A/N: The conversation between Eponine and Combeferre, surprisingly, is one of the scenes I already had early on in the story, just that in the first drafts I somehow planned for this to happen with Courfeyrac. Him being the center and all...

But Courfeyrac has other things to do today (such as trying to bring Charles Jeanne back, who joined the city of glass only considerably later). Obviously the scene would have played out differently with him, not in the result, but in the turns of conversation (maybe, one of these days, I will warp my notes into something actually understandable for others and plug it in the shadows-and-echoes), but I think it also works out this way.

Chapter 76: Now you see me

If I take a lamp, and shine it towards the wall, a bright spot will appear on the wall. The lamp is our search for truth, for understanding

"I'm getting the impression we are becoming a hostel of sorts."

Despite the words, the atmosphere around the large table in the room they had just entered, was not hostile. Two women were busy with needlework of various kinds, cloth, thread and needles strewn about on the table, while a man, unlike the girls vaguely familiar to Cosette, was sitting idle, looking pale and holding himself with some care. She took a moment to place his face, then, with a flash of intuition, remembered that he was one of Marius' friends who had come to fetch him in Rue Plumet in what seemed a lifetime, but in reality was only a few days ago.

"Why not", Adelaide gave back deadpan to the woman with red curls and freckles who had spoken to them, not moving a muscle in her face. "We could use the extra coin." They both held their gazes for a moment, then, a broad, slightly impish smile appeared on the redhead's face and was answered by a less radiant but still honest one on Adelaide's features.

"Cosette", she answered, "meet Elodie. And Louise." She pointed to the other women, a pretty girl with blonde hair wound up in a bun and clear blue eyes.

Cosette nodded and greeted both of them.

"I think you have met Maurice Feuilly."

She vaguely remembered Marius talking about him, remembered that he was some sort of workingman, but that was as much as her knowledge extended. Feuilly tried to get up to greet her with a small bow, but winced at the movement, earning him a stern gaze from Louise.

"You stay put where you are", she scolded. "You're lucky we let you sit up yet", she reminded him.

"Feuilly was wounded in the collapse of the Corinthe", Adelaide explained. "A concussion, Combeferre said."

"And we took him in here because he is stubborn", Louise added, pushing the needle through the fabric a little harder than was probably necessary, looking at the man pointedly. Feuilly had the grace to look a little sheepish at the reprimand.

There was something calming about the ease with which they spoke to each other, half in jest, half earnestly, and fondly all the same. Cosette wondered if this was what it was like when one had friends and liked it instantly.

Adelaide had proposed to retreat to her apartment in the Rue de la Chanvrerie to decide what they should do next in a more secure and secluded surrounding. And she had strongly suggested that Marius and she should have a talk. In private, preferably, and an honest one at that.

Her heart had leapt at the possibility, and even Marius seemed to consider this a good idea, and so they had set out, passing through the streets full of people and talk and whispers, trying very pointedly not to look at the ruin that was the Corinthe as they entered Adelaide's apartment. Cosette did not even want to imagine how Marius was buried under these rubbles just a few short hours ago.

"I'm really grateful that we can stay here for a moment", Cosette answered politely, looking at Louise and Elodie. True, she still had the keys to their place in the Rue de l'Homme Armee, but given the fact that she had no idea where her father was or what he was intending to do now, this seemed a bad place to go. She was not ready to face that particular ghost just yet. "I promise we will try not to be a nuisance."

"Well, you are in good company", Elodie jested, giving a side glance to Feuilly. "It is not much, probably not what you are used to", she continued, giving a pointed glance at Cosette's fine – yet dirty - dress, "but there's a roof over our heads, Louise has swept the floor in the morning so it should be clean, and there is decent coffee." She nodded to a pot standing on the stove. "Help yourselves. I'm sure you'll forgive if I don't get up."

"Of course, "Cosette understood, seeing as both girls had their laps full of their needlework, and getting up would certainly ruin parts of the work that they were doing. She stepped to the stove and got three cups from a board next to it, filling them one after the other. The smell was indeed heavenly – this coffee could certainly rival what her father bought, at the very least – and she passed on the cups to Marius and Adelaide.

Both nodded their thanks, Marius' hand lingering for a moment as he looked at her, and that gaze, if nothing else, told her how much they needed to talk.

"I'm not staying." Adelaide explained to her flatmates, taking a deep sip from the still hot cup. "In fact, I need to ask you a favor, Louise."

"What is it?"

"I need to arrange a meeting with the captain", she answered. "Him and the Abaissee need to talk."

Elodie whistled through her teeth.

"So that is really happening? Enjolras and Jeanne in the same room?"

"I'll start with Courfeyrac. And me as chaperone. That increases the chances of a reasonable conversation significantly."

"It does." Elodie's answer came more slowly, and with a hidden doubt that Cosette did not know how to place. "Doesn't it..?"

She sensed an undercurrent in the question, a question beyound the question, but Adelaide did not take the bait and took a deep sip from the coffee cup.

"I think we all see how things are escalating", she answered neutrally, and it felt like evasion. "Something will happen within the next days. Whether it's the revolution we are hoping for, that remains to be seen, but thing is – this quarrel can't go on."

"If you say so." There was a notion of hesitation in Elodie's voice, but she looked at her work and let the needle slide through the fabric effortlessly.

"Anyhow. I was thinking about the Corbeau as a place – discrete and neutral enough. I'd need him to be there in maybe two hours. Louise, can you find Navet so that he delivers that message? You're usually the best at knowing where he is about."

"Why don't you go directly?" Cosette asked, with a frown.

"Jeanne is an officer of the National Guard. It would be suspicious if a woman of doubtful reputation shows up at his work out of nowhere, asking to be seen. Especially if she's like me. So we use Navet."

Louise sighed, but she already put aside her work and readied herself to stand up.

"All right. But you owe me an hour's work for that. They've given me so much this time, I don't even know where to start."

Adelaide nodded. "Of course."

She downed the last of her coffee, placed the cup on the table and stepped to the back left door, beckoning both Marius and Cosette along.

"Feel free to stay in my room if you need to talk", she offered, and both of them followed, coffee in hand. "I'll be back in the evening." Cosette felt a strange trepidation, for all that she knew how necessary it was, but she had gone to far. Too many bridges were burned. She could not – would not – lose another.

And yet, the sound, as the door fell back closed, had a terrible finality to it.

Whatever she had expected, silence was not it.

And yet, after she had poured out the story to Combeferre, interrupted only by a few questions aiming at understanding, much less at judgment or evaluation, that was exactly what she got.

Initially, she had thought to go only half the way – to tell him about Montparnasse and his affiliation with the assassins but leave out the ultimatum she was faced with – but she had found that, surprisingly, once she started it was harder to stop than she thought. And so, parts in surprise, part in horror, she watched herself spilling out the whole story.

Combeferre was a good listener, and if he judged, he did not show it, neither while he listened, nor now, as silence settled between them and he placed a cautious finger against his lips, taking his time to reflect what he had heard.

"I see", he said after a while, as the spell of calm he seemed to have placed over the premises faded and nervousness slowly settled on Eponine again, together with the question if she had now, finally, destroyed everything.

"And I assume that you do not know yet what you will do, correct?"

She huffed.

"Obviously not. Otherwise I would not be sitting here."

Again, he simply nodded.

"So", he asked, "what is keeping from making a decison?"

Eponine ran her fingers along the table, pricking at a rough end with her fingernails, trying to pry it loose.

"I don't know. Him and I go back a long long way. Montparnasse, that is. I hate what he did. That he blew up your wine shop. That he has chosen the side that tries keep things just as bad for us as they always were. It's just about him. He doesn't care about the rest."

"Given the chance", Combeferre asked, "would you do the same?"

The strong denial was on her lips in a second, but she hesitated. Because, ultmately, it was not that easy.

"Some time ago, I might have." That had more of a truthful ring to it, and she watched Combeferre carefully, looking for the telltale sign of anger or rejection, but the man only nodded, as if she had confirmed a suspicion of his.

"It's not that easy, you know. If you see no way, if you see no chance. No way out. Day after day, it's unbearable, and there comes a point where you would do anything for things to get better. I've done lots of things that could land me in jail, and I'm not even sorry for them. Because...", she shrugged. "Because sometimes you just do whatever it takes. And I really mean... whatever. If you're poor you can't afford compassion. You can't afford morals."

Combeferre shook his head softly.

"I don't think you were quite as far gone as that, Mademoiselle. For you there was always a line, was there not?" He seemed to have finished forming his opinion on the situation. Something in his posture told her that he had gone from listening to taking on a more active role now.

She was about to deny it, but again hesitated, suppressed the first impuls for the sake of the deeper truth.

"Yes", she answered. "There probably was. I.. I wouldn't have killed. Not like he does. It's nothing to him if the person is nothing to him. I never understood that. And.." the revelation came suddenly. "and I knew who my friends were."

"That is why it hurts so deeply, is it not?" Combeferre took a sip from his cup. "And why you struggle with it. Because no matter what, he still was your friend."

"He was until... well. Today. He saved my life. He went up against his new associates for me. He made sure I wasn't in the Corinthe."

Combeferre nodded.

"He was your friend, as long as he could. And you were his, for as long as you could. But... can you still?"

That was the key question. Or rather, one way to formulate the key question. With a flash of intuition, Eponine realized that Enjolras would have phrased it in a different way. He would not have asked if she could, but rather, if she wanted to. Because – and in this he was right – in the end, it was a matter of decision.

Which brought her nowhere nearer to knowing what she should do. She shrugged.

"I don't know."

Again, Combeferre nodded.

"What changed?" he asked. "What changed that today you need to hesitate to remind yourself of what you would have been willing to do? Why the sudden compassion? Why.. the morals?"

She stayed silent for a while, again determined to honor his rational consideration with as much honesty as she was able to. And so she retraced her steps, from the marketplace where everything had started to the Musain, to La Force, to Rue Pascal and Picpus. To beauty in the face and thought of man. To hopes. And dreams.

"I... I don't even really know", she finally admitted. "It's all been such a rush. I don't even know if I am fooling myself. If, once I slow down, I realize that I've been the most stupid ass that you can find in Paris. I really don't know. But... you guys did. You with your damn words, and with meaning them. With your plans and your stories, and your bloody way of just opening a door to me, no questions asked. Well. Questions asked, but still. That's..." she sighed at the outburst of words. "I don't think that's happened to me before. Not like this. Not even when I got to know Marius. Suddenly..." she threw her hands in the air, a little frustrated at her inability to convey what she couldn't fully grasp herself. "Suddenly there was a way. A chance of a way, at least. Dangerous, yeah, but I've never been short on courage." She snorted, slightly self-deprecatingly. "Enjolras can be just so bloody convincing."

"That he can." Combeferre smiled fondly, before he got up and stepped past her to the window, looking down on Rue Pascal as Enjolras so often had. Eponine wondered if he needed the time to think, but once he spoke, she realized that the conversation was taking a different turn.

"It would work, you know?"

She frowned, not immediately understanding.

"What would work?"

"If you asked him to come with you, if you were to set the trap your friend is asking you to set, he would follow you and, most probably, he would die."

Eponine shook her head.

"I don't think I would...", but Combeferre cut her short, and continued to speak, more intensely.

"This is something you need to understand, because it is important, and I do not think you quite realize the situation that you are in."

She laughed, a little desperately.

"Oh, you can be sure I know I messed up pretty badly."

"That is not what I mean", Combeferre continued, restlessly. "You have not known Enjolras for long, so let me point you to something that you have not seen, but the rest of us have. Enjolras is not a man to do things by half measures. There are no shades of grey with him, his world is cut in black and white, and if there is one weakness in him, then this is it."

She nodded. For all the short time that she had known him, this was not news to her. "I know", she said.

"So let me tell you something that you do not know. You do not realize it, because you are lacking context. For you, it might seem as if we have opened the door to you just out of nowhere, but that is not our, and most specifically not his way. That back room in the Musain, for example, was open only to us. There were two women who were – and I will tell you it was grudgingly on Enjolras' part – allowed in there from time to time. One of them was Hélène, due to our dealings with le Globe. And the other was Katya, as a concession to Feuilly and the difficult situation they were in."

He leaned against the windowsill, his words growing stronger in intensity.

"And yet you received an invitation carte blanche. There, and also here. I cannot tell you what he sees in you. But I can tell you, that it is a great deal. A great deal beyound the fact that you are one of those we claim to fight for. This is something, that is specific to you. And somewhat unprecedented."

The words hit her like a fist in the gut, winding her and leaving her speechless for a moment. The thought that Enjolras might see anything in her beyound her immediate usefulness sounded ludicrous to her own ears and mind, so ludicrous that it seemed impossible to even voice it.

But once again, on second thought, she realized that denial was the easy way. And yet, not right. She remembered his words in this very room (you, Eponine, are one of the most singular people I have ever met). Remembered how he had reached for her, both after his speech in the Corinthe (surprising, invaluable, courageous Eponine...) and on the stairs as they were waiting for Cortez' verdict, a drowning man catching a rope to steady him. How he had woken up as she arrived in Rue Pascal, late, tired and drawn after her dangerous errands, only to briefly check that she had returned unharmed before he let sleep claim him again. Remembered, that he had shivered, clearly shivered, as she had dyed his hair.

She would not know, not dare to give it a name at the moment. But she knew that Combeferre was right. And she knew that it was mutual. Part of her whole dilemma was that there was no way, no chance in all circles of hell, that Montparnasse would get his hands on Enjolras. Not if she could help it.

Emerging from these thoughts she realized that Combeferre was watching her. For a moment, she thought with horror, that her musings had shown on her face, but again his expression was neutral, and if he was having second thoughts, he did not show it. That was why she answered truthfully.

"I know."

He subtly took a long, deep breath and let it out again.

"Good. Then you know what is at stake."

Oh, how she knew. This went well beyound Enjolras and Montparnasse. Combeferre was right. She was pretty sure she could get him to come with her, and if Enjolras died, then one of the figureheads of the budding rebellion would be gone. And they had lost many of those already. She was not sure if they could take one more. Which was exactly why Montparnasse had asked this price.

And from here on, things were easy.

"I can't do it", she said. "I won't."

Again, the deep breath, and Combeferre pushed himself away from the window, stepping back to the table again.

"Thank god", he said. "Now, we can work on a solution."

"But... it's saturday."

Joly looked at Musichetta with considerable surprise, as she sat at her dressing table, readying herself for the night.

Her dark hair was pinned up in rich curls, a clip with a silver flower sitting amidst the black like a little mirror, reflecting the light and drawing his gaze. She did not even stop what she was doing, carefully applying color to her cheeks and pointedly avoiding to look at him.

She was all ice again, like she always was on the days that she went out, on the days that Joly had learned not to call on her.

But there was usually a predictability to her ways. And he had not expected her to have an appointment on saturdays.

He had learned, the hard way and with many, many explanations by Bossuet, who had known Musichetta for longer than he had, that she was a master of her own life and time. And that for all the fondness she might harbor for both of them, she would never let it interfere with the schedule she had made for herself.

He had had the conversation with her several times, trying to convince her she did not need to sell her company to men. That money was not all that important, and that he could help her if things became really difficult.

She had laughed in his face at that and told him naive, made it clear that he knew nothing of the life beyound university and being the son of rich parents.

The thought had stung, because it was partly true; but only partly. Joly had spent enough time volunteering in the medical profession to have seen his share of poverty. But what was true was, that he had never lived it. Never known what it was like not to know where to find the next meal. Never known true hunger.

And he guessed that Musichetta had. Although, despite their weird association already lasting for almost two years, he knew little of her story, and what she told him, he knew was not true.

None the less, he did not fully understand. Musichetta was a trained opera singer, having a fixed engagement for support roles at the Opera, a steady employ that brought in a regular income, no riches, but certainly enough to support the life she was leading. She was popular with the audience, had won herself a modest amount of renown in her profession and was nowhere near falling into the desolation of the abaisse. And even if she were to lose this work – a trained musician had other possibilities of making a living, and she was well trained.

But for some reason he did not understand, she could not see it that way. She continued, driven, despite everything and everyone.

"It's an opportunity", she answered cooly, cutting through his thoughts as she placed back the rouge on her dressing table and set to accentuating her eyes with just the slightest hint of blue. "That turned up at short notice and I found myself luckily without an occupation tonight."

Joly swallowed uncomfortably. It was true that he had often spent saturday nights with her, when the opportunity presented itself, and in all honesty, this was also why they had directed their steps towards Musichetta's apartment, but he was too late.

Maybe it was even revenge. Maybe just hurt feelings. Or coincidence. With Musichetta, with this kind of Musichetta, who would never lose her head and cooly calculate and plan, you never knew.

It was not, that he regretted it. Joly knew very well where his priorities lay, and nothing in this world could be more important than the brewing storm that, if Enjolras was right, would set the city aflame in a matter of days. Not even Musichetta.

"I see", he answered, fingers clenched. "If that is what you want."

Jealousy held him like a green, evil snake raising his head. He would never get over it. Not really. He had learned to live with it, but the fact that it was so hard to bear today was a testament to the rush and hell of the last days.

One of those days, one of those times, he would find out which ghosts haunted and drove her to be the way she was. One of those days, when all of this was over.

Because there was another side to her, and he knew it well. He felt, surely, that what was between them was something different than with the Comte de Arviniac or Monsieur Naquin. There was honesty, under all those layers of make-believe.

Just not today.

"It is", she said, predictably. It was a recounting of an old conversation, that had in its premiere been full of indignation on his part, and, with every retelling, slipped more into a painful acceptance.

"Then we should leave you to it."

if Bossuet was as surprised and hurt as he was, his voice certainly did not show it. The tone was light, as it almost always was, and he clapped on Joly's shoulders in a gesture full of cameraderie. He stepped up to Musichetta, blowing a kiss onto her cheek – and gaining a very angry look from her for his trouble – and turned back to his friend.

"Let's go, then", he said. "There will be other days."

There might, Joly thought.

Or there might not.