side, but if action's to be taken, it's not a bad place to go after. And here–" Tap, tap, tap. " –they are neither too worn-down or loyal, and would likely be where your speeches would reach willing ears."
Bossuet is the first to speak. "Well, if it keeps us from another incident like the last time–" It sparks a discussion before he has finished this last syllable.
When Enjolras tosses her a look she cannot quite read, she fixes him with a smile and perches on the edge of a crate, settling in for the debates.
(She has fought for everything, clawed her way from the gutter and shed layers of argot, learned to steal and learned what to say to keep herself from most schemes, and it is hard to imagine a life where this could have been any other way, but sometimes she remembers lovely dolls, and curtseying to strangers, compliments and being cooed over, and she thinks she would have liked this life. It would have been nice to be… nice.
Perhaps she never grew into this other Éponine, but she thinks it might be possible for someone else to, with efforts like these.
And perhaps she might even take on a shadow of that girl she might have been, and become something more.
She will prove herself – she will be of worth – even if she must dredge up every inkling of ill-gained knowledge she possesses to do it.)
A/N: If anything seems particularly muddled throughout this, it is likely my clumsy attempts to incorporate bits of the Brick into it – which I have never fully read.
(I don't know where exactly I'm going with this anymore, hence the snail pace and lack of apparent plot. Still contemplating what would constitute a suitably impressive climax [or, how I would get to one] while matching the ending I have in mind, would leave enough time for romance to develop more fully without dragging beyond what could be considered realistic, and would not seem jarring. It is slow going.)
[Additionally, feedback regarding how in-character dialogue is always appreciated by my paranoid mind.]