A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed! Is anyone else still reading this though?
The chapter is taking a very different turn from what I originally planned.
Smithy: Never tasted grapefruit before, so I can't concur or refute that idea
Chapter 6: Friendly Forces
The evening is as perfect as any summer night ought to be, with the sky a tapestry of rose and gold and a slight breeze in the air. 'It's almost too lovely to be believed,' Eponine tells herself as she looks away from the window and returns to signing out the last of the day's reports and operating room papers. The tranquillity of this hour is almost a mockery of the day's brutality, for even now she is fearfully listening for any alarms from the ICU or a call about any of her patients going into distress. Yet as the hands on the clock fast approach six pm, the silence somehow still holds, prompting Eponine to sigh with relief as she finally signs out for the day and takes a bus to the center of the city.
She bites her lip when she alights outside the city hall and finds Enjolras' car in a corner of the now otherwise empty parking lot. "Someone's doing self-imposed overtime," she mutters as she pockets her phone, deciding now to take a more direct approach by heading up to the third floor, where the human rights commission's local office is located at the end of the hall. She frowns as she makes her way through this corridor; while she is not claustrophobic, she can certainly sense when too much has been going on in such a tiny space. 'Not surprising, given how today has been like,' she thinks as she knocks thrice on the door and pushes it open.
This room is snug but well-lit, with five cubicles decked out according to the tastes of their respective users. Most of one wall is covered by a large corkboard with the right half filled up by various memos, photos, and a few notes. The left side has a large map of the city, with various points that Enjolras is marking out using pins and photos. His sleeves are rolled up to past his elbows and his hair is rather tousled, as if he's run his fingers through it in a fit of frustration.
Eponine slips into the room, taking care not to scuff the floor or make any sound to alert him to her presence. Yet she is only an arm's length away when he suddenly glances her way. His eyes widen with surprise for a moment. "Eponine, what are you doing here?"
"Dropping by. You normally are the one who swings by my office, so I thought I'd return the favor for a change," she says lightly as she closes the distance between them and puts her hands on his shoulders. She winces on feeling the hard knots under her fingers. "Are you planning to tie them all together with yarn or something?"
"Not yet," Enjolras admits in a matter-of-fact tone. "How did you do today?"
"Helped get seven people out of the OR and into recovery. Took us most of the day but they're stable," she replies as she begins to press on the tightest point she can find. She nods sympathetically when he groans with relief. "There, there. It was just one thing after another today, wasn't it?"
"Meetings, desk work...only now I get to think," he says. "How have you been holding up?"
"Our kid has been behaving. I guess he or she knows the situation is urgent," she quips.
Enjolras cracks a smile. "So what's the prognosis for your patients?"
She smiles more easily at this query. "It's still up in the air for one of them, but nearly all the others stand a good chance."
"That's good," Enjolras says. He grits his teeth as he looks at the corkboard again and points to a spot in the area of downtown. "Eponine, have you heard of the Difunto gang?"
The strange word rings a bell, but it takes Eponine a moment to place it. "Only on graffiti near the halfway house. They have territory near there."
"I see." Enjolras' eyes narrow as he surveys the map again. "They are definitely out of bounds. So would any other suspects that the immigration office has been tagging. There's a missing link here, but what?" he mutters more to himself than to her.
She feels her gut twist, but thankfully more from apprehension than actual nausea. "Are you linking them to the bombing?"
"According to the field operatives, the scene had their MO" He grits his teeth and shakes his head. "It doesn't make sense. It's obvious that the sweatshop is only one link in a chain. This gang possibly being involved is another link. Now I want to know who is at the end of it before someone else gets hurt."
"You'll find out," she whispers as she squeezes his shoulders more tightly. "Wouldn't it be better though to find the weak link first?"
"We already had it, until this morning at the courthouse," he says, giving her a sidelong look. He takes a long ragged breath as he looks at the map again. "There has to be something more that can be done."
"Not right now. The survivors aren't ready yet to talk to the fiscal or anyone else."
"Yet being the important word."
Eponine nods even as she pulls him into her arms. "You've done all you could for today, Auguste," she whispers before kissing his cheek. "Come on, it's already after six. Let's go."
He buries his face briefly in her hair and kisses her left ear before stepping away from her. "I just have to take a look at something first," he insists when she tugs on his hand.
"Right now?"
"Just a few minutes, I promise."
"I'm counting," she reminds him as she watches him go to his cubicle. She bites her lip as she imagines the corkboard covered with a web of yarn, and possibly even more pins. 'It's always a web beneath the surface,' she thinks just as she hears him quickly open and shut a drawer. "What is it?"
"The entry points," Enjolras replies as he motions for her to join him in the cubicle. "To be more exact, the entry ports."
She steps into the cubicle and roll s her eyes on seeing the piles of papers all over the desk, a form of chaos that only he can make sense of. Yet amid all this clutter is a collection of photos he's taken over the past year, including one of her seated atop some rocks overlooking a view of a lake at sunset. She grins on seeing the latest addition there, which is none other than a copy of the sonogram picture from earlier today. "To be honest, he or she still looks a bit like a blob. A cute blob though."
He chuckles as he glances at the picture, then back at her. "So when will the baby start looking more or less recognizable?"
"About the third or fourth month," she says. She happens to glance at the calendar on his desk and she smiles on realizing that it will only be a matter of weeks till she can count on this change. She rubs Enjolras' shoulders when she sees that he's studying a list of seaports. "So our witnesses were being smuggled in aboard cargo ships?"
"That would be the cliché way to go about it, and the easiest, but it's not the usual practice," Enjolras replies. "Usually people get in using their legal names on a proper ship or an airplane, and using visas they've paid dearly for. Then from there they become impossible to track."
"So what are you angling at?"
"I was thinking of other forms of ticketed travel within the country."
Eponine peers more closely at the list her partner is surveying. There are several large harbours listed there, such as the famous one in Port Town, but there are also smaller ports and piers that cater to the ferry services. 'Such as those that form a part of bus routes,' she notes as she goes back to the map on the wall and traces with her finger the long highway leading down to the capital's riverside port, where passenger buses and vehicles can drive onto barges for short crossings to the other bank or to nearby towns. "They get past here, they disappear. No one really checks," she says as he joins her.
"Then what are inspectors for?"
"To make sure no one is taking a free ride-it doesn't matter to them who or what pays for it. The port personnel presume that once someone has a boat ticket, they've paid for the entire route."
"I was thinking more of the ports as being jump-off points for anyone who came up through small river craft. Either way if we can find someone who can attest to how the witnesses were brought in, then this will help build the prosecution's case," Enjolras concurs as he gestures to the course of the river snaking down from the lake, through the city, and out to the sea. He smiles more confidently as he considers the map again. "This is just one possibility."
"It's one more than you had when I first got here," she points out. "Now can we go?"
"Very well then." He pulls a stray strand of hair away from her face before kissing her soundly. "Thank you, Eponine."
She smiles against his lips, more so when she sees that intense fire in his eyes again. "Why don't we go out for dinner now? To be honest, I'm not up to cooking."
"Ah. I thought it was someone giving you cravings," he says as he pats her midsection.
"Auguste, don't give our kid any ideas," she warns as they head to his car. Although part of her still fears that they are tempting fate by speaking of her pregnancy with such a firm sense of actuality, the mere recollection of their child's heartbeat on the sonogram does a great deal now to dispel her fears. "So when are you going to tell your mom about the baby?" she asks when they get to a red light.
"Next month. She's only stopped gushing about our wedding," Enjolras deadpans. "I take that you aren't going to tell your parents?"
Eponine shakes her head. "You've met my dad. Imagine what he would try to do just to see his grandchild. My mom would do the same." The idea of her parents demanding clemency or parole on these grounds is unnerving, at least till she remembers that there is no way that this can become probable especially after her father's recent antics in and out of prison. "What about your dad?"
"I'll let my mother tell him. He can decide from there."
"Is it fine with you though?"
Enjolras sighs deeply before looking right at her. "Just for our child's sake. I can manage to be civil."
She squeezes his knee as the light turns green. "Now where do you want to go?"
"There's an arts fair at the square tonight, and the food stalls offer a lot of choices. We can start there," he replies after a few moments. "Unless you'd prefer someplace quieter?"
"Hmm...outdoors at a fair, on a moonlit summer evening? It almost sounds romantic," Eponine teases. She laughs when Enjolras turns red up to his ears. "I want a dinner that I don't have to cook, and you need something more than a quiet night at home."
"That works," Enjolras says, still slightly flustered as they take the exit leading to their neighbourhood.
In a quarter of an hour they arrive at a bustling park just five blocks away from their apartment building. The usually serene paths winding through the green are now lined with small tents and kiosks showcasing a variety of foods, handcrafted curiosities, gallery pieces, and even fairground games. Enjolras loses no time in lining up at a kiosk selling ratatouille, while Eponine decides to wander and peruse some of the food selections. At length she comes across a stall selling dumplings, noodles, and hard boiled eggs of varied colors. "Now what is in that brew?" she wonders aloud as she catches sight of a rice cooker filled with brown tinged eggs soaked in a deep dark liquid.
"Those are tea eggs," a woman chimes in from where she is filling a basket up with yellow eggs. She is tall, with rich chestnut hair and a rosy complexion. Although she is clad in a simple violet wrap dress, her delicately polished nails and light makeup give her an air of elegance that makes her seem regal in this bucolic bazaar.
"Tea eggs as in cooked in tea?" Eponine asks. There is something mildly familiar about this stranger's face, almost as if she's seen her expressions before. 'But where?'
"Steeped in it," the woman says. "They're rather mild for my taste though."
Eponine nods slowly. "And you have what...saffron eggs?"
"Turmeric. That's an acquired taste, I'm afraid," the woman says with a shrug as she puts the basket on a tabletop. "If you want to try the tea eggs or any of the others, go on ahead and pay up later. I'm just watching this stall for a friend but she'll be back shortly.
"What's in the tea eggs?" Eponine asks cautiously.
"Black tea, some citrus extract and a touch of soy sauce. It's an old Chinese recipe. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious."
The woman arches an eyebrow before picking an egg out of several standing to dry on a rack. "Here you go. You eat it like a normal hard boiled egg," she says as she drops the egg into a small paper dish.
Eponine peels the end of egg and takes a few nibbles. The flavour is sweet and tangy, with just a hint of the smokiness of black tea. "It's delicious."
"That's why it's a best seller," the lady says proudly. "I'll tell my friend that."
"Marguerite!" a younger woman calls from a nearby stall. "Andrew just called. He and Percy are still stuck in traffic near the park, so it might be a while till they get here."
"Suzanne, I'm still watching the shop for Mrs. Li. So just tell the boys that it's fine, so they can take their time," the woman named Marguerite shouts. She shrugs resignedly as she starts filling another basket. "Boys will be boys. I see you know what I mean," she quips, gesturing to Eponine's wedding ring.
Eponine laughs. "Not just that. I practically raised my younger brother."
"I have an older brother, but sometimes our roles seemed to switch," Marguerite confides. "He's a journalist nowadays for the Beacon, so I don't see much of him."
Suddenly it becomes clear to Eponine who she's speaking to. "You're Armand St-Just's sister, Marguerite," she says. "I met your brother while he was doing a story last year."
Marguerite's brow furrows. "What story?"
"The one about the weaving room."
Marguerite's eyes widen. "You're Doctor Eponine Thenardier-or should I say Doctor Thenardier-Enjolras," she says, shaking Eponine's hand firmly. "I go by the name Marguerite Blakeney, but I think your husband and some of your colleagues would still remember me as Marguerite St-Just."
'Bahorel certainly would,' Eponine thinks even as she manages to keep a straight face. "You could just call me 'Eponine'. We're not in a clinic."
Marguerite nods approvingly. "By the way, thank you for saving my brother's life. If you and Enjolras hadn't been there at the weaving room with him, he would have been shot."
"He gave us a lead in that helped my husband wrap up the case he was handling. The thanks goes both ways," Eponine points out candidly.
"That's my brother-always getting into a fix," Marguerite laughs. She scowls as she hears her phone begin to ring. "I have to go. Just leave your money on the counter-and feel free to take any cards too," she says furtively.
"Marguerite, wait-" Eponine calls but by now Marguerite has already ducked behind the stall to answer the call. The surgeon sighs as she digs in her pocket for a few coins and leaves them on the table. She quickly espies two stacks of cards in a corner of the table. One stack is more flamboyantly decorated, showcasing different kinds of delicacies and even a map of this little store's outlet. The second is far more straightforward, with two lines: 'Marguerite S. Blakeney, Migrants Aid League followed by a cellphone number and an email address. The only concession to aesthetics is a single red flower in the lower right hand corner.
Eponine leaves the first set of cards alone, but takes two from the second. 'One for Saint-Michel, the other for the law office,' she figures. It never hurt after all to add to one's little black book.