"How many of you have suffered?"
She has clambered atop a table for her speech, visible from nearly any area in the bar.
She is not drunk – not on alcohol, at least, though she'd down a few good swallows and 'spilled' enough on her clothes that she reeks of it. No, Éponine is made bold by fear alone, and her actions, though strange, are born out of necessity.
"Spent your lives in fear and anger, no choice left to you?"
She can see them in the crowd – the edge of Courfeyrac's jacket as the crowd parts unconsciously for him, a glimpse of Feuilly's light eyes, peering out beneath his borrowed cap, the barest hint of Grantaire's angled smile – and knowing they are present is comforting.
She is able to breathe a little slower before continuing. "Through days of empty stomachs, wondering when the end would come and wishing for it?"
She's had no time to rehearse, no time at all.
Her reunion with her sister had been brief, but happy. Azelma was looking well, still rail-thin and sharp, but moving with an acquired smoothness, a comfort in her own skin that hadn't been there last.
Soon she had to cut short their time with her request – secure the help of Henri, the guard who had been kind to them, who was sweet on Azelma.
Her sister seemed hesitant for only a moment, before nodding decisively and agreeing.
Azelma knew where to find the man, and if they followed along after, she would take them there as she spoke to him.
Just before setting off, Éponine had spoken quietly with Gavroche. Just telling him it would be dangerous is no deterrent to him, and so she pulled forth a reluctant promise not to interfere. He'd handed her a letter, said it was going to be given to her when they parted. She knew, then, he might still follow along at a distance, but this is enough for her.
Waiting just outside with the current remainder of her Amis, she chewed idly on her fingertips – chewing fingernails made them raggedy, raggedy nails would snag, and tangling nails in the fabric of someone's pocket was never wise, especially when the point was to slip off with their money – as she went through the letter Gavroche had given her. Cosette's lovely loops were immediately distinguishable, but a few letters were marked to thickly, and several splotches of ink suggested the whole thing was written in a hurry.
Valjean – she knew she had heard that name before, but could not place it until the mention of the Fantine near the end of it.
Just inside, she picked up more of their words, so she had little time to think on this. The implications she caught were enough that she allowed a faint smile to curve up her lips.
She could hear Azelma assuring him that he was under no obligation to do anything, which was soon met by his soft declaration that he would do anything for the Thénardier sisters.
Éponine thinks he would, too, the sweet fool, unknowing of the power such a promise could hold, and she could tell he would help from that moment.
Off-duty guards frequently drink themselves into a stupor until duty calls once more, and those at La Force are no different. He can tell them where they will be most likely to find a mark, and a plan is quickly devised to pluck the identifying papers from one.
The others – any of the others, really – would be better for this. They would be more convincing by far, but Henri is a guard at Les Madelonettes, a women's prison – and as she was not going to commit Azelma to anything more involved than this, she would have to do.
The plan is tenuous – if something goes wrong, that's it – but if it doesn't, if it doesn't –
Well, if it works out, they may get out of this mess after all.
It's not as if this is particularly difficult, either. Éponine is no great speaker, not like them, but she knows what she's talking about; even if her voice does not command their attention so fully, she can keep herself in sight, judging from the quiet murmurs of agreement amongst the normal chatter.
Honestly, it doesn't even matter what she talks about – so long as she appears drunk and disorderly at the right moment, this should work – but if she can sway anyone, even a little, so much the better.
She just feels… exposed. Conspicuous.
And when a pair decorated in the recognizable uniforms comes in and immediately frowns at the clamor, she is glad of this. She continues, adding a hint of a slur, of unsteadiness, and pretends not to have noticed them until they are before her.
If she had thought the sounds of support were faint before, this is nothing compared to now. "Alright," sighs one, "stop this mucking about."
She pauses in her speech and offers them a wide, wobbly smile. Evidently not deeming this enough of a response, he tries again. "Come on down from there, mademoiselle."
There's a groan of frustration, and she is hauled off the table. Predictably, she stumbles, though she does catch herself before she tumbles full to the floor. It is with momentous effort that she manages to keep from lashing out, from trying to escape.
And this is their dear Henri's cue.
He steps forward, making no attempt to blend into the crowd, and draws their attention.
She catches snippets of the conversation between the three – "you're off duty, aren't you?" "Yeah. Can't believe – as soon as –" "aw, she's drunk isn't she?" (here the chattier of the pair leans in to peer at her, and then recoils the second the scent of alcohol hits him) "urgh, wish we could just ignore – but he'll never let us hear the end of it if we let them 'stir up unrest'" "ah, you've got Lachance, then?" "Mmh." "I'm under Olivier at Les Madelonettes, myself."
Her breath catches. He continues. "My shift's about to start. 'f you're not heading out yet, I could – " And the one is already taken in. He releases his hold on her arm and grins. "'f you make it so I don't have to take that walk again, I'll buy you drinks for a week. You're sure Madelonettes'll take 'em?"
Henri shrugs. "Why not? Won't be nothing a night spent thinking this over in a cell can't fix," he says.
The quieter one looks down his nose at her. "Just… make sure it doesn't happen again."
She looks up at him and giggles, the notes falsely light – and then she pitches into him, fisting her hands into the fabric of his jacket and knocking the man nearly off balance.
The man shoves her away and she pretends to stumble, and immediately, Henri sets to righting the man.
In her place, now just slightly behind, she, and sees his own fingers curl around something before he draws himself up and away from the pair.
"Come on," he mutters to her, giving her elbow a shark jerk, and if his voice is less rough than it should be, well, they don't seem to notice.
He holds his grip only a step out the door, and then releases her.
Grantaire appears first, slipping out through the door and slinging his arm around her shoulders with a quiet "well done," then Courfeyrac, beaming, then Feuilly, urging them away from the door.
"You've got it, then?" she asks. It's mostly unnecessary – she did see that sleight of hand, after all – but she has to know, has to be sure.
Henri nods, and fishes out the other guard's identification from a coat pocket.
She has trousers beneath her skirt, and these become visible as she wriggles free of the outer layer, and it takes but a moment to don the hat Feuilly hands her.
It's clear that their guard is uncomfortable with his part, ducking his head low more often than not, when he is nearby, but he appears no less willing to help.
Most of the way, they travel as if they are simply acquaintances, but as they draw nearer, they move closer together, taking on more of the look of waywards being herded.
And they do not travel long like this before they are there.
She knows this place. A prison for the not yet condemned, the security is, in places, lax enough that she has been privy to more than a few break-outs, several involving her own father. One ward is dedicated to old offenders – those who will almost certainly be found guilty and made to make penance – and the new offenders, those more likely to be found innocence. Her Amis have not been convicted; despite this, they have been pushed into the ward for the former.
She has heard that, just beyond these walls, the Princess de Lamballe was executed, and this sparked their first, their great, revolution; she wonders if those detained within would appreciate this.
At this moment, to her, it is the least important thing in the world; she would tear it down, brick by brick if she must, to get to them, historical value be damned.
Henri's breathing become a touch uneven as they near the man on duty and he fumbles with his identification, but the guard merely gives it a cursory glance and waves a hand, very obviously bored. He doesn't even ask for an explanation, just settles in his chair once more. In fact, he looked fairly unimpressed at Henri's stuttering attempts at the justification of sobering up a group of drunkards, until the man stops up his words out of embarrassment and leads them past.
They walk a fair distance away, around two corners, and when they are surrounded only by quiet cells, he steps back.
"Sorry about that," he mutters, head down. "Not a very good liar." He looks up then. "This is as far as I go. I can't…"
She nods. "I wouldn't ask anything more of you." Disagreeing with facets of the justice system is all well and good, but he is not up to actively participating in a revolution just yet. And Azelma is – attached to him, besides. How much so, she can only guess, but… well, it wouldn't do to get him implicated when (when, not if) investigations are made upon the disappearance of the infamous Amis.
There are times she wonders if she wouldn't be better off following her parents' example, if it wouldn't be easier, but this – favors born of kindness, without deception, from those so unhardened by life that they have trouble with easy lies, the thought that her sister could be happy with a person like this, even if it is not this person, that perhaps more are like this, all simplicity and felicity – it would have been easier, no doubt, but better? No, not at all.
He touches two fingers to his temple in the imitation of tipping a cap. "Good luck to you, mademoiselle – to you all." He turns, and disappears. He will walk straight out while they continue on.
When the sound of footsteps fully fade, she adjusts her cap and her lips curl up.
"Alright," she murmurs. "Let's not keep them waiting."
A/N: Was tempted to throw more of a Firefly reference in there, but then I'd never be able to let that OC go. This one's a little shoddy. Sorry about that. Thoughts?