Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The smoke was visible long before the train was. Eponine stood from her crouch and let her cigarette fall from her fingers, grinding the stub beneath the heel of her boot. She pulled up her bandana over her face and jammed her hat firmly over her head, ensuring her hair was safely tucked away. Beside her, Enjolras did the same. Both of them were distinctive, albeit for different reasons, so it was best to make sure as much of them was covered as possible. 

“You ready?” she said.

He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed in irritation. “Are you?” 

Without another word, Eponine swung herself up into the saddle. “Stick to the plan this time,” she said. “You get the baggage carriage and the safe, I’ll get the passengers. In and out, before Patron-Minette even knows we were here. I am not patching you up if you get shot again.” 

She could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “If I recall, Combeferre was the one who patched me up.” 

“Yeah, but only because I stopped you from bleeding out in the dirt.” The train appeared over the horizon, clouds of black smoke billowing into the sky. “Now get a move on, Blondie, before we miss our shot!” 

“Don’t call me that!” Enjolras yelled, even as he spurred his horse on. 

“I sure as hell am not calling you by the name you picked out!” she yelled back. 

Whatever Enjolras said in response was lost to the roar of the train. Eponine urged her horse down the hill, steering her so that they were running right alongside the train. Enjolras was out of sight, somewhere on the other side of the tracks, but Eponine didn’t have time to worry about him. Right now, the only person she had to worry about was herself. 

Boarding the train was old hat by now. Slip feet out of the stirrups, crouch on the saddle, wait for the right moment—and jump. She grabbed onto a rail as she jumped, her ribs slamming into the bar and her breath escaping in a sharp gasp. She took a moment to recover herself and make sure that her disguise was still in place, and then pulled out her two revolvers and kicked open the door to the first-class carriage. 

“Nobody move! This is a stick-up,” she yelled above the startled shouts of the passengers. “Move, and I shoot.” 

She cast a glance around the carriage, marking any troublesome elements. A couple old ladies, decked out in jewelry, trembled under her stare. A fat businessman blustered and sputtered, but went silent when she glared at him. She smirked beneath her bandana; easy marks, the lot of them. 

“Keep a look-out,” she tossed over shoulder, as if speaking to a partner standing outside. There was no one there, of course, but they’d be more likely to behave if they thought she had back-up. Keeping one revolver aimed forward, ready to fire in case someone tried to rush her, she slipped the second revolver into its holster and pulled out an empty sack. She held it in front of the nearest passengers, an older man in a suit and his much younger wife. “Hand over your valuables, and no one gets hurt.” 

The man opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Eponine thumbed the hammer. The man lowered his gaze and pulled out his wallet, as his wife slowly removed her rings and bracelets and brooch with trembling hands. Once they were sufficiently shaken down, Eponine moved down the carriage to the next passengers, the bag growing heavier with each stop. A few of them tried to protest, but they stopped the moment she aimed her gun at them. 

At last, with the nearly-full bag weighing her down, she reached the back of the carriage, where only one of the rows was occupied. A man more than old enough to be her father met her gaze calmly, while the young woman resolutely stared at her lap. 

“You know the drill,” Eponine drawled. “Valuables in the bag.” 

The woman looked to the man. “Papa—” 

“Do as the lad says, Cosette,” the man said calmly. “I carry no valuables, aside from this.” 

Eponine rolled her eyes as he held up a rosary. “Show me your wallet, then.” 

Calm as anything, the man reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a wallet, removing the bills and coins inside and placing them into the bag. A glint of metal caught her eye as he put the wallet back in his pocket. “Hold up. Let’s see that watch.” 

The man hesitated just a moment before removing a pocketwatch so fine that Eponine couldn’t help but whistle. “I’ll be taking that,” she said, holding out the bag. 

The man went to detach the chain, only for the girl’s hand to snap out and stop him. “Wait! Please, not his watch. It was a present from me. Please, I’ll give you everything I have, but not the watch.” 

The girl looked up from her lap, her gaze meeting Eponine’s, and Eponine’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips were a pale, delicate pink, like the flowers that bloomed in the springtime, and a few strands of hair fell in loose curls around her face. Her eyes were wide, pleading, and Eponine couldn’t tear her gaze away. 

“I dunno,” she heard herself saying, as if from a million miles away. “I’ve always wanted a fancy pocketwatch.” 

The girl looked away, fumbling at a necklace. “Then take this, I’m sure it could pay for a pocketwatch—” 

“No, Cosette,” the man said, reaching out to stop her. 

A shot ran through the air—Enjolras had either finished his task, or he was in trouble. 

Eponine stepped back, running a tongue over too-dry lips. “Looks like your lucky day.” 

With one last, long gaze at the girl, Eponine turned on her heel and ran down the carriage, towards the end of the train. Still stunned, the passengers in the first-class car did nothing to stop her. She stumbled briefly as she shoved past a man with dark, curly hair who was smoking on the small platform between the cars, but didn’t stop running until she found Enjolras at the car where the safe was stored. 

The guard lay prone on the ground as Enjolras tied the ends of two sacks. “You took your time,” he said, as she approached. 

Eponine glanced down at the guard. “He dead?” 

“Just unconscious,” Enjolras said dismissively. “Brace yourself. It’s almost time.” 

Eponine tightened her grip on her sack with one hand, holding tight to the railing with the other. Enjolras glanced down at his pocketwatch before doing the same. “One minute,” he announced. 

Despite the warning, Eponine almost went flying when the explosion shook the earth and the train jerked to a halt. “Go!” Enjolras yelled, leaping from the train before it had fully come to a stop. Eponine ran after him, trusting Enjolras to know the way to where their getaway horses were being kept. Behind them, whoops and hollers resounded through the air, punctuated with gunshots. Eponine didn’t look back, not until they had reached the two horses grazing at the abandoned stable. 

She yanked off the bandana and shoved it into the saddlebag along with her hat. She settled the bag of loot into the saddlebags as well, tucking it in nicely to ensure it wouldn’t rattle during the ride. 

“Eponine.” 

Eponine turned just in time for the two sacks Enjolras had been carrying to hit her square in the chest, knocking the breath out of her. “Word of warning would be nice,” she snapped. 

“I gave you one,” Enjolras said flatly, as he pulled off his hat and set it on the fence. He shook his head like a dog, sending his curls flying every which way, and then tugged off his bandana. 

Eponine shoved the sacks into the saddlebag. “You could keep some of this for you, you know.” 

“I don’t need it,” Enjolras said dismissively. “Combeferre will know how to distribute it.” 

“Right. Or you could do your actual job.” 

“This is my job,” Enjolras said blankly. 

Eponine snorted and jammed an elbow into his side, earning an irritated protest in response. “You wish.” 

“No, you wish,” Enjolras said smugly. 

“You’re right,” Eponine said, rolling her eyes. “I’d like nothing better than to spend my days holding up trains and robbing banks, only to give up all of my hard earned money.” 

“That’s what you do anyways,” Enjolras pointed out.

“Shut up,” Eponine said. “Or next time I won’t help unless you beg me.” 

“You’ll help,” Enjolras said confidently. “You’re the only person I trust to be by my side in this.” 

Eponine snorted and pulled herself onto the horse’s back. “And Heaven help me if you get killed without me there to save you.” She nudged her horse closer to him, and then leaned over to ruffle his hair. Enjolras swatted her hand away and glowered at her. “Keep yourself safe, Blondie. Until next time.” 

Enjolras didn’t reply, already swinging himself onto his horse and urging her onwards, into the distance. Eponine didn’t know exactly what he did once their little meetings were over, nor did she care to, so long as he kept coming up with ways to snatch the loot right out from under Patron-Minette’s nose. 

Eponine clicked her tongue and urged her horse forwards. “C’mon, boy. It’s a long ride home.” 

***

Eponine didn’t give up all of the money, of course. The bonds from the safe all went to Combeferre, as did most of the proceeds from the pawned goods, but Eponine always kept whatever cash she had gotten for herself. Cash meant new shoes for Gavroche, who kept growing like a weed, a few yards of fabric and spools of thread so Azelma could make new clothes for them, fresh slate and chalk for their lessons since Gavroche kept losing or breaking them, food so they wouldn’t starve, and bullets for Eponine’s revolvers. 

Les Amis was two stops away from the place where they had robbed the train, or a long ride by horse or stagecoach. Eponine always just took her horse; given the loot she was carrying, she wasn’t going to risk spending a ride trapped with nosy strangers, and she liked the solitary ride anyways. 

She rolled into Les Amis early in the evening; the town stables were empty but for the horses and a sleeping stablehand, and she took care of her horse in silence. Musichetta’s bar was bustling, but not as rowdy as it would get as the night grew darker. The shops had all closed for the day, the shopkeepers and patrons all heading for home or the bar, but there was still a light on in the sheriff’s office. 

Eponine didn’t bother knocking as she strolled inside and dropped the bags on Combeferre’s desk. “Delivery.” 

Combeferre smiled politely and adjusted his glasses. “Eponine, you’re back early.” 

“Try late,” she said. “I did some shopping before coming back.”

“Apologies. It’s been a long day,” he said, his smile turning sheepish. “I’ve been busy making sure the schoolhouse is in order.” 

“The schoolhouse? What for?” 

He blinked at her in confusion. “Didn’t I tell you? We have a new teacher coming. A young woman, educated at a convent school back East, of all things. She starts at the beginning of the week—I thought I told you so that Gavroche and Azelma would know to come to school again.” 

“I thought the only newcomers we were getting was the old man who bought that ranch.” Eponine crossed her arms over her chest. “Thought you said you were going to keep me apprised on all this. You know we need to keep track of what places are safe to use as hideouts.” 

“They are the only newcomers,” Combeferre assured her. “She’s Mr. Fauchelevent’s daughter. Did you tell Enjolras—” 

“He knows. He was annoyed to lose his favorite hideout,” Eponine laughed, recalling the disgruntled expression on his face. “You don’t even want to know how many horses he was keeping there.” 

Combeferre shook his head, an amused smile on his face. “Speaking of Enjolras, I have something for him, if you don’t mind taking the trip out.” 

Eponine sighed heavily and rolled her eyes, but held out a hand. “Well, hand it over. I’ll bring it to him.” 

Combeferre, in response, reached under his desk and pulled out a hefty sack, dropping it onto the desk with a loud thunk. “You’re kidding,” Eponine said. “I am not taking that. It looks like it weighs as much as Gav.” 

“You’re a saint, Eponine,” Combeferre said, as he started to hide away the loot she had brought him. “Tell Enjolras that I’ll make sure this gets distributed to those who need it.” 

Eponine heaved the sack into her arms, grimacing as it strained her muscles. “You owe me for this, Combeferre. I’m not your damned errand girl.” 

“Thank you, Eponine!” Combeferre called after her as she left the building. Eponine resisted the urge to rudely gesture at him. 

Thankfully, she didn’t live far from the sheriff’s building, so she didn’t have to carry her cargo for long. She walked up the main street, passing by Joly’s clinic and Jehan’s newspaper office and Courfeyrac’s law office until she reached Mabeuf’s General Store. The stairs running up the side of the building creaked threateningly as she stomped up to the second floor, and she had to kick the door twice before it finally unstuck and swung open. 

The room was empty, both Azelma and Gavroche out on the town somewhere, the remains of their dinner left on their abandoned plates. Eponine tore off a chunk of bread and used it to scrape up the remaining beans on their plates, and then collapsed onto the bed, ready to sleep for a week. 

She was woken abruptly by a small, sharp knee to the stomach. On reflex she shot upright,  narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the head by a flailing arm. “You’re dead, Gavroche!” she yelled to the swinging door. 

Azelma, beside her, rolled over and pulled the blankets over her head. “It’s too early, Eponine, be quiet.” 

Eponine scowled and yanked down the blankets. “You wouldn’t think it was too early if you weren’t out all night! Get up, you’re helping Mabeuf run the store until I get home. I have errands to run.” 

“Again?” Azelma whined. “I’ve been helping Mabeuf for weeks!” 

“It was a few days,” Eponine said, rolling her eyes. “You can handle it for another few hours. I’ll be back before he closes for lunch. Unless you want to go run my errands?” 

“I’ll go help Mabeuf,” Azelma said quickly, before Eponine could even begin to make up a string of errands for Azelma to do. 

Eponine rolled out of bed and hunted around for a clean shirt, as Azelma dragged herself from the bed and trudged over to their small, makeshift kitchen. “Combeferre told me there’s a new teacher starting on Monday, tell Gav if you see him and make sure he gets to school.” 

“I don’t know why you think I can make sure he goes to school,” Azelma complained around a mouthful of bread. “He doesn’t listen to me!” 

Gavroche didn’t listen to anyone when it didn’t suit him, but Eponine wasn’t going to let Azelma off the hook that easily, so she just shrugged and tossed one, final, “Tell him anyways,” over her shoulder as she headed out the door. 

The town was bustling with the early-morning crowd, people doing their shopping before it got even busier later in the day. A few of them tipped their hats or nodded politely at Eponine as she passed them, but most of them were too preoccupied to pay her much heed. The stable was busy, but not overly so, and before too long she was riding out to the wilderness, Combeferre’s package situated behind her. 

Her horse plodded down the road, and slowly but surely the town disappeared behind her. She followed the road for a bit, but soon steered her horse deeper into the wilderness, towards the cliffs and mountains that rose up in the distance, where an ambush could be hiding behind any outcropping of rocks. She kept her guns at the ready and an eye on her surroundings. 

Sometimes she ran into trouble, but today she reached the outcropping where Enjolras camped without incident. It wasn’t much of a camp—a tent underneath a rock shelf, a campfire, a lamp, and a box that he used as a desk and as storage for his writing materials. He was hunched over it now, scribbling madly away.

“Delivery from Combeferre,” Eponine announced as she approached, so she wouldn’t spook him into firing on her. She dumped the sack on the ground. 

“Hold on,” Enjolras said, not looking up. “I’m almost done, and then you can take this to Jehan.” 

Knowing Enjolras, that could mean anything from five minutes to two hours of waiting. Eponine crouched down and opened up the sack, unpacking it just to have something to do. 

“New candles for you,” she announced. “And fresh ink. And your regular supply of tinned beans.” 

“Leave it,” Enjolras said. “I’ll deal with it later.” 

Eponine tossed a tin of beans at him, grinning at the irritated noise he made when it smacked into his arm and fell to the ground. “At least eat something, so I can tell Combeferre you aren’t starving to death out here.” 

Enjolras sighed and set down his pen in favor of his knife. He stabbed into the tin of beans, ruthlessly sawing around the top, and as soon as it was opened upended the tin of beans into his mouth like he was taking a shot of alcohol. Finished, he tossed the can into a nearby sack and picked up his pen. He chewed and swallowed for several minutes as he wrote, and then said, “There. Happy?” 

“Peachy,” Eponine said, as she picked up a can of peaches from the sack and tucked it into her pocket. Gavroche loved canned peaches; she could use them to bribe him into going to school. 

She continued to unpack as Enjolras wrote, unearthing several more tins of beans, a few tins of biscuits, and several other varieties of tinned fruits and vegetables. Combeferre had even thrown in a few sticks of licorice and peppermint, which Eponine retrieved as she went to sit next to Enjolras. 

“What’s this one about?” she asked, as she held out a stick of peppermint. “The rights of man?” 

“And woman,” Enjolras said, as he furiously dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. He looked over it once more, and then at last nodded and handed it to her. “Fifteen pages. Don’t lose it.” 

“Jehan will be overjoyed to have another manifesto to publish,” Eponine said, as she folded up the papers and tucked them into her shirt. 

Enjolras bit into his peppermint stick with a crunch. “It’s hardly a manifesto. I’m still working on that; it’s nowhere near ready to be published.” 

“But you are working on one,” Eponine teased, poking at him with the saliva-wet end of her peppermint stick. Enjolras scowled and prodded her with the sharp, bitten end of his stick. They engaged in a brief candy-stick fencing match until Enjolras reached the limits of his tolerance for silliness and wolfed down the rest of his peppermint. 

“I have work to do,” he said, as the peppermint crunched between his teeth. “I’ll be in contact once I have another job for you.” 

“Or if I find something,” Eponine said, as she swung herself up into the saddle. “I’ll see if Jehan’s heard anything about Patron-Minette. Don’t die out here, Blondie.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snapped, but Eponine only laughed and rode back towards town.

***

Eponine had met Enjolras while she was staggering away from the Patron-Minette camp, blood pouring down one leg and one arm. He was so stunningly beautiful that for a moment she thought she had staggered right into Heaven—at least until he levelled a gun to her head. 

After a few moments, he lowered it again. “Who are you?” he said, his voice quiet and dangerous. “And who did this to you?” 

“Eponine,” she said, and swallowed around the dryness in her throat. “Thenardier.” 

A dark shadow crossed over his face. “Patron-Minette. I should have known.” She braced herself, but to her surprise, he didn’t aim the gun at her again. “How far behind you are they?” 

“I don’t know. I let their horses loose—they were on foot—” She’d put Gavroche and Azelma on a horse and sent them off first, and then let the rest of the horses loose, and then taken a horse for herself. Everyone had been awake by then, though, so her horse hadn’t lasted long. 

He nodded curtly and stalked over to a small outcropping of rocks, just large enough for two people to fit behind. “This way. Can you shoot?” 

Eponine crouched beside him. “Still got one good arm.” 

He pulled out a square of red fabric. “Hold out your arm.” 

She offered up her arm—the sleeve was so red with blood she couldn’t even make out the faded pattern—and held still as he tied the fabric around her arm. 

“Did they get your leg as well?” he asked, pulling a longer strip of fabric from his bag. 

She nodded and risked a glance over the rock. She didn’t see anyone from Patron-Minette  yet, but there was a suspicious speck on the horizon, growing larger the longer she stared at it. 

Something tugged her skirt up, and on reflex she snapped her leg out, hitting the culprit square in the chest and knocking him back. “What do you think you’re doing?” she snarled. 

“Bandaging you,” he said crossly, as he sat back up and rubbed at his chest. “Unless you want to bleed out?” 

“That doesn’t mean you can go yanking up a girl’s skirts with no warning!” 

He stared at her blankly for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “I assure you, I have no interest in your body. Now, will you let me bandage you? You won’t be able to get it tight enough on your own with your arm in that state.” 

“Fine. But no funny business,” she warned, before pulling up her skirt to reveal the wound on her thigh. The bullet hadn’t lodged itself in her leg, thankfully, but it still hurt like hell. The pain only increased when he put pressure on it and started to bandage it. Thankfully, he bandaged the wound with a swift, businesslike manner, and before long had finished the task and returned to gazing out over the wilderness.

“Do you have a gun?” he asked. Eponine shook her head; she had dropped it when she fell from the horse, somewhere out there. 

He unslung his rifle from his shoulder and handed her the revolver at his hip, along with a box of cartridges. “Shoot when I stop to reload,” he said. “We’ll keep up a constant barrage to prevent their advance.” 

“There’s fifteen of them!” Eponine exclaimed. “It’ll never work. We’ll be overrun.” 

He stared her down with all the ferocity of an avenging angel. “It will work.” 

His voice left no room for doubt. Eponine stared at him for a moment more before examining the revolver to make sure it was ready to fire. It wasn’t long before Patron-Minette appeared, stalking across the wilderness. Stalking her, Eponine thought. 

Beside her, the blond stranger watched them, calm and collected, until they were in range of his rifle. A shot rang out as his finger squeezed the trigger, and moments later Montparnasse stumbled back as blood bloomed on his shoulder. He hid behind a rock, yelling something she couldn’t hear as the rest of the gang scattered. Another shot fired from the rifle, and another member of Patron-Minette fell, this time to a shot through the leg. 

When the stranger ran out of bullets and had to reload, Eponine took over, firing on anyone who dared peek out of their hiding spot. When she ran out of bullets, the stranger took over, and so they continued until Montparnasse called the retreat. The stranger held up a hand, signalling to hold her fire, as the members of Patron-Minette gathered up their wounded and vanished the way they had appeared. 

Once they were gone, Eponine offered up the revolver. “Thanks.” 

“Keep it. I have others,” he said dismissively. He eyed her up and down. “You need a horse as well, if you plan on getting anywhere.” 

She scowled at him. “I’ll get there myself. I don’t need your charity.” 

“It isn’t charity. It is my duty as your fellow man.” 

Eponine couldn’t help but snort. “What, you get that out of a book or something?” 

His glare would have chased the Devil out of Hell. “No. I’m writing one.” 

“Writing what?” 

“A book.” 

“Sure you are,” Eponine said. “You’re a book-writing, maiden-saving gunslinger. You wouldn’t happen to have horse-wrangling somewhere in that list of talents, would you?” 

In response, he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply enough to make her ears ache. A horse appeared from somewhere and galloped towards them, coming to a stop beside him. Eponine heaved herself into the saddle, gritting her teeth against the pain in her arm and leg. 

“There’s a town that way, Les Amis,” he said, turning the horse in a particular direction. “Combeferre will help you.” 

Eponine nodded her thanks and nudged the horse into a trot. “You’re alright, Blondie.” 

The blond stranger nodded at her in return. “My name is Enjolras. Welcome to Les Amis.” 

***

The moment Eponine walked into the general store, Azelma escaped without a word of farewell, leaving the door swinging in her wake. Eponine could only be thankful no one had actually witnessed Azelma running for the hills. There weren’t any customers for the shop, and Mabeouf, who had been slowly inching towards retirement ever since Eponine had started working for him, was out playing dominoes with his friends. 

Since no one was there, Eponine went to the back room and set about organizing the latest shipment from the city. It was dull, hard work, the sort that made her brain numb and her back ache, but at least it meant they had a roof over their heads. 

She didn’t stop until the bell over the front door rang. “Just a moment!” she called, as she heaved a sack of flour onto a shelf. Dusting off her hands, Eponine headed back to the counter. “Anything in particular you were looking for?” she asked, expecting one of their regular customers—someone seeking a delivery, maybe, or Musichetta coming to restock on ingredients for meals. 

Instead she was faced with beautiful eyes and gently curled hair and a horribly familiar face. 

“Oh,” said the girl from the train. “Hello, I’m the new schoolteacher. I’m going around to introduce myself to my students before I begin lessons.”

“I’m not one of your students,” Eponine said. 

She blushed prettily. “Oh, I hope—I mean, I assumed not. Mr. Combeferre said I could find the Thenardier children here.” 

Eponine snorted. “Sure, but you better not call them that if you want any hope of keeping them in that schoolhouse. I’m Eponine Thenardier, their sister. Gav and Azelma aren’t here right now.” 

To her surprise, the girl smiled. “That’s good. I mean, it’s such a nice day out—it would be a shame to spend it cooped up inside. Do you know where I could find them?” 

Knowing Gavroche, he could be anywhere from tagging along behind Courfeyrac or Bahorel to running around in the wilderness somewhere. He could be counted on to return if he got hungry and couldn’t scare up a meal anywhere else, but that was about it. Azelma, thankfully, was rather more predictable. 

“Azelma will be with Irma and Floreal at the Musain, or Matelote and Gibelote at the Corinth,” Eponine said. Azelma’s friends worked at the saloons as waitresses, and took pride in being some of the more beautiful and worldly members of the town. Azelma had latched onto them as a result, although Eponine would bet that Irma had never really been to Paris and that Floreal wasn’t actually her name. The two groups of girls disdained each other out of a sense of rivalry between the only two saloons in town, and Azelma was the sole bridge between them. She tended to be on the outs with one of the groups at any given time, but Eponine was damned if she could keep track of which one. 

“As for Gav, if you’re lucky he’ll find you. Or he might be in the gun shop with Bahorel, if you don’t mind going a bit out of your way.” 

“It’s just up the street, isn’t it?” the girl said. “That’s not too far at all. I’ll head up there right now, thank you, Miss Thenardier.” 

“Eponine’s fine. Nice meeting you, Miss . . . ?” 

“Oh!” She blushed again. “Cosette. Cosette Fauchelevent. I do hope I see you again . . . Eponine.” 

Cosette gave a small, dainty curtsy before turning to leave the shop. Not wanting to give her eyes the chance to linger, Eponine flipped open the catalogue on the countertop and stared resolutely down at an advertisement for a baby’s bonnet. The bell above the door rang, and Eponine waited for the sound of the door slamming shut behind Cosette. 

“Oh! Excuse me!” 

“No, no, excuse me,” a man said. Eponine looked up to see a stranger with dark, curly hair tipping his hat at Cosette. He was the kind of man that Irma, who tended to be shallow, would have disdained; Eponine, who had had her fill of pretty men with Montparnasse and Enjolras, was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“What can I do for you?” she asked. 

“I come in search of paper,” he declared. “Unbound, preferably, although if I have no other options I will accept it in any form, so long as it can be drawn on.” 

“Paper,” Eponine repeated, skeptically. No one other than Enjolras wanted to buy nothing but paper. 

The man shrugged, a rueful expression on his face. “My train was robbed; my supply of paper stolen. I can’t say why, since they left my paints and canvases, which are worth considerably more—although, I also couldn’t say what use train robbers have for philosophy, and they took my books as well. I don’t mind the loss of the books so much as I mind the loss of the notes they contained, which I suppose my robber will now enjoy instead of myself.” 

Eponine knew without even having to think that Enjolras was to blame; she only ordered so much paper each month, and Enjolras bought it all the moment it came in and then complained that she didn’t have any more. If Combeferre allowed him to spend all of his money on paper, he would do so in a heartbeat. 

The man was still rambling. 

“I’ll go see if we have any in the back,” Eponine said, even though she knew they didn’t. She stood in the backroom for fifteen minutes, planning out the next steps in organizing the room, and then returned. “Sorry, no paper. You could try Jehan at the printer’s, but no guarantees there.” 

“Alas and alack,” the man sighed. “When do you get more?” 

“Not for another month,” Eponine said. “Are you sticking around or moving on?” 

“Sticking around, for a time,” the man said, with a quirk of his lips. “This was the farthest train ticket I could buy that brought me to somewhere resembling civilization—by which I mean, somewhere with a place to buy a drink and a place to lay my head without building a house first. The first of which I suppose I’ll seek out now, the better to drown my sorrows over the lack of paper. Would you let me know if you get any more, Miss . . .?” 

“Eponine,” Eponine said. “And sure. If we have any paper in stock, I’ll let you know.” 

The man tipped his hat at her. “Grantaire. If some paper magically appears, you’ll find me in the nearest saloon.” 

Eponine waited until he had left to give in to the urge to scowl. She and Combeferre were going to have words. 

Just as soon as she was free from the damned General Store. 

***

“Combeferre, what the hell?” 

Combeferre looked up from his coffee and newspaper, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Eponine. Coffee?” 

“Don’t ‘Eponine’ me,” Eponine snapped, although she accepted the coffee. “You told me two newcomers.” 

“There are only two, as far as I was told,” Combeferre said. 

“Then explain the guy who waltzed into the general store and told me he was sticking around,” Eponine demanded. “Grantaire.” 

“Ah, yes, him,” Combeferre said. “In that case, we have three newcomers. There’s no need to worry about him; he hardly seems the type to work for the Pinkertons, and he won’t be buying land, so there’s no need to worry about losing another hideout. He’s an artist and a drunk; I know the type. In a month he’ll be run out of town due to debts, and we’ll never see him again.” 

“How do you know he’s a drunk?” 

“I am a doctor,” Combeferre said. “I know the signs. Also, Courfeyrac told me he drank a truly legendary amount of wine last night at the Musain.” 

Eponine glared at him over the rim of her cup, and he sighed. “Trust me, Eponine. At worst, he’ll be a minor nuisance.” 

“He better be,” Eponine said. “Or I’m taking it out of your share. Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Any time, Eponine,” Combeferre called after her as she left, letting the door to the sheriff’s office slam shut behind her. 

Azelma and Gavroche were still upstairs lingering over their breakfast when she returned home. Eponine set her hands on her hips and stared them down. “What do you two think you’re doing here? You need to leave for school.” 

“I’m not going,” Azelma said. “I’m going to move to the city with Floreal and Irma, and then I’ll find a rich husband and never have to go to school again.” 

“Floreal and Irma will move to the city when hell freezes over,” Eponine said, rolling her eyes. “Now get dressed, unless you want me to drag you there in your nightgown.” 

Azelma, who had a crush on a boy at school and knew that Eponine wasn’t one for idle threats, went pale and scrambled to get dressed.  

“I’m not going to school,” Gavroche declared, much more firmly than Azelma had. “I’m going to be a gunslinger like Enjolras.” 

“Enjolras is a gunslinger in his dreams,” Eponine said. “And how are you planning on being a gunslinger without a gun, anyways?” 

“I’ll buy one.” 

“With what money?” 

Gavroche shrugged. “Then I’ll steal one.” 

He would do it, too—and knowing Bahorel, he’d probably be allowed to get away with it. Eponine had no desire to see Gavroche turn to a life of gunslinging and petty crime, and in a moment of desperation said, “I’ll give you a nickel towards a six-shooter for every full week you go to school.” 

Gavroche’s eyes went wide. “Really? You mean it, Eponine?” 

No backing out now. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean it.” 

“Not fair!” Azelma exclaimed. “If Gavroche gets a nickel towards a gun, then I want a nickel towards a new dress!” 

This was bound to end in flames, but in the meantime at least they would be going to school. “Fine. For each full week of school, you each get a nickel. Now hurry up and get dressed, before you forfeit your nickel for the week.” 

They got dressed in record time, not even squabbling over whose slate was whose before slamming open the door and tumbling down the steps, nearly running over Joly in their haste. 

“Oh, dear, be careful!” Joly exclaimed. He looked up at her and beamed. “Good morning, Eponine! They’re energetic today. The circus isn’t in town, is it?” 

“They’re going to school,” she said, leaning against the bannister to watch them running down the street. 

“Well, I can’t blame them there!” Joly laughed and tapped his nose with his cane. “The new schoolteacher certainly is pretty, isn’t she?” 

“She is,” Eponine agreed without thinking. Seeing Joly grinning at her, his eyes sparkling with laughter, she rolled her eyes. “Why, you thinking of making a move? Here I thought Musichetta was more than enough for you.” 

“That she is,” Joly laughed. “Now, I’m afraid I have to be going; Mr. Fauchelevent had a horse he wanted me to take a look at. Good day, Eponine!” 

It wasn’t shaping up to be a bad one, at least. Mabeuf left the shop to her for most of the day, which was how she liked it. A few people came by for a bit of shopping and conversation and lingered by the counter for a while, giving Eponine the gossip she’d missed while she’d been away. Once Mabeuf got tired of losing at dominos and came to take over the shop for the afternoon, Eponine went to the Musain to get the rest of the gossip from Musichetta. 

“Saw Montparnasse the other day,” Musichetta said as she poured them each a glass of whiskey, finer than Eponine could really afford. 

“Really? With his usual gang?” 

“No,” Musichetta said, grinning slyly. “With Jehan.” 

Eponine nearly choked on her drink. “You’re joking.” 

“Saw him myself, as I was hanging up my laundry around early this morning. Almost thought I was still dreaming, I had to pinch myself to make sure!” 

Eponine drummed her fingers on the table and frowned. “Jehan should be careful with him. Montparnasse is a good source of information, but he’s got to have some motivation of his own. He might be trying to get close to Jehan for information.” 

“Even if he was, and even if Jehan knew anything Montparnasse wanted to know, Jehan wouldn’t tell him anything,” Musichetta said. “The only thing he’s going to get out of Jehan is poetry. And maybe orgasms.” 

Eponine grimaced and took a sip of her whiskey. “Don’t mention Montparnasse’s orgasms to me.” 

“Jehan’s are fine though?” Musichetta laughed at the expression Eponine made. “Okay, okay, I’ll change the subject. Bossuet and Joly made a new friend last night.” 

“Oh, great, what’s the damage?” Eponine said dryly. 

“Most of my wine,” Musichetta said. “I’ve got a bottle of something I’d only serve to Enjolras left, and that’s it.” 

“Enjolras doesn’t drink.” 

“Exactly, so he won’t realize that it tastes like piss.” 

Eponine snorted. “So, who’s the guilty party?” 

Musichetta nodded towards the stairs. “My new lodger. Paid up for the month and everything.” 

“He paid for the month? Damn.” 

“What, did you have a run-in with him?” Musichetta narrowed her eyes. “What did he do?” 

“Nothing,” Eponine said. “I was hoping he’d get run out of town. What kind of artist has enough money to pay for lodging upfront for an entire month? And buy expensive train tickets?” 

Musichetta only looked amused. “We don’t run people out of town for debt and you know it. At worst I’d make him work for room and board. And I don’t know what kind of artist he is; he didn’t even say he was one.” 

“He came by to buy paper for drawing,” Eponine explained. 

Musichetta laughed. “In this town? Good luck. I’m half surprised Enjolras hasn’t taken to robbing Jehan yet.” 

“He wouldn’t, Jehan is his method of getting the word to the people,” Eponine said. “Or so he says, anyways. Personally I think he knows that Jehan would eviscerate him if he did anything to the printing press.” 

“I thought his method of getting the word to the people was standing on a box in the middle of the street and shouting real loud,” Musichetta said. 

“That’s only when he gets bored.” 

“He sure gets bored easily, then,” Musichetta snorted, but then looked thoughtful. “Not recently, though.” 

“I think the manifesto is going well,” Eponine said, taking a sip from her cup to avoid meeting Musichetta’s eyes. Musichetta had a way of telling when you were lying. “He was writing up a storm when I went to see him.” 

“That’s good,” Musichetta said. “Maybe he’ll come home soon. Then he can stop stealing away my customers every time he comes to town.” 

A door upstairs slammed, and they both fell quiet. “‘Chetta,” Grantaire called as he clattered down the stairs. “You got an outhouse around here?” 

“Out back, R,” she called. Grantaire, yawning, ambled towards the back door. 

Eponine tossed back the remainder of her drink and slid off her stool. “See you around, ‘Chetta,” she said. 

“And where are you going?” Musichetta asked, raising one curious eyebrow. 

“I’m gonna go see if Gav and Azelma went to school like they said they would.” 

The schoolhouse was a small distance away from town in some attempt to ensure that the students wouldn’t be distracted by the goings-on in town. It was just one room, with several rows of benches, boys on one side and girls on the other, less experienced students in the front and more experienced students in the back. Eponine had never attended it herself, but she’d been there a few times for Gavroche and Azelma, at least until the last teacher had gone back East in the middle of the previous school year. No one had had the time to pick up the lessons full-time, and although they had tried to share the duties, attendance by both students and teachers had been spotty ever since. 

Eponine arrived just in time for students to be let out for the day. The older students made their escape first—Azelma attempted to catch the eyes of one of the boys, and sulkily returned to talking with a few of the other girls when she failed—and then the younger ones. Eponine waited, but even once the youngest of them had skipped off towards home, Gavroche didn’t appear. 

With a sigh, Eponine trooped up to the front door. She’d ask Cosette if he’d at least shown up and stayed for a bit, to find out how much she should yell at him. She’d hoped that he would stick it out for the day, but she probably should have expected that he would run off before the day was over. School never kept Gavroche’s attention for long, and punishments that might have cowed another student into paying attention only made him determined not to. 

She should have talked to Cosette more when she came to the shop—told her more about Gavroche instead of getting distracted. When Gavroche made up his mind about someone, it was hard to change his opinion. She could only hope that the promise of a nickel each week was enough to keep him in school if he and Cosette had gotten off on the wrong foot. 

She nudged the door open, expecting that either the room would be empty or Gavroche would be in the middle of getting scolded. To her surprise, though, she found Cosette perched delicately on one of the benches for the students as Gavroche sat on a desk, swinging his legs back and forth. 

“It is a shame to be inside on such a nice day, isn’t it?” Cosette was saying to Gavroche in a conspiring tone. “I’d much rather be out for a ride, myself. Do you like horses, Gavroche?” 

Gavroche nodded enthusiastically. “I’m going to have a horse, someday, and a six-shooter, and a hat, and then I’m going to be a gunslinger! And I don’t need to go to school to be a gunslinger.” 

“Well,” Cosette said thoughtfully, “if you’re a gunslinger, you’re going to have to deal with money, aren’t you?” 

Gavroche wrinkled up his nose. “I s’pose.” 

“Well, that’s what math is useful for,” Cosette said. “I know sums can seem an awful bore, but I use them all the time when helping Papa manage the budget. And I suppose your sister must use them all the time working for the store.” 

“I s’pose,” Gavroche grumbled. “But I don’t want to work for the store. And Feuilly never went to school, and he does fine for himself!” 

“I’ve never met Feuilly,” Cosette said. “Does he live in town?” 

Gavroche nodded enthusiastically. “Feuilly can do anything! He made me firecrackers for my birthday.” 

“That is impressive,” Cosette said. “I have no idea how to make firecrackers.” 

Gavroche lowered his voice. “Feuilly showed me how, but you can’t tell anyone. He said Ep might get mad at him.” 

“It will be our secret,” Cosette promised. “Now, I’m certain you want to be outside. Will I see you in class tomorrow?” 

Gavroche shrugged and hopped off the desk. “Sure, I guess. You aren’t so bad.” 

He turned around and paused for a moment as he noticed Eponine in the doorway. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You better warn Feuilly to run. I’m coming for him.” 

Gavroche grinned and raced off, barely giving Eponine a chance to ruffle his hair as he raced out the door. “You’ll never catch us!” 

Cosette laughed as she unfolded herself from the bench. “He certainly is energetic. I think I might hold some classes outside—it would be good for them to have a change of scenery.” 

Eponine couldn’t hide her surprise; the last teacher had been a stuck-up, stuffy older man who would have had a fit at the mere thought of having a class outside. 

Cosette, seeing her expression, giggled. “I know, but sometimes I get just as tired of being cooped up as my students! I never got to leave school when I was a student, and I absolutely hated it. The nuns used to rap my knuckles with a ruler or scold me in front of everyone for staring out the window during class, and that was the worst. I’ve resolved never to do that to my students.” 

“No wonder Gav likes you already,” Eponine said. 

Cosette smiled prettily. “Oh, does he? I’m glad. Some people say that you shouldn’t worry about being liked by your students, but I think everything goes much more smoothly when you get along. I always learned best from the teachers I liked. Didn’t you?” 

Eponine had never been to school, but she shrugged. “I suppose.” 

“I think,” Cosette said thoughtfully as she began to gather up her belongings, “that it’s important to take the students as individuals into account. Like Gavroche. He had trouble paying attention in class, so I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do to help him pay attention.” 

Eponine snorted. “Good luck. I’m impressed he stayed for the whole day.” 

Cosette frowned. “He’s a very bright boy. Given the opportunity, I’m certain he would excel in his studies.” 

Eponine looked Cosette in the eye and knew that she wasn’t just saying things—she really,  honestly believed what she was saying. 

Eponine cleared her throat. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve—I’ve kept you long enough. I should get back.” 

“Eponine, wait!” 

Eponine paused in the middle of turning towards the door to look back at Cosette. Cosette froze, as if she hadn’t expected Eponine to actually wait and now wasn’t entirely sure what to say. Her cheeks flushed pink. “Would—would you show me the way to town? I don’t know the way from the schoolhouse yet.” 

And, damn her, Eponine should refuse. She should get the hell away from Cosette and her distracting eyes and her charming smile, but she couldn’t. So Eponine offered Cosette her arm, and Cosette, beaming, tucked her arm through Eponine’s. 

For a moment, they walked in silence. On occasion, Eponine glanced down at Cosette out of the corner of her eye to find Cosette looking up at her through her lashes. 

It made Eponine’s throat go dry and her mind go blank every damn time. She wondered, absently, if this was how it felt to be Marius when faced with an unexpected social occasion.

 “So, were you wanting anything in particular?” Eponine asked at last. 

“Oh! No,” Cosette said. “Papa did the shopping already, while I went around to visit the students in town. I just wanted to take a look around, I suppose. Maybe you could show me your favorite places?” 

“Well, there’s the general store,” Eponine said, since although it was hardly one of her favorite places, it was where she spent most of her days. “But if you’re looking for somewhere to spend time, you’d be better off going to the Musain or the Corinth. Personally, I recommend the Musain. Better food. But it’s a bit early for anyone to be there—you get more of a crowd later in the evening. Other than that, there’s not much to see around here other than a whole lot of dirt.” 

“It’s nice here, though,” Cosette said. “So refreshing! Especially when you can just walk a little ways, and it’s like you’re somewhere completely different. When we lived in the city, I never got to just walk through the countryside like this. I’ve been out for a ride every single day since I arrived here, and I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it. Do you like riding, Eponine?” 

Most of the time when Eponine rode a horse, it was for a purpose, more about the final destination than the trip itself. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d ridden a horse just for the enjoyment of it, but she shrugged. “Sure, I like it.” 

The smile Cosette gave her this time was a small, hopeful thing. “Maybe you’d like to join me, some time. I saw the prettiest wildflowers the other day.” 

If Eponine was smart, she would’ve said no. Cosette had seen her on the train that day—how long would it take her to realize that she hadn’t met Eponine for the first time in the general store? But then she looked at Cosette’s flushed cheeks and sweet smile and felt that her brains might have leaked out her ears for all the good they did her. 

“Yeah,” she found herself saying. “That sounds nice.” 

She could practically hear Enjolras complaining about Distractions from the Cause already.

Chapter Text

One month did not see Grantaire chased from the town. Instead, it saw the arrival of his paycheck, although Eponine wasn’t sure what exactly he was getting paid for. The money went to pay off his tabs and the next month’s rent, and then paid for a night of drinks at the Musain as well. By morning, most of the town was either hungover or still slightly drunk. 

Combeferre, to Eponine’s satisfaction, was no exception, as evidenced by the pained groan he let out when she slammed a cup of coffee on his desk. 

Somehow, in the span of a month Grantaire had managed to ingratiate himself to the majority of the town. They found him an endless source of entertainment when he was in a good mood, and when he was in a bad mood he made himself scarce, so he did nothing to diminish this good impression. Eponine didn’t know where he went when he was in such moods, and neither did those who had become his closest friends, and that worried her. It worried Combeferre, but he didn’t have the time to spare to try to keep track of Grantaire any more than she did, and didn’t believe he was enough of a threat to make time. 

The worst part, however, was that somehow he’d managed to win over Gavroche. 

It hadn’t been immediately apparent; she’d been too pleased that Gavroche was consistently going to school—as reported by Cosette whenever Eponine swung by the schoolhouse, just to ask if he’d been going, not at all to see Cosette—to be worried about what Gavroche was doing in his spare time. Gavroche’s spare time was Gavroche’s spare time, and he did as he pleased with it. But she did notice when instead of running off somewhere, he sat on the front step for hours at a time, usually alone, but occasionally joined by Grantaire. 

“What’re you doing out here, anyways?” Eponine asked, when she decided it was time to take a break from manning the store. 

Gavroche had a pocketknife in one hand and a strangely shaped block of wood in the other, and had set his slate on the step between his feet so that he could squint down at it while he chipped away at the block. 

“R taught me,” he said. “He said it helps him focus.” 

“Is it working?” Eponine asked. 

Gavroche shrugged, but he didn’t get bored of what he was doing for another hour or two. Cosette’s reports of Gavroche’s behavior in class improved, and Eponine gained a growing collection of oddly shaped wooden blocks. 

“I don’t like it,” she told Combeferre. “Grantaire is getting too close, too quickly.” 

“I know this might seem strange to you and Enjolras, but some people happen to be likeable,” Combeferre said. 

“Fuck off,” she said. 

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Combeferre sighed. “Are you going to see Enjolras today?” 

“Well, someone has to make sure he hasn’t starved or been eaten by mountain lions yet,” Eponine said. 

Enjolras, for his part, didn’t care about newcomers except when they bought land and disrupted his carefully organized system of hideouts or when they had something they might contribute to his cause. He had responded to her news of an artist in town with a blank stare, and she was quite certain that he had forgotten all about it in favor of planning their next heist and working on his manifesto. So it was with some surprise that she arrived to find him leaning against the rock outcropping that formed his shelter, skimming through a book. As she approached, he slipped the book into the inside of his waistcoat and stood. “Eponine. Do you have the news?” 

“Hello to you too, Enjolras,” she said, throwing a newspaper at his head. Enjolras caught it out of the air and unfolded it, making a pleased noise as he spotted his most recent article on the front page. “Jehan wanted to ask if you have anything for next month.” 

“Yes,” Enjolras said, absentmindedly nodding towards the desk. “Not as long as this—I’ve been making progress on my manifesto—” 

“So, twelve pages instead of fifteen?” Eponine snorted. 

“Thirteen,” Enjolras corrected primly. He flipped through the paper, read over a page or two, and then nodded once. “I have a job for us.” 

“A job?” Eponine said.

Enjolras nodded and spread the paper out over the desk. A selection of Jehan’s poetry marched over the page, the lines falling off and starting again abruptly, a strange change from the neat, uniform lines of the rest of the paper. 

Enjolras tapped one of the poems. “Patron-Minette is going after Tholomyes.” 

“Tholomyes? Wait, that Tholomyes?” Eponine said. “The train guy?” 

Enjolras pursed his lips. “Trains, coal, oil, banking—if there’s a pie, his fingers are in it. He’s a cutthroat businessman, as dirty as they come—he could put even your father to shame. He’s traveling by train to do some business in the city, and Patron-Minette has plans to intercept his train and rob him. We’ll do our usual tactic; intercept the train before they can. They make their move in six days. I’ll set out tomorrow to prepare. Meet me at the usual place in five days.” 

“I’ll be there,” Eponine said, already making plans for the supplies she’d have to buy. Bahorel was always down to sell her some bullets, and Feuilly might have some fireworks that would make for a suitable distraction if necessary. 

Enjolras only flipped to the next page of the paper, already absorbed in his reading. Knowing him, he wouldn’t emerge until he had read it cover-to-cover at least two or three times. Eponine left him to it, swinging herself up onto her horse and heading back to town. 

Bahorel, as predicted, happily provided her with enough bullets to take down the entirety of Patron-Minette. Feuilly didn’t have anything on hand, but promised to fix up something suitable for a distraction within the next five days. With that business taken care of, Eponine made her way to the Musain for a much-needed drink and meal. 

The saloon wasn’t anywhere near empty, of course. A few games of cards and dominoes were going on at the tables; Mabeuf had obviously closed up early or left Azelma in charge, because he was cheerfully losing all his money at the dominoes table. Joly and Bossuet were both at the bar, but they weren’t sitting next to each other for once. Instead, Grantaire sat in between them, leaning his back against the bar and staring up at the roof. Occasionally, Joly and Bossuet shared amused looks with each other or Musichetta as Grantaire rambled on. 

Eponine took a seat next to Joly, and Musichetta slid her a shot of whiskey and went off to bring her some food without even having to be asked. Beside Joly, Grantaire waved his hands aimlessly. “He was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, Jolllly, I don’t believe in God but I think now I believe in angels—” 

“Let me guess,” Eponine said dryly. “Someone took a walk through the wilderness.” 

Grantaire looked at her, eyes wide. “How did you know?” He sighed and turned back to the ceiling. “I think I had a religious experience.” 

Eponine snorted and downed her shot. “Trust me, it’s a common ailment around here.” 

“He appeared out of nowhere,” Grantaire sighed. “His hair, alight with the sun, his eyes ablaze with righteous fury—Apollo among mortals. I would capture his image, but alas, I couldn’t even begin to do him justice, and have misplaced my journal besides. I can’t even be certain if he was real or a figment of my imagination, for he was gone as soon as he had appeared, giving me not even a chance to ask for his name.” 

“Enjolras,” Eponine coughed. 

“Bless you,” Grantaire said. 

Musichetta returned from the back, bearing a meal of steak and mashed potatoes and gravy, with a biscuit on the side. She poured each of them a fresh shot of whiskey, except for Grantaire, not that he noticed. “And his eyes,” he sighed. 

“As blue as cornflowers,” Joly said, suppressing a giggle. 

“As blue as water on a clear day,” Bossuet added, not even bothering to hide his laughter. 

“As blue as the sky!” Joly declared, spreading his arms wide. 

“They’ve been at this for hours,” Musichetta muttered to Eponine, who nearly snorted her whiskey out of her nose. 

“As blue as melancholy,” Grantaire sighed—”That’s a new one,” Bossuet noted—”And his hair—!” 

“Like spun gold,” Joly said, sighing playfully. 

“Like sunshine,” Bossuet said, still laughing. 

“Like . . . happiness given physical form,” Grantaire said. 

“Now there’s a way I never thought I’d hear Enjolras described,” Eponine muttered to Musichetta, who attempted to hide a snort in a cough. 

Grantaire scoffed and threw up his hands. “‘His hair was yellow, and his eyes were blue,’ I say, and thus fail completely to encapsulate him! His beauty is unearthly, and earthly words aren’t enough to describe it. What would his blue eyes be, without the intensity that I saw within them? What do I care for his hair, if not for how it fell in front of his face to frame his impassioned expression?” 

Courfeyrac slid onto the bar stool on Bossuet’s other side. “A passionate, blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty? Has our avenging angel claimed another victim, or do my ears deceive me?” 

“Grantaire had a religious experience in the wilderness,” Eponine said dryly. 

“Another victim indeed,” Courfeyrac said, with a happy sigh. “Musichetta, another drink for the unfortunate soul.” 

Grantaire, who had slumped to the bar, raised his head again. “Unfortunate? No, I count myself as supremely fortunate, for I have managed to live long enough to experience such beauty for myself, and may hope to experience it again.” 

Courfeyrac reached over Bossue to pat Grantaire’s shoulder sympathetically. “Cheer up, my friend, there are other fish in the sea! None so beautiful, perhaps, but other fish nonetheless. Floreal, Floreal, come cheer up Grantaire, maybe you’ll help his heart return to him.” 

Floreal only laughed. “I think you’d have better luck than me with that one, Mr. Courfeyrac.” 

A devilish smile lit up Courfeyrac’s face. “Is that so? Well, then—” 

But before he could enact whatever he had planned, Musichetta slammed a shot onto the table in front of him and stared him down. “You’ll leave my guests alone, Courfeyrac, if you know what’s good for you.” 

Courfeyrac held up his hands in mock-innocence. “Only joking, only joking! You know I don’t mean to cause trouble, ‘Chetta.” 

Musichetta rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “The only thing you do is cause trouble, Courfeyrac.” 

Courfeyrac gasped, his hand pressed to his chest. “Attacked! Cruelly attacked, in my own home—” 

“This isn’t your home,” Musichetta said. 

Courfeyrac jerked as if shot. “Another blow! Alas, at this rate I may not last the night. Only a drink can ease my pain.” He reached for his drink, only to find that Bossuet, having lost his drink to Grantaire, had downed it in the meantime. He looked pleadingly to Musichetta, who obligingly poured him a new one and added it to his tab. 

Musichetta held up the bottle to Eponine questioningly, but she shook her head. “I have to work tomorrow—I leave again in five days.” 

Joly perked up. “If you’re going to stop by the city, would you be so kind as to pick something up for me? I read an interesting article recently about a new medicine that’s just been developed, and I’m curious to see if it’s all talk or not.” 

“Speaking of articles!” Courfeyrac declared, and pulled several rolled-up newspapers out of his coat. “Have you read Jehan’s paper? I couldn’t resist, I had to buy out the run; Jehan always looks so happy to sell all the papers. I’m going to mail them back East, spread the good word—Did you know that my younger sister has apparently taken to reading the front page articles voraciously and is on her way to becoming a full-fledged suffragist? My parents are horrified with me—” 

“Haven’t had the time,” Musichetta interrupted before Courfeyrac could get really going, leaning over the bar to take a look. “How’s my ad look? I had R do up a new one for me.” 

“I thought it looked better!” Courfeyrac said. “Right here, next to the ad for the Corinth.” 

Joly and Bossuet had claimed another paper and spread it between them, ignoring how this trapped Grantaire into staring at the paper as well. “Go to Jehan’s poems, they’re so beautiful—”

“Hold on,” Bossuet said, “I want to read the front page article first—”  

“Oh, but it always goes on for at least ten pages, and the poems are usually only five—” 

“Except that one time when the poems were twenty pages long—” 

“Yes, but the front page article was almost forty pages that time, so really it was only fair—” 

Grantaire, spotting the title of the paper for the first time, snorted. “ Les Amis De L’ABC? I’m not sure if I hope the pun was intentional or not.” 

Joly beamed. “Isn’t it clever? We helped come up with it. The original title was meant to be—what was it?” 

“ A Monthly Exposition on the Current State of Humankind and the Steps Necessary to Correct It, With Philosophic and Poetic Interludes ,” Bossuet said. “But that was too long.” 

Courfeyrac, likely recalling how offended Enjolras had been when they informed him the title was too long, snickered. He’d been even more horrified when Jehan had suggested calling it simply Poetic Interludes instead. 

Bossuet, giving in to Joly’s pleading, made to turn the page, only for Grantaire to reach out and stop him. Grantaire’s eyes skimmed down the page—he laughed or snorted occasionally as he read—and then back up to the top again. After his second read-through, he let out a disbelieving laugh. “Is this for real?” 

“Entirely,” Courfeyrac assured him. “Incredible, isn’t it?” 

“Incredibly naive, perhaps,” Grantaire said. “The first paragraph alone is so unbelievably optimistic it makes my teeth rot—and some of these claims are so disconnected from reality that I have to wonder if the writer has spent any time in the real world at all, or if he lives solely in the writings of Rousseau!” 

Courfeyrac blinked for a moment, taken aback, before a delighted grin spread across his face, a clear sign that he’d seen the potential for mischief somewhere. “Oh? Do tell me more, dear R.” 

“Gladly!” Grantaire declared, smacking his hand against the paper so firmly that Bossuet and Joly nearly dropped it. “Now, the second paragraph, although it has some pretty turns of phrase, is entirely lacking in substance—” 

Eponine, not interested in hearing a thorough dissection of Enjolras's writing, glanced outside to see that it had fallen dark entirely. She rifled through her pockets for a handful of coins and handed them off to Musichetta to pay her tab. 

“Heading out so soon?” Musichetta asked. 

“Someone’s got to make sure Gav and Azelma head to bed at a decent hour,” Eponine said. “I’ll see you around, ‘Chetta. Let me know if there’s anything you want me to pick up on my trip.” 

When she returned home, to her surprise both Gavroche and Azelma were pouring over the paper. Azelma liked to read the poems sometimes, since she and her friends thought they were terribly romantic, but Gavroche usually wouldn’t be caught dead near the paper. “You taking up politics now, Gav?” Eponine asked, as she dressed for bed. 

Gavroche lifted up the paper, ignoring Azelma’s protest. “Look! R drew pictures for the paper, like I said he should!” 

“Yeah, Musichetta said he did the new advertisement for the Musain,” Eponine said. 

“Not those, those are boring,” Gavroche scoffed. “These are funny!” 

“Something funny? In the ABC? Enjolras is going to have a heart attack,” Eponine laughed as she joined them on the bed. “Come on, let’s see.” 

There were a few of them, sprinkled throughout the paper—a few illustrations for some of Jehan’s poems, a few more advertisements, and a few funny illustrations telling the tale of a young gunslinger with a striking resemblance to Gavroche. 

“He said he’d draw ‘em for me because I did good on my math test, and then I showed ‘em to Bahorel and Courfeyrac, and they showed them to Jehan, and then Jehan said that they could look good in the paper,” Gavroche said proudly. “So really, it’s because of me that R’s in the paper!” 

“He’s not in the paper, they’re just pictures,” Azelma said. 

“You’re just mad ‘cause you didn’t get any pictures,” Gavroche said smugly. Azelma sulkily shoved the newspaper away and rolled over to face the wall. 

Eponine rolled her eyes and took the paper away, ignoring Gavroche’s protests. “I’m sure he’d be happy to draw a picture for you if you asked, Azelma. Now get to bed. You have school in the morning.” 

***

Five days after her last meeting with Enjolras found Eponine riding up to their usual meeting spot, far enough away from the city that Enjolras could store their horses without having to worry about someone coming across them, and close enough to the railroad that they could easily escape once Patron-Minette hijacked the train. Enjolras had brought two more horses for them to use to ride out to the point he’d chosen for their boarding. 

Usually he was busy with checking and double-checking his guns when she arrived, but this time she found him leaning against a tree, flipping through a book that he slipped away as soon as he noticed her. “We’re doing things differently, this time,” he announced, handing her a slip of paper. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Train tickets?” 

“I expect there will be too many guards accompanying Tholomyes for us to board as we usually do,” he said. 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You went into the city and bought these?” 

“Of course not. Combeferre bought them for me.” 

“Of course.” Eponine rolled her eyes and stuffed the ticket into her pocket. “Well, let’s get going.” 

“Not so fast. Those are first class tickets. We have to look the part,” Enjolras said. He reached into one of the saddlebags. 

Moments later, a bundle of cloth smacked Eponine in the face. She sputtered and tried to find her way out of it—there seemed to be much more fabric than necessary. She finally managed to straighten it out, and found herself holding an obviously expensive dress, far nicer than anything Eponine wore. “The hell’s this?” 

“Wear your trousers underneath it,” Enjolras said, as he shucked his worn, hole-ridden trousers and stepped into a fresh pair of trousers. “You can rip off the skirt when the time comes.” 

“Do you see how well-made this thing is? I’d need a knife and half an hour to cut it off,” Eponine said. 

“Fine,” Enjolras said, with an irritating scoff. “Since I expected you might be difficult— ” 

“Difficult! I’ll show you difficult, you little—” 

“Take these instead,” Enjolras said, pulling out a rather flamboyant pair of trousers that Eponine was certain belonged to Courfeyrac. “They’re closer to your size than Combeferre’s.” 

“Why even bother with the dress if you had these?” Eponine muttered as she dressed in the trousers and the accompanying shirt, waistcoat, coat, all of which looked to be Courfeyrac’s. Her hair, as always, she tucked up into her hat. 

“A gentleman and a lady make for an easier story,” Enjolras said. “People wouldn’t even wonder about our relationship; they would simply assume us to be husband and wife. With two gentlemen, the mind starts to wonder—school friends? Partners? Brothers?” 

“I think that’s just you and your paranoia,” Eponine said. “No one’s going to even ask.” 

“If they do, we’ll say that we’re business partners,” Enjolras said. 

“School friends,” Eponine corrected, shooting him a teasing grin. “No one’ll believe that you’re old enough to be in business.” 

Enjolras, clearly affronted, let out another irritated noise before turning on his heel and mounting his horse. Eponine, still grinning to herself, followed suit, and together they set off down the road. 

Enjolras was relaxed, this far away from civilization, but he grew tense as they neared the noise and the chaos of the city. He glared at every shop they passed and narrowed his eyes at anyone who dared to hawk their wares within his earshot. His horse clearly liked it just as much as he did, and Enjolras took to sympathetically patting its neck whenever they passed a rattling carriage or cart. 

He didn’t relax when they presented their tickets and boarded the train, but his demeanor shifted as he prepared himself for the job. 

“His carriage is beyond the baggage compartment, at the end of the train,” Enjolras murmured to her. “Guarded, obviously, but I don’t know how many. Jehan said that a member of Patron-Minette might be among them, but couldn’t get any more information.” 

“Want me to take a look, see what I can see?” 

After a moment, Enjolras nodded. “Once we’re underway—I’ll tell you when. Don’t let them see you.” 

“As if I would,” Eponine said. 

Enjolras stiffened again as the shriek of the whistle pierced the air, relaxing only once the train had left the city behind. He waited for a moment longer before pressing his elbow against hers. Eponine stood without a word and slipped away to the baggage compartment. 

The compartment was empty, but a quick glance out the window in the back door showed a guard standing in front of the next door, gun at the ready. She waited a few minutes, just in case, but no one else appeared. 

She returned to Enjolras, doing her best to look casual. “One guard at the door,” she murmured. “I didn’t want to risk getting close enough to try to look inside.” 

“That’s fine. We can handle one guard. On my signal, go to the baggage carriage. I’ll join you.” 

Nearly half an hour passed before Enjolras pressed his elbow against hers again; as before, Eponine stood and went to the baggage carriage, this time waiting there for Enjolras. He only took a few minutes, but it felt like longer before he was at her side, peering out the window. 

“What do you think?” Eponine asked. “Dropped my cigarette? Help, my friend needs a doctor?” 

Enjolras shook his head. “Those won’t work. I have a better idea,” he said, and with that he grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the door so forcefully that the glass rattled. 

Eponine was only barely able to stop her head from rebounding against the door, and glared at him. “A little bit of warning?” 

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, unapologetically, before raising his fist and slamming it into the door beside her head. Eponine shouted as if he’d actually hit her, and Enjolras hit the door again. Eponine reached behind her, groping around for the handle, and yanked the door open as soon as she gripped it. At the same moment, Enjolras shoved her, and Eponine let herself fall through the door, landing heavily against the rail, both pinned and kept steady by Enjolras's grip on her.  Eponine thrashed underneath him, holding onto his shoulders as if to keep him away. 

“Get this maniac off me!” she shouted at the guard. He stepped forward, ready to smack Enjolras with the butt of his rifle. As soon as he was within grabbing distance, Eponine released Enjolras, who reeled about and hit the guard square in the nose. He stumbled back, shocked, and Eponine followed up with an elbow to his groin. He fell to his knees, groaning, and Enjolras wrenched the gun out of his hands and smacked him over the head with it. The guard collapsed, motionless. 

Enjolras crouched down and came up with a set of keys. He tossed them to Eponine, who turned them in the lock of the door. She looked to Enjolras, and he gave her a solemn nod as he tied his bandana around his face. She did the same, and then placed her hand on the handle of the door. One last deep breath, and then she shoved it open, pistol pointed into the carriage. 

Her eyes widened. “Shit.” Slowly, she let her pistol fall to her side. “Enjolras.” 

Enjolras was at her side in a heartbeat; she heard the moment his breath caught in his throat. “Shit.” 

Tholomyes was in the carriage behind an ornate desk, which had clearly been rifled through. Papers were strewn about the carriage carelessly, not that Eponine thought Tholomyes would care, considering he had taken a bullet—or bullets, rather—through his face, leaving an unrecognizable mess behind. There were four more guards in the room, slumped against the walls of the carriage, each one sitting in a puddle of blood. 

“Someone did some redecorating,” Eponine said, sliding her pistol back into the holster. 

“Shit,” Enjolras said. “The papers—someone’s been through his papers already. I have to see if they missed anything—” 

Before he could take so much as a step into the carriage, Eponine heard the tell-tale sound of someone cocking a pistol. 

“Put your hands in the air.” 

Slowly, Eponine turned, raising her hands into the air. Beside her, Enjolras did the same. There was only one man, but his gun was pointed directly at her and hers was in its holster. A quick glance to the side showed that Enjolras was in the same situation. 

The man glanced between them, and then his eyes fell on the door between them. His eyes widened in shock, and his grip on his gun slackened. “My God . . .” 

The sound of the train running over the tracks changed. Eponine glanced out of the corner of her eyes and saw that they were on a bridge. She knew this bridge, and this river—it was fast, but not particularly treacherous, and the bridge wasn’t that high. It was the best chance they had. 

Without a second thought, Eponine threw herself to the side and rammed into Enjolras, sending him hurtling over the side of the train, and herself after him. 

A shot rang out, but they were gone. 

***

Eponine hauled herself out of the water, coughing up the water that she’d swallowed for a few moments before she recovered herself. She looked around the beach, breathing raggedly. “Enjolras! Enjolras, damn it!” 

“I’m here, Eponine.” 

She jerked around to find Enjolras draped over a rock, pale as a ghost, still halfway in the water. Cursing, Eponine struggled to her feet and made her way over to him. “C’mon, get up, you lazy ass,” She muttered, kneeling down next to him and getting his arm over her shoulders. “Now is not the time to have a fainting spell.” 

“I don’t—I don’t have fainting spells,” Enjolras said, only to swoon the moment they stood. Eponine steadied him with an arm around his waist, barely managing to keep him from hitting the ground. 

“Yeah,” she snorted. “Sure, you don’t.” 

“You stood too quickly,” Enjolras said crossly. “And my head hurts.” 

It was plain to see why, now that she was looking—he’d hit his head sometime between jumping from the train and washing up on the bank of the river, and a thin line of blood was trickling down the side of his face from a nasty cut on his temple. 

“C’mon,” she said, taking a step away from the beach and hauling him along with her as he struggled to find his footing. “Let’s get you back home, and Combeferre can patch you up.” 

“Not home—” Enjolras said. “My camp—” 

“Sure, home, camp, whatever,” Eponine said. “As long as you have something for me to wear that isn’t wet and doesn’t belong to Courfeyrac. I hope he didn’t want this back.” 

“He doesn’t know I took it,” Enjolras said. “I knew he’d say no.” 

Eponine snorted. “Well, I’ll let you apologize for this one, then. C’mon, Blondie, move your ass. I am not carrying you all the way home.” 

“You aren’t carrying me. And you won’t have to—I know where we are,” Enjolras said, pointing away from the river. “I have a hideout . . . somewhere around there. There should be a horse.” 

“I love your paranoid tendencies,” Eponine said as she steered them in the indicated direction. They moved in silence for a while, Enjolras slowly recovering his strength until he was able to support his own weight with only occasional stumbles. 

“Enjolras,” Eponine said at last, “what the hell was that?” 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said. “Patron-Minette shouldn’t have attacked the train yet, unless they found out Montparnasse is the leak—” 

“Montparnasse doesn’t even know he’s the leak,” Eponine snorted. “And he’s too arrogant to think it could be him. Although it’s possible they decided to test him by feeding him false information, to see if we’d act on it. But I’d expect them to be lying in wait, not—not that. Thenardier’s a con-man and a scoundrel, but I never thought he was capable of something like--like that.” 

“Damn them all,” Enjolras snarled. “I needed those papers.” 

“We’ll find who did it,” Eponine said. “You’ll get your papers, Blondie, calm down. Right now, we need to regroup and recover.” 

Enjolras pursed his lips together tightly, but didn’t protest as she led them into the trees until they came to a small, ramshackle stable. A horse was in the paddock, contentedly grazing, and it looked up as they approached. 

“I don’t keep spare clothes here,” Enjolras muttered, freeing his arm from around her shoulders in favor of stumbling over to the horse. “We’ll have to make do.” 

He’d recovered himself enough to get on the horse without help, thankfully. Eponine pulled herself up behind him, and Enjolras urged the horse onwards. “We’ll return to our meeting point to retrieve the horses,” he said. 

The motion of the river had thankfully moved them away from the city, closer to their meeting point. It still took them a good hour or two, and her clothing was nearly dry by the time they arrived, but it was still faster than the ride to the city had been. Even better, the horses were exactly where they had left them, waiting patiently for them to return. 

Eponine eagerly stripped off Courfeyrac’s ruined suit and pulled on her own clothes, which were worn and plain but far more comfortable than Courfeyrac’s dandy suits. Her limbs and ribs ached terribly from hitting the water, and she could tell she’d have a rainbow of bruises in a day’s time, but nothing was broken or bleeding. 

Enjolras, only halfway dressed in his own clothes, spat into a handkerchief and scrubbed fiercely at his cheek where the blood had dried, occasionally wincing when he put too much pressure on the injury itself. 

“Oh, give me that,” Eponine said, when he completely missed the blood once again. “And finish getting dressed.” 

Enjolras scowled at her, but reached for his waistcoat as she poured water from her canteen on the handkerchief. She scrubbed at his face as he shrugged into the waistcoat and did up the buttons, only for a perplexed look to cross his face. He frowned and patted at his waistcoat, and his expression cleared. 

Eponine narrowed her eyes. “What was that?” 

“Nothing,” Enjolras said, too quickly. 

For a moment, neither of them moved, and then Eponine lunged for the inside of his waistcoat. Enjolras attempted to dissuade her, and by the end of the ensuing scuffle both of them had rat’s nests for hair and a few more bruises than they had started with. Eponine, however, had emerged triumphant, having snatched the object in question away from him while he attempted to stop her from yanking down his trousers. 

Eponine waved the small book in the air. “Now what’s this, an erotic novel? It doesn’t have a title.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t bring my erotic literature on a job. It’s a journal.” 

“You really can’t stop working. What’s the speech about this time?” Eponine idly flipped through the book, hoping for something to tease him with, only to pause as it opened up to a remarkably realistic drawing of a deer. “You can’t draw.” 

“I didn’t say it was mine,” Enjolras said. 

Eponine smacked the journal against his arm. Enjolras yelped and jumped away, rubbing at his arm. “Eponine!” 

She stepped forward and smacked it against his arm again. “You stole this?” 

“I didn’t steal it,” Enjolras said, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at her. “I was checking it to ensure he wasn’t a Pinkerton spy.” 

“So you did steal it,” she said. A quick flip to the front of the journal revealed who from—a large R graced the bottom corner of the inside cover. Eponine shut the book and smacked him with it again. Enjolras jumped and scowled at her. 

“Would you stop that?” he snapped. 

Eponine held out the journal. “Return it to him. He’s not a Pinkerton spy, I can tell you that much. He’s a drunk and an artist, and that’s that.” 

Enjolras scowled. “A drunk is a convenient cover for a Pinkerton.” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “If he was, he would have already had ample opportunity to pump the town for information—he’s had pretty much everyone drunk out of their minds at some point.” 

“Not Combeferre,” Enjolras said, confidently. 

“Even Combeferre. Twice,” Eponine said. 

Enjolras looked mildly horrified at the thought. “Why hasn’t anyone gotten rid of him?” 

Eponine shrugged. “He’s likeable, apparently.” 

Enjolras snorted disdainfully, showing clearly what he thought of that idea. “I’ll take your word that he isn’t a spy,” he said. “Since at least you can be trusted not to get drunk with the enemy. Come to my camp when you get a chance; we’ll discuss our next step.” 

With that, he shrugged fully into his waistcoat, snatched the journal out of her hand, and pulled himself onto the horse. 

“Don’t forget to return it!” Eponine hollered after him. 

Enjolras flipped her off and rode into the distance. 

Alone but for her horse and the ache in her ribs, Eponine turned towards town. Somehow, she managed to keep herself distracted until she reached home and collapsed into bed, and then she couldn’t stop herself from returning to the scene of Tholomyes’s train car, red with blood. 

***

For all that his compatriots liked to tease, Enjolras didn’t often come across other people in the wilderness. He had run across a gentleman who was lost once, both of them equally shocked by the experience, and at another point he had stumbled upon a wounded hunter who had evidently taken Enjolras as some sort of hallucination, but before that the only person he had come across was Eponine herself. He was used to his solitude, he enjoyed it, and he expected it. 

So when the dark-haired stranger stumbled onto one of Enjolras's weapons stockpiles while he was in the middle of taking inventory, Enjolras reacted appropriately. In the blink of an eye, he had the man on the ground, pinned by the weight of Enjolras's body and Enjolras's knife against his throat. 

“Who are you?” Enjolras demanded. His eyes landed on the journal, which the man had dropped in the scuffle. “A Pinkerton?” 

The man gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Enjolras pressed the knife against his throat, just hard enough to score a thin line in the skin. “Speak. Why did you come here?” 

“You’re beautiful,” the man said. 

Enjolras, not one to be taken in by complements, especially not ones said only to save one’s skin, ignored the man’s words in favor of rifling through his pockets. He found no badge or anything else to indicate that he worked for the Pinkertons or the government, only a nearly-empty flask of alcohol and a worn-down pencil. 

He leaned in closer to the man, meeting his wide eyes. “Tell me who you are and why you came here,” he snarled. “Or I’ll kill you here and now.” 

And he would, if it was necessary for the safety of the town, or the safety of the operation. Enjolras disliked killing—disliked violence—but he understood its necessity. The line of blood trickling down the man’s neck sickened him, but he would deepen it if necessary. He was capable of that—he had to be capable of that. 

“Grantaire,” the man gasped, at last. “Artist.” 

Enjolras recalled, now. Eponine had mentioned that there was an artist who had come to town, a drunk who spent his days in the tavern who did no work that she could see. He had thought it was suspicious, and now he thought it more so. “We’ll see,” he said. 

He alighted from the man without another word, scooping up the journal from the ground as he made his escape. He paused, occasionally, to ensure that the man wasn’t following, and he avoided his camp for the next two nights, but he saw no sign of the man in the following days.

Enjolras, ideally, would have continued to avoid him, but given the current state of affairs, he didn’t want any reason for Eponine to be irritated with him. He needed her experience with Patron-Minette and their ilk, given what they had encountered on the train. He suspected Patron-Minette’s involvement, and Eponine knew how they worked better than anyone in town. 

So, if Eponine wanted the journal returned, returned it would be. 

Enjolras shifted on his perch, letting his binoculars drop to his chest. He had spotted movement at last in the upstairs rooms of the Musain, and sure enough, the binoculars had confirmed that the light in the corner room had gone out. It was difficult to read his pocketwatch with only the light of the moon, but it seemed to be just after three in the morning—most shops had closed hours ago, and even the Musain should have been closed for two hours. 

He still gave it another hour before he at last dropped down from the tree, taking a moment to stretch his limbs before sneaking into town. The Musain had no back fence, so he was able to approach the back wall without obstruction. He scanned the brick wall for a moment, taking in its construction, before running at the wall and grabbing of the first hand-hold to haul himself up.  

It was a short climb, but his fingers were sore by the time he reached the corner window. He took just a moment to examine them and ensure they weren’t bleeding. One satisfied that he was sore but not any more injured than he had been at the start of this trial, he slowly edged open the window. Musichetta, thankfully, kept her business in good repair, so the window didn’t even squeak as he opened it and slipped inside. 

The room was silent but for the soft snoring of the man in the bed; by the curly hair and the stubby pencil on the bedside table, Enjolras judged that he did indeed have the right room. The only question now was where to leave the journal. A quick glance around the room revealed there weren’t many places to put it—there was a washstand, a wardrobe, the bed, and the bedside table. Enjolras crept forward, pulling the journal out of his waistcoat, and placed it gently on the table. It knocked against the pencil, which rolled to the edge of the table but didn’t fall off. 

Enjolras breathed out. 

A hand snapped out and seized his wrist; Enjolras only barely managed to suppress a shout. The man blinked at him blearily, eyes hazy with sleep and alcohol, and didn’t move. Enjolras stood there, stock-still, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that perhaps the man would just fall back asleep. 

“Do I dream?” the man murmured, at last. 

Enjolras breathed again. The man would think this was a dream, a product of his sleeping mind, and he would think no more on it. “You do,” he whispered. 

The man gave no sign of having heard; his grip on Enjolras's wrist didn’t loosen, but neither did it tighten. Enjolras's thoughts went to the knife strapped to his hip, but the man was clearly half-asleep. He reached up, brushing his fingers against the loose strands of Enjolras's hair, grown too-long and too-wild since he had left town. His hand moved to the side, fingers brushing against Enjolras's temple, and his half-asleep expression flickered with a frown. “You’re injured.” 

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras murmured. “Just a dream.” 

The man’s hand fell back down to the bed and his eyes slipped half-closed. “Truly, it must be,” he murmured. “A dream, a vision—are you that merry wanderer of the night, then, come to anoint my eyes as I sleep? I’m afraid you have to the wrong room, for it isn’t Titania who rests here, but Bottom. Tell me, do your fairy potions work on yourself, or are you immune to their effects? Oh, don’t answer—don’t answer.” 

The man’s voice trailed off into a whisper, but his grip hadn’t so much as slackened. “Release me,” Enjolras said. 

“Of course, of course,” the man murmured, his fingers at last releasing their hold enough for Enjolras to pull away. “Oberon summons you, and you must go. Farewell, sweet Puck.” 

Enjolras stepped away, but hesitated before climbing back through the window. The man thought this had been a dream, but the journal provided evidence to the contrary. The moment the man saw it, he would know Enjolras had been in his room that night, that his dream had been reality. 

Without sparing another moment to think about it, Enjolras picked up the journal and slipped it back into his waistcoat. 

He would return it another day.

***

When Marius stumbled into the Musain just as the dinner rush was starting, Eponine wasn’t really sure what to expect. 

Marius was a lawyer, or a lawyer in training, or something. Mostly his job seemed to consist of following Courfeyrac around like a lost puppy. He’d stumbled off the train one day a couple years ago with no idea where to go or what to do; Courfeyrac had taken him under his wing, and Marius had remained there ever since. 

Eponine had had a crush on him for all of three months before she’d gathered up the courage to tell him so. Marius had blushed and stammered, and Eponine had been hopeful for all of the three minutes it took Marius to tell her, “Sorry, but I’m not attracted to men!” 

“I’m a woman, you fucking idiot,” Eponine had said, and that had been the end of that. 

Marius rarely went to the Musain; he’d been there once, gotten horribly drunk on a single shot of whiskey, and sworn off it forever. Courfeyrac occasionally managed to lure him into a game of cards or dominoes, but Marius never came of his own accord. 

He collapsed onto the bar and let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve just met an angel.” 

The five already gathered at the bar—Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, and Eponine herself—all gave him odd looks. 

“You’ve met Enjolras before, Marius,” Eponine was the first to point out. 

“Not him,” Marius sighed. “Enjolras is just terrifying. She was beautiful .” 

“More beautiful than Enjolras?” Bossuet said. “Impossible!” 

Joly laughed. “With his sky-blue—” 

“—sea-blue,” Bossuet interrupted. 

“—eyes, and his golden—” 

“—sunshine—” 

“—hair, and his features carved from marble!” Joly pretended to swoon, nearly toppled off the stool, and said, “Oh, dear, I think I actually do feel a little faint.” 

“It’s the whiskey,” Bossuet said. “Here, Marius, have the rest of his.” 

“Eat something,” Musichetta said, sliding a plate of the meal for the evening towards Joly, along with another for Bossuet. 

Marius, paying no heed to Joly, reached over to grab the shot and downed it in one go, hacking and coughing as soon as he’d swallowed it. 

“Better?” Eponine asked. 

Marius peered at her with watery eyes, still coughing and thumping his hand against his chest. “Ugh, that was horrible! How do you do that?” 

“Practice,” Eponine said. “Now, what’s this about an angel? Don’t tell me Enjolras has competition.” 

Marius sighed, love-lost once again. “She was so beautiful, Eponine, you have no idea . . . I passed her by in the street and I just stopped there, I couldn’t even think of moving—I was nearly run over by a cart, and then when I looked around again, she was gone.” 

Eponine snorted. “So you didn’t even talk to her?” 

Marius, who had been staring mournfully at the ceiling, jerked around to look at her, his eyes wide. “Should I have? Oh, I should have—I didn’t even greet her! Oh, she must have thought I was rude. All I did was stare at her. But when our eyes met, it was like I was lost . . . I couldn’t even think of anything but how beautiful she was.” Marius’ head sank down into his hands. 

“How romantic,” Jehan sighed. “It’s like something out of a poem.” 

Marius shot upright and clasped Jehan’s hands between his. “That’s it! Jehan, you must help me. You have room in your paper for another poem, don’t you? I’ll—I’ll write a poem to her, that’s how I’ll find her again, she’ll surely read it if it’s in your paper!” 

Jehan beamed. “Of course! Come, we’ll write your poem right away so I can prepare to print it.” 

“You’re my savior, Jehan, truly,” Marius babbled as Jehan, still holding Marius’ hands, led the way out of the Musain. Courfeyrac, who had just entered, turned to watch them go with obvious surprise. 

“What’s happened with Marius?” he asked, as he slid onto the stool Marius had just vacated. 

“It’s like an epidemic,” Eponine said, shaking her head as the door swung shut behind them. “He’s in love , apparently.” 

“Marius! In love? Oh, they grow up so fast.” Courfeyrac sighed, pressed a hand to his chest, and frowned. “I don’t know if I approve. Who is this girl, and do we know if she’s good enough for our Marius?” 

“ Your Marius is a big boy. He can make his own decisions,” Eponine said. “And we don’t know. All we know is that she’s apparently even more beautiful than Enjolras.” 

“More beautiful than Enjolras? Impossible!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “If Marius is delusional, he must really be in love.” 

“You know, I really don’t think Enjolras is that good-looking—” Joly began, only to be hushed by Courfeyrac. 

“You’re in love, you’re biased,” Courfeyrac said. 

“He looks like he carries diseases—” Joly attempted to continue. 

Courfeyrac threw up his hands. “Okay, okay, so the man needs a bath! He’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, admit it!” 

Joly sniffed. “I like my people well-bathed, thank you.” 

“Now there’s something I could do with.” 

Eponine looked over to find that Grantaire had stumbled down the stairs, bags under his eyes. “What’s a man gotta do to get a bath around here, ‘Chetta?” 

“I’ll go fix one up,” Musichetta promised, pausing to brush her fingers through Joly’s hair as she left the bar. 

Grantaire slumped against the bar, staring down at his hand. Eponine glanced over and saw nothing but a hint of red on his fingertips. “Painting again?” she asked. 

“I must have been.” Grantaire frowned and rubbed his fingers together. “Remind me not to repeat the events of last night. I slept the day away and had strange dreams all night.” 

“Last night? What happened last night?” Courfeyrac asked. “Of course you’d all have fun when I’m busy at the office all night! Alone, with only Marius for company, huddling for warmth at my desk—” 

“And then you kissed?” Bossuet suggested. 

“And then we kissed!” Courfeyrac agreed. “Or, rather, we fell asleep on the paperwork and woke up with ink stains on our faces. Believe me, I would much rather have experienced whatever it was you did last night!” 

“A whole load of drunken debauchery,” Grantaire said, toasting him with someone’s shot glass—it wasn’t hers, and beyond that, Eponine didn’t really care. “A sending-off for—who was it, Joly?” 

“Lucky Biscuit,” Joly said mournfully. “Mr. Houcheloup’s horse.” 

“Yes, a sending-off for Lucky Biscuit initially, and the revelry continued from there,” Grantaire said. “I don’t think I went to bed until past three in the morning! We missed you, Eponine—we could have done with your talent at poker when Combeferre relieved us all of our money.” 

“Combeferre was there? Now I really do feel betrayed!” Courfeyrac cried. 

Eponine, somehow, had managed to sleep through the whole thing. She’d stumbled back into town late at night and had immediately collapsed into bed, not waking until Mr. Mabeuf had called for her when he decided he was tired of running the shop. “Sorry I missed it,” she said. 

“And to think your trip to town was a bust, too.” Joly reached around Courfeyrac to pat her arm consolingly. “Don’t worry, there will be other revels in the future.” 

“Although my head could certainly do without them,” Grantaire muttered. 

“Bath’s ready!” Musichetta called as she took her place beyond the bar. 

Grantaire kissed her cheek as she passed him. “You’re a godsend, Musichetta,” he said, before vanishing to the back of the building. 

“Oh, good,” Joly sighed. “He still smelled like the whiskey you spilled on him last night, but I didn’t want to say anything.” 

“On that note,” Eponine said, sliding off her stool, “I’d better head home before Azelma and Gavroche get home and eat nothing but tinned peaches for dinner again.” 

Their fond farewells echoed after her as she left the saloon. She paused on the front porch, taking a moment to breath in the cool evening air. 

“Eponine! Eponine!” 

Eponine turned to see Cosette waving from on top of a horse, daintily perched on one of those fancy side-saddles that Eponine had never actually seen someone use in real life. 

“You know, I kind of thought those things were made up for romance novels,” she said. 

Cosette blinked and then laughed. “Oh, the saddle? Papa bought it for me, he can be so old-fashioned sometimes. I’ve gotten used to it, though. Are you busy, Eponine?” 

Eponine glanced about the street—she could see Azelma down the street at the Corinth, sharing a meal with Matelote, and Gavroche was sitting on the porch of the gun shop with Bahorel and Feuilly, cheerfully eating a sandwich. “Not particularly. Shop’s already closed for the evening. I was going to see about supper for Gav and Azelma, but it looks like they’ve sorted themselves out.” 

“Would you like to go for a ride with me, then?” Cosette said, the words escaping her in a rush. “Only if you aren’t busy, I mean, but the sunset is bound to look lovely tonight, I think, and there’s a wonderful place to watch it from—” 

“Sure,” Eponine said. “Sure, yeah, let me just—let me just get my horse—” 

Cosette turned her horse around and accompanied Eponine to the stables, waiting outside while she saddled up her horse. She still rode the same horse that Enjolras had given to her when they’d first met; he’d been her companion through thick and thin, just as much as Enjolras himself had been, and she wouldn’t have anyone else as her partner in crime. He was a beast of a horse, but he was patient with her as she buckled the saddle and hoisted herself up. 

“What’s his name?” Cosette asked, as they set off down the road together. 

“Rocket,” Eponine said, wryly. “I made the mistake of letting Gav name him.” 

Cosette laughed. “Mine is Daisy. I always wanted a horse named Daisy when I was a little girl, and now I have one.” 

“What, you didn’t have horses in—whatever fancy city it is you came from?” 

“Not any of my own,” Cosette said. “There were some horses at school that we were allowed to ride, but they weren’t really ours, of course. I used to dream of having a whole stable of horses all of my own! And now I have Daisy. We have more horses, of course, but they’re for work on the ranch. Herding and pulling wagons and such.” 

“Must be pretty different from the city,” Eponine said. 

“Oh, it is,” Cosette said. “Everything was so busy in the city, but at the same time it felt like I was doing nothing at all—like I was just trapped there, stagnating, while the world rushed by around me. Here, it seems so sleepy and slow, but I’ve never been so busy in my life.” 

Eponine, thinking of all the times she’d been shot at since coming to Les Amis, couldn’t help but snort at the idea of calling the town sleepy and slow. “Stick around,” she said. “We have our share of troubles. You haven’t met Patron-Minette, have you?” 

“No. Who are they?” 

Eponine scowled. “A gang. They used to be small-time, got their start selling snake-oil, moved on to sticking up passers-by, and now they’re robbing trains and banks. They haven’t been around town much recently, but stick around and they’re bound to try to rob you, especially if they think you’re doing well for yourself.” 

And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, they might have moved on to something even worse. 

Sure, Patron-Minette had always killed people. On accident, usually, someone getting too antsy during a robbery and firing, or on purpose when some bold soul tried to fight back and save their belongings. But nothing like what she’d seen in that train car. 

“Be careful around them,” Eponine murmured. “They were bad to begin with, and they’re getting worse.” 

They were riding close enough together that Cosette could easily reach out and brush her fingers against Eponine’s arm; Eponine couldn’t help but wish that they weren’t riding at all, so that she could close the lingering gap between them. “Don’t worry,” Cosette said. “Papa and I will be careful. And we don’t have much that they would want—Papa likes to live simply. Our valuables are more . . . sentimental,  I suppose.” 

Recalling the watch and the necklace, Eponine nodded—although, for someone who liked to live simply, her father certainly carried a lot of cash. And she knew how much that ranch cost, too; there was a reason no one had tried to buy it for years. 

“What did you do back East, anyways?” she asked. “Your family.” 

“Oh, Papa was a gardener at the convent school, along with my uncle,” Cosette said. “That’s why I attended it, really. What about you? You seem like you’ve lived here for a long time. Did your father move here for business purposes, or was that a side effect?” 

Eponine nearly had a heart attack until she realized who Cosette must have been thinking of. “You mean Mr. Mabeuf? He’s not our father. He owns the store, that’s all.” 

“Oh!” Cosette pressed her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry—I just assumed, we haven’t actually been introduced.” 

Eponine let out a breathless laugh, fueled more by relief than mirth. “Mr. Mabeuf, my father. Honestly, Cosette, he’s old enough to be my grandfather!” 

“Well, so is my Papa!” Cosette said. “I assumed . . . well.” 

“What, that he had me late in life? We look nothing alike,” Eponine laughed. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Papa always tells me my overactive imagination will get the best of me someday,” she said. 

Eponine snorted at that; it sounded like something the last teacher they had would have said to Gavroche. “You know, you’re not what I expected from a teacher. When Combeferre said he was looking for a teacher, I expected another crusty old man.” 

Cosette giggled. “I’m not what I’d expect from a teacher, either. All the teachers I had were nuns, and they were much, much older! I was surprised that Mr. Combeferre asked me to teach, but he said that you were quite desperate.” 

Things hadn’t been so desperate at first; their last teacher had departed in the middle of fall, and everyone had been too busy working on their farms to care much about the lack of school. Eponine had cared, since without school Gavroche and Azelma ran wild, but she was one of the few people in town who had children still in school to worry about. But then as winter rolled around and the children were needed less at home, the lack of a teacher had been sorely felt. 

Combeferre had tried to step up, at first, but he had duties enough as it was, and hadn’t lasted more than a day. 

Courfeyrac had been next, and although he had taken to teaching exuberantly and the students had adored him, it was deemed best for him not to continue if they wanted the schoolhouse to remain standing. 

Joly, when asked, had point-blank refused to even step into the schoolhouse, referring to it as a breeding-ground of illness. 

Marius, who had few duties beyond assisting Courfeyrac, had seemed like a decent choice. He only managed to teach for a day before the students had completely overrun the schoolhouse and brought Marius to the brink of a nervous breakdown. No one had the heart to ask him to continue. 

 Enjolras had attempted to teach next, and the less said about that, the better. 

“We tried to cover teaching duties, but it didn’t really work out,” Eponine said. “Gav and Azelma hadn’t been in school for weeks before you came along.” 

“I suppose you must be glad I came to town, then,” Cosette said, shooting Eponine a playful smile. “You know, so they can be in school again.” 

“Yeah,” Eponine said, her mouth dry. “That’s why.” 

Cosette laughed merrily and nudged her horse into a faster trot. “Come on, Eponine, we’re almost there!” 

Eponine shook away the daze that Cosette’s sunny smile and bright eyes had cast over her and took off, urging her horse up a hill after Cosette. Cosette brought her horse to a stop without warning, so Eponine overshot and had to wheel her horse around. By the time she came to a stop, Cosette had already dismounted and plopped herself down in the grass, her skirt spread around her. As Eponine approach, she moved her skirt to make room next to her. Eponine took the implicit invitation and sat down. She left a bit of space between them, but soon that too was closed as Cosette leaned against her, letting her head fall against Eponine’s shoulder. 

For lack of anything to do, Eponine brushed imaginary dirt off her trousers. She scolded her heart for fluttering at the brush of Cosette’s curls against her neck; Cosette was being friendly, that was all—there just weren’t many girls their age around town. That was it. Cosette didn’t mean anything by it, so if Eponine’s heart would stop trying to burst out of her chest, that would be great. 

Cautiously, as if somehow Cosette would notice, Eponine risked a glance out of the corner of her eye and caught sight of Cosette’s fingers fidgeting in her lap. Somehow, it made her feel better that she wasn’t the only one feeling nervous. She leaned back, sliding her arm back to support herself. And if her arm brushed against Cosette’s back, well, that was just a coincidence. 

“Sunset won’t be for awhile,” she noted. “I feel like we should have brought supper with us.” 

“Oh, why didn’t I think of that! We passed by the ranch on the way—I should have asked Papa to fix us a picnic basket. Well . . .” 

Eponine turned her head slightly to face Cosette and found her blushing, her smile soft and tentative as she said, “Something for next time?” 

“Yeah,” Eponine said. “Next time.” 

Cosette’s smile, Eponine thought, would put any sunset to shame. 

***

The light went off in the corner room, and Enjolras wondered, again, what he was doing. He didn’t have to return the journal, really—he could have shoved it in his desk and Eponine would never have known the difference—and he was better off avoiding the artist, but still he found himself shimmying down the tree and darting through the dark, silent town. He was forced to hide for a few minutes when Musichetta opened the back door to dump the used bathwater, but she was laughing and talking to someone still inside and paid no heed to the shadow hiding by the corner of the building. He waited a few minutes for the laughter inside to quiet as Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet retired to bed, and then scaled the wall, coming to rest again on the windowsill. 

This time, he was prepared. In and out, no lingering—he’d just put down the journal and leave. Slowly, he eased open the window and ducked through, his bare foot silently touching down on the smooth wooden floor. 

“So it wasn’t a dream.” 

Enjolras froze and looked up. In the corner of the room, hidden by shadows, the artist leaned back in his chair, idly spinning a bottle around on the rim of its base. 

“I thought it was,” he continued. “I thought that I had dreamed you coming here. But when I woke, your blood was still on my fingers. I thought it was paint, at first, but I haven’t painted with that shade of red recently. I didn’t expect you to return, I admit. So, sweet Puck? Have you come to return my journal? Or have you come to spread your fairy juice over the lids of my eyes once again?” 

Enjolras tossed his head. “What makes you think I have it?” 

The man released the bottle and spread his arms wide. “Why else would you grace my humble abode with your presence?” 

“I could have come here for anything,” Enjolras retorted. 

The man arched an eyebrow, and a crooked grin spread across his face. “Anything, you say? Well, then.” 

Enjolras remained, perched halfway through the open window, as the man stood and crossed the floor. His heart beat in his ears—one, two, three—and then the man was in front of him. He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing against Enjolras's hair, gently enough that Enjolras barely felt the tug to his curls. 

“‘How now, spirit,’” the man murmured. “‘Whither wander you?’”

Enjolras said nothing, and the man’s crooked smile faded as he gazed at Enjolras's face. His hand brushed through Enjolras's hair, tucking the loose locks that had fallen in front of his face behind his ear. “Or, wherefore, perhaps, would be more apt,” he murmured thoughtfully, as his hand dropped back to his side. He retreated to the other side of the room and took a swig from the bottle, waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively. “Go, then, do whatever it was you came to do. If you came to play games, then leave. ‘The fairy land buys not the child of me,’ et cetera.” 

Enjolras's hands tightened on the windowsill until he heard the wood creak under his grip. “I hardly think you have any right to accuse me of playing games,” he spat, “when you come over here and—and fondle me—!” 

The man spat out whatever it was he’d been drinking and turned to look at him incredulously, but Enjolras plowed on. “Touching my hair, and my face, without my permission—” 

“You weren’t complaining,” the man interrupted. “And need I remind you that you broke into my room, not the other way around—” 

“And don’t think I forgot about last time, when you grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go—” 

“I did let go, in fact, and once again you broke into my room, for all I know you could have been planning to murder me in my sleep—

“You fondled my hair, and you were lying in wait for me—” 

“I’d hardly call it fondling, and if I was going to fondle you I’d hardly do it to your hair—” 

“You just admitted you want to fondle me! You were lying in wait with the intentions of—of something, and you’re probably working for the Pinkertons, or the government—” 

“First of all, I take offense to any insinuation that I would work for the Pinkertons or the government, second of all, I wasn’t lying in wait, I simply thought you might appear—” 

“Even if you aren’t, you’re still babbling on about me to anyone who’ll give you the time of day, yes, don’t think I haven’t heard about that—” 

The man, now scant inches away from Enjolras, threw up his arms. “I thought you were a dream! A hallucination! A figment of my intoxicated imagination! How was I supposed to know you wanted our encounter kept a secret? You hardly stuck around long enough to tell me so.” 

“I wouldn’t have thought it needed saying, but no, you had to tell the entire damn country—!” Enjolras flung one arm wide, only to recall, as he leaned just slightly too far back, that he still only had one leg through the window. He flailed, reflexively searching for something to grab hold of even as he knew that there was nothing to stop his fall, and couldn’t help but recall the rush of wind as he had fallen from the train—but then, there had been water to catch him, and now there was nothing— 

He jerked to a stop as abruptly as he had started to fall, caught in place by a firm support under his waist. He laid there for a moment, too shocked to move, his eyes fixed on the stars above, until he gathered himself enough to raise his head. His gaze landed on the man, halfway through the window, one arm wound around Enjolras's waist and the other braced against the windowsill. Slowly, he retreated back into the room, pulling Enjolras along with him until both of them were fully inside the room. 

“Careful there, Puck,” Grantaire whispered. 

Enjolras took a deep, shuddering breath. Grantaire’s  eyes roved over his face, not allowing him any escape. Enjolras avoided his gaze. 

Grantaire’s eyes paused on the lower part of Enjolras's face for a moment before moving back up to meet his eyes. “You’re pale,” he said. “Wait here—I’ll bring you something—” 

“I’m fine.” Enjolras pushed away from him, and the man’s hands easily fell away from his waist. “I have to go.” 

“Wait—” Grantaire cried, but Enjolras had already lowered himself over the edge of the window. He dropped to the ground too quickly, but ignored the ache in his knees and ankles as he raced away from the building, only stopping once he had reached the other side of the street to hide in the shadows and catch his breath. 

Grantaire stuck his head out of the window and looked around, but he didn’t seem to notice Enjolras. After a few moments, he retreated back inside and closed the window. Enjolras turned and set off down the road, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. His fingers brushed against the small journal still in his pocket.

He’d forgotten to return it. 

***

On the second day after the disastrous attempt at robbing Tholomyes, Eponine knew it was time to pay a visit to Enjolras, before he got impatient and started making stupid plans on his own. Her body still ached from the fall, but she’d had worse, and it wasn’t likely that Enjolras would make her go riding off into danger immediately. 

He wasn’t at camp when she arrived, which wasn’t that unusual. At times he wandered off to check his weapon stockpiles or his horses or his hideouts, which could take him any number of hours depending on how far away he decided to go. Eponine wasn’t about to waste her day waiting around for him, so she guided her horse away from camp, towards the city. 

The moment she reached the main street, it was apparent that news of the murder had spread; boys shouted the news from street corners, waving newspapers in the air to draw attention. Eponine ignored them, carefully guiding her horse through the crowded streets until she arrived at a gaudy saloon, decked out with far too much fake gold to be tasteful. 

Montparnasse was there, as she had suspected, holding court over a table of fellow poker players. None of the others members of Patron-Minette were with him, which wasn’t unusual; they were likely off at other saloons and other poker games, earning money without having to worry about competition from Montparnasse, who was twice as charming and twice as clever as the rest of them. 

Not that that was saying much. Most of the members of Patron-Minette were pretty dull, Montparnasse a rare exception who rivalled Enjolras in looks and Courfeyrac in fashion sense. His smile, though, was sharp, and his eyes gleamed dangerously when she walked through the door and stopped in front of his poker table. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t Eponine,” he drawled. “Fancy a buy-in?” 

“That business on the train that came to the city two days ago—that was you, wasn’t it?” 

Montparnasse leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigarette, idly spinning it between his fingers. “I knew you were involved somehow,” he said. “You feeding information to your little friends, Eponine? Who’s your leak, Guelemer? He always did have a thing for you, and he was never very smart. What’d you give him to get your information, Eponine?” 

She scowled at the leer on his face. “None of your business, Montparnasse.” 

“How’s it working out for you? Not so well now, right?” He smirked at her. “That will teach you to go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

Eponine seized him by the front of his shirt and hauled him halfway out of his chair, leaning down the rest of the way to whisper in his ear. “A man is dead , Montparnasse. Five men. What the hell are you playing at?” 

“We’ve killed men before. You know that, Eponine,” he said, rolling his eyes as if he thought she was being particularly ridiculous.

“Not like this. This is different, and you know it. So tell me what the hell is going on.” 

“If can’t handle the heat, then get out.” He shoved her away and took a moment to delicately adjust his cravat. “Go home, Eponine. This is bigger than you. Than any of us. And, unlike you, I’m not about to throw away everything I’ve worked for.” 

Eponine knew Montparnasse well enough to know that he’d reached his limits; if she pushed him any further, he’d answer with a knife rather than amusement. 

“Just don’t come crying to me when it blows up in your face,” she said, before turning on her heel and marching out of the saloon. 

She stood in the middle of the street and briefly considered hunting down the other members of Patron-Minette, but eventually dismissed the idea. There was no telling where they would be in the city, if they were in the city at all, and they probably wouldn’t give her anything more than Montparnasse had. She would just have to hope that Enjolras had had more luck than her. She returned to her horse instead, and left the city the way she had come. 

This time, she arrived at the camp to find Enjolras hunched over his makeshift desk, pen scribbling furiously across the page. He didn’t look up as she approached, but after a few minutes he set aside the pen and turned around to face her. “What have you learned?”

“Not much. From what Montparnasse said, I’m pretty sure Patron-Minette is involved somehow, but I don’t know anything else. Jehan might have better luck,” she said. “You?” 

Enjolras scowled. “I wanted to take a look at the train car, but it had already been picked over by the authorities when I arrived. I’m planning to break into the sheriff’s office, if you would like to come along.” 

“Of course I’ll come,” she snorted. “Combeferre will kill me if I let you go alone. We going tonight?” 

“Not tonight. I need to do more reconnaissance first,” he said. “Tomorrow night. Keep your ear to the ground for any news of Patron-Minette or Tholomyes’ murder.” 

“Aye-aye, Captain,” she said with a salute, grinning when he scowled at her. 

“This is an equal partnership—” 

“Yes, yes,” she said, before he could start in on the usual tirade. “I heard you the first time, Blondie. Now, are you going to eat your tinned beans, or am I going to have to tell Combeferre you’re starving to death out here?”

“Anything but that,” Enjolras said dryly, holding up his hands to catch the can she tossed at him, keeping another for herself. 

They were still in the middle of eating their beans, cold despite an attempt at warming them up over Enjolras's candle because he didn’t want to light a fire, when Gavroche ran up to camp. 

“Eponine! Eponine!” 

“Gav, what have I told you about heading out so far from town on your own?” Eponine demanded. 

Gavroche spoke right over her. “Eponine, there’s a Pinkerton in town!”

Chapter Text

The Pinkerton was still in the sheriff’s office with Combeferre when Eponine rode into town, Gavroche perched in front of her on the horse. He scrambled off and raced away the moment she slowed to a stop in front of the general store, joining Azelma beneath the window of the sheriff’s office. 

Eponine left them to it and went upstairs, shucking off her customary shirt and trousers for a dress and putting some effort into pinning up her hair instead of just tying it off or tucking it into a hat. The dress was Azelma’s, and thus a little too big in the bust, but it would do. If a Pinkerton was sniffing around, she wanted to look as different from what she’d looked like on the train as possible. 

And thus, in the interests of not drawing attention to herself, even though she really wanted to join Azelma and Gavroche in finding out what was going on, she went down to the general store and took Mabeuf’s place behind the counter. 

It was a slow day, probably because everyone was at the saloon gossiping about the Pinkerton, and before too long she had resorted to flipping through the catalogue, as if it had changed much since she had last looked at it. She wasn’t yet desperate enough to decide to do inventory, although she was getting there; even counting tins of beans started to look appealing after a point. 

The door opened, however, before she reached the back of the catalogue, and Cosette walked through the door. She glanced around the room briefly, and then her eyes landed on Eponine. Her mouth fell open slightly, and for a moment she just stood there, just inside the door. “Eponine, you—I like your dress,” she said, her voice falling into a murmur. 

“Thanks,” Eponine said, reflexively reaching down to straighten the skirt. “It, uh, doesn’t look weird?” 

Cosette shook her head, her curls bouncing to and fro. “No! No, you look lovely. Truly.” 

Eponine felt her cheeks warm. “Thanks,” she said again. “So, did you come for something in particular?” 

“Oh!” Cosette exclaimed, stepping up to the shelves and starting to pick out the items she needed. “Yes, I did, I almost forgot. Soap, and Papa needs a new razor, he managed to break his somehow.” 

She stepped up to the counter and placed down her items and the money for them, a small, embarrassed smile on her face. “He told me to order a new dress and put it on our tab, too, but I don’t think I really need one. I have so many already. I think he feels bad about making us move all the way out here. But—between you and me,” she said, leaning over the counter to whisper in Eponine’s ear, “I’m really glad we moved here.” 

Both of them jumped as the door opened again, Mr. Mabeuf cheerfully whistling as he entered the shop. “Miss Fauchelevent,” he said, greeting Cosette with a polite tip of his hat. “Eponine.” 

“Dominos done for the day?” Eponine asked. 

“For me, at least,” Mr. Mabeuf said as he joined her behind the counter. “Lady luck wasn’t with me today, I lost my allowance for the day already! Now, I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Take the day, Eponine, I’ll handle the shop.” 

Eponine hesitated, caught between keeping Mr. Mabeuf happy so he didn’t change his mind about letting them live above the shop and continuing her conversation with Cosette. “Are you sure?” 

Mr. Mabeuf waved her off with a laugh. “If I go home, I’ll just get told off by my wife for my dominos habit! Enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.” 

“If you insist,” Eponine said, already stepping around the counter to join Cosette. Cosette, beaming, clasped Eponine’s hands between hers for a moment before letting go. Eponine missed her the moment she let go, although she knew it was necessary to open the door. 

On the porch, they hesitated for a moment. Heart in her throat, Eponine offered Cosette her arm, and Cosette beamed and tucked her arm through Eponine’s. “Where shall we go?” Cosette asked. 

“Did you have anything else you needed to buy?” Eponine asked. 

“No,” Cosette said. “I suppose we could go to the Musain, but it’s a bit early for dinner—oh, isn’t that Gavroche and Azelma?” 

The two of them had obviously finished eavesdropping on the Pinkerton. Azelma vanished into the Corinth, likely to talk to her friends there, while Gavroche locked gazes with Eponine, looked over to Cosette, and then ran off in the direction of Enjolras's camp. 

Cosette was smiling when Eponine looked at her. “He’s doing well in class,” she noted. “He’s very clever.” 

“That’s Gav,” Eponine agreed. “He didn’t get on too well with the last teacher we had, but he likes you well enough.” 

She wondered what he had overheard, but clearly it wasn’t something he wanted to say with Cosette around, no matter how much he liked her. Eponine liked her, too, maybe even trusted her, but she was still new to Les Amis. “We could go to the Musain,” she suggested. “Bossuet will probably be there, and maybe Joly if he hasn’t been called away to work, and if not then there’s Musichetta and the girls.” 

“That would be lovely,” Cosette said. She took a step forward, and Eponine moved with her, their arms pressed against each other as they walked across the street to the Musain. “I haven’t talked to many people here beyond my students and their families, really. Not that everyone hasn’t been nice—you’ve all been lovely, truly, but . . .” 

“I get it,” Eponine said, giving Cosette a small smile. “They’re an intimidating bunch. I felt the same way when I came here.” 

Cosette returned the smile, clearly relieved. “You all seem to be such close friends, and I wouldn’t want to intrude.” 

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Eponine assured her. “Before you know it, it’ll be like you’ve lived here all your life. C’mon, let’s see if Joly and Bossuet are in, they’ll love you.” 

Neither Joly nor Bossuet were at the Musain, unfortunately, although Musichetta had taken her usual place behind the bar. Feuilly, Grantaire, and Bahorel were playing some sort of card game at the bar, though, so Eponine pulled Cosette along to join them. 

“Where is everyone?” she asked. 

“Joly got called out to take care of some sheep,” Musichetta said. “And Bossuet’s holed up in Combeferre’s office with Courfeyrac and Marius.” 

“Pinkerton business, apparently,” Bahorel said, raising his eyebrows significantly. “They’ve been in there for hours.” 

“Any idea what it’s all about?” Eponine asked. 

“None at all,” Feuily said. 

“Knowing the Pinkertons, nothing good,” Grantaire said, a smirk twisting his lips. 

“You know the Pinkertons?” Eponine said. “You better not be a secret fugitive or something.” 

Grantaire shrugged and ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “You hear things, back East. Not always good things. But no, I don’t have any business with the Pinkertons, if that’s what you’re asking. You know you’re the second person to assume I’m associated with them? I think I’m insulted. What is it about me that gives the sense that I would work for shady organizations?” 

“The drinking,” Feuilly suggested. 

“The scruffy apparel,” Bahorel said. “Seriously. You know you can get stuff tailored here, right? We’re not that much of a backwater.” 

“You just described half the town, and I don’t see them getting accused of working for the Pinkertons,” Grantaire said. 

Bahorel stroked his chin thoughtfully and then shot Grantaire a wicked grin. “Then I guess it’s just something about you.” 

“Maybe it’s all the notebook scribbling,” Eponine said. 

“I don’t even have my journal,” Grantaire said. “It’s lost, spirited away, never to be seen again.” 

Eponine frowned. “You haven’t found it yet?” 

Grantaire shrugged carelessly. “Oh, I’m certain it’ll turn up. There are only so many places it could be, after all. I’m not too bothered, either way. It’s hardly necessary for my work.” 

“What do you do, Mr. Grantaire?” Cosette asked. 

Grantaire blinked at her for a moment, clearly perplexed, before bursting into laughter. “Mr. Grantaire! That’s one I haven’t heard in a while. Grantaire is fine, or R if you please. As for my trade, I’m an artist. A poor one, to be sure, in talent as well as in wealth, but I make do, and dear Musichetta is kind enough to give me a discount on rent each month.”

“Oh! That’s incredible. I took art lessons in school, but I was dreadful at them,” Cosette confided. “I was never allowed to move past drawing apples and lemons. What mediums do you work in?” 

Grantaire gave her another look, as if he wasn’t entirely certain that she was actually interested. “Well, pencil, for my sketches,” he said, and paused for a moment. When Cosette didn’t say anything, he added, “Charcoal, sometimes. I paint, given the money for the materials. Landscapes, the occasional portrait.”  

He stopped abruptly. Cosette waited, but when he didn’t continue, she said, “I suppose most of your work comes from portrait commissions, then?” 

“Some,” Grantaire said. His hands idly fiddled with the cup. “But that’s not what I make my money in. No, I make my money in photography.” 

“You mean like a daguerreotype?” 

“No, although I’ve used them before—I use the collodion process,” Grantaire said. 

Feuilly nodded. “I’ve heard about it. It’s new, isn’t it?” 

“Relatively. Newer than the daguerreotype,” Grantaire said. 

“I was interested in the daguerreotype, but the equipment was too expensive to justify,” Feuilly said. “I’d be interested in seeing the collodion process.” 

“Oh, me too!” Cosette exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a photograph be taken before. I’ve heard it takes hours, though.” 

“Not so long,” Grantaire said. “Exposure only lasts a minute or so, depending on the light. The dry plate process is more on the frame you’re thinking, but I reserve that for my landscapes.” 

“So, you could take one right now?” Cosette suggested. 

Grantaire looked at her warily. “I could.” 

Cosette clasped her hands together. “Would you?” 

“I would have to set up all the equipment. And the dark room—and I’m certain Musichetta wouldn’t want me to take up space in the Musain—” 

Grantaire looked to Musichetta for back-up, but she was grinning. “We’re not busy at the moment. And I have to admit I’m curious. Go on, get your equipment and show us how it’s done.” 

“Fine, fine!” Grantaire said, throwing up his arms. He retreated up the stairs, returning several minutes later laden down with his equipment. As he set up the dark room in the middle of the Musain, Eponine curiously glanced down at the bottles he’d set down on the bar. 

“Don’t touch,” Grantaire called, when Bahorel picked one of them up and seemed like he was about to sniff it. “Those are the chemicals for the developing process.” 

Feuilly lifted up a clear square of glass from a box. “Glass plates?” 

“Much less expensive than the daguerreotype,” Grantaire said. “Now, who or what am I taking a picture of?” 

“Oh, I’d like a picture! But I’d like to see it done, too,” Cosette mused, clearly torn. 

“I can do more than one. Not too many, but two or three should be fine,” Grantaire said. “Who’s first, then?” 

Feuilly wasn’t interested in having his picture done, but wanted to see the process; Cosette and Bahorel wanted both to be in a picture and to see it developed. Eponine didn’t care one way or another, and neither did Musichetta, so Grantaire declared that the first picture would be of Eponine and Musichetta at the bar. 

“Get comfortable, this may take a few minutes,” Grantaire said, before vanishing into the darkroom with the other three, taking the glass plates and bottles of chemicals with him. 

“Bossuet and Joly will be sorry they missed this,” Musichetta said. 

Grantaire emerged from the dark room and went to the camera before Eponine could respond. “Don’t move,” he said absent-mindedly as he fiddled with the camera. Eponine didn’t so much as breathe until Grantaire at last nodded and stepped away from the camera. Taking the plate with him, he retreated back into the dark room. 

“That’s a lot of fuss for not much work,” Eponine said, dryly. 

For several minutes, there was only an occasional murmur from inside the dark room. Eponine was tempted to go inside and see what was happening, but wasn’t sure if it would ruin the photograph or not, so restrained herself until at last Feuilly and Cosette exited the dark room, Grantaire on their heels.

“A minute more,” he said, his attention focused on the plate, which had been placed in some sort of frame. 

Cosette grinned at Eponine as she took a seat at the bar. “It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it? I can’t wait to see how it looks!” 

“And et voilà,” Grantaire said at last, opening the frame and pulling out a piece of paper. Cosette reached out to take it from him, a gasp escaping from her as she looked at the photograph. 

“Oh, it’s incredible,” she said. 

Eponine leaned over and, although she knew what to expect, couldn’t help but feel shocked at the sight of her own face staring out from the paper with a slight frown and furrowed brows. Every detail was preserved, from the scuffs on her shoes to the stray hairs that had fallen out of the pins. 

“I didn’t think it would be so detailed,” she said. 

Grantaire nodded in satisfaction at the plate. “It turned out well. Would you mind if I sold the negative? I can make another photograph first, so you each can have one.” 

“Sell them?” Eponine said, rather skeptical that anyone would be interested in a picture of two girls at a bar. 

“Of course. That’s how making money works,” Grantaire said, his tone amused. “People are interested in this sort of thing—life in the West, and all that. A publisher might want it, or a private collector.” 

It seemed like a waste of money to Eponine, but it wasn’t any of her business what other people decided to do with their money. “I don’t mind,” she said. 

“Go ahead,” Musichetta said. “Just think, some day that picture might end up in a book or something.” 

Grantaire did make one more print from the negative before carefully packing away the plate. He took a moment to survey the room, a small frown on his face. “I’d like to get a picture of the outside, with the sign in it—Cosette, Bahorel, you don’t mind sharing a picture, do you?” 

“I don’t mind,” Cosette said, and Bahorel agreed, so Grantaire packed up the dark room and the chemicals and they moved outside. 

A crowd gathered as he set up again, carts and horses coming to a stop because of the crowd and simple curiosity. Grantaire had Cosette and Bahorel stand on the porch of the Musain and then retreated into the dark room. This time, Eponine went with him, standing beside Feuilly at the back of the dark room as Grantaire poured some chemical over the plate and bathed it in others. He went through the whole process so quickly she barely had a chance to wonder what it was all for, and then he vanished outside to take a picture and came back to bathe the print in even more chemicals. 

After a few minutes, Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief. “Luck is on my side, today. Two good negatives! Let’s hope the prints turn out as well.” 

The paper, too, had to be prepared with chemicals, something Eponine hadn’t even thought about until Grantaire was doing it. Then back outside—so that the light could develop the print, Grantaire explained—where the crowd waited with baited breath to see how the pictures would turn out. 

“There we are,” Grantaire said, once the print had developed to his satisfaction. He handed it to Cosette and vanished back into the dark room. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Cosette exclaimed, showing it to Bahorel as well. Eponine looked over Cosette’s shoulder and had to admit that it looked even better than the picture she had taken with Musichetta. Grantaire had perfectly captured the details of Bahorel’s proud stature and fashionable outfit and Cosette’s charming smile and delicate curls. Eponine almost wanted one for herself as well. 

“Grantaire, this is wonderful!” Cosette said again, as Grantaire emerged from the dark room with another developing print. “Would you make a third, for Papa?” 

“Of course,” Grantaire said. 

The second print was handed to Bahorel as the first was passed around to the crowd, and by the time Grantaire emerged again, Eponine was sure that half of them wanted photographs of their own. Grantaire, looking bemused but pleased by the interest, promised photographs to anyone who didn’t mind if he sold the negatives afterwards. 

“I look good,” Bahorel said, satisfied, as he tucked the photograph away. “Feuilly, I don’t suppose you could make a frame for this?” 

“Only if you pay for it,” Feuilly said amiably. 

“You should get one done, Mr. Combeferre!” someone called, and Eponine looked up to realize that Combeferre had joined the crowd. 

“The collodion process, is it?” he said, peering into the dark room. “I had a passing interest in daguerreotypes as a child—it’s a fascinating process—” 

A man in a dark coat, standing just behind Combeferre, cleared his throat. “If you have anything you wish to inform me of, I will be taking a room at the saloon here.” 

“Of course, Mr. Javert,” Combeferre said, in the tone of voice that meant he was being polite even though he didn’t care for the person he was speaking to. Curious, Eponine shifted to get a better look at the man, and her blood ran cold. 

There, giving Combeferre a polite nod, stood the man who had found her and Enjolras at Tholomyes’s train car. 

Eponine tore her gaze away from his, her expression carefully blank so as not to give anything away. “Grantaire, need a hand?” she asked. 

“I have it,” he dismissed, as he tore down the dark room and gathered up all his boxes and bottles. “You can pay me back for my services by buying me a drink.” 

“One drink. I know what you’re like,” she said. 

The Musain was crowded when they entered, the crowds who had watched the photography process having drifted inside, and instead of sitting at the bar, their group claimed a table and crowded around it, pulling up extra chairs as necessary. Marius had vanished, Joly hadn’t yet returned, and Jehan was still mysteriously missing, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac joined the group happily. 

Eponine offered to fetch the drinks, and Combeferre, as she had anticipated, offered to assist. “So what’s the deal?” she muttered. 

Combeferre shook his head. “He’s here on an investigation—two of them, actually,” he began, only to fall silent as Grantaire thumped down the stairs and settled against the bar. 

“So, where’s my drink?” he said, grinning at her. 

“Hold your horses, it’s coming,” Eponine said. On cue, Musichetta slid their drinks across the bar, and the three of them loaded up and brought them back to the table. 

Courfeyrac was in the middle of a dramatic portrayal of Marius tripping and sending paperwork flying through the sheriff’s office when they returned. Cosette’s laughter rang through the room, and Eponine couldn’t help but smile at her as she took her seat. 

“And then poor Bossuet—poor Bossuet—tried to help, only to trip on the rug and fall and smack his head against the desk, neatly knocking himself out! I’m afraid Javert had a poor impression of us after that display,” Courfeyrac laughed. “I’m certain he thinks us as incompetent as schoolboys, playing at Sheriff and Deputies.” 

Bossuet, indeed, had an impressive lump on his head, although he was smiling as well. “Well, on the good side, at least I missed most of that meeting.” 

“Luck was with you there,” Courfeyrac said. “He said he’d visit me in my office—I’m dreading it already. Do you think it would be suspicious if I played ill whenever he came to see me? I tell you, it’s a sad, sad day when I come across as the most competent of our office.” 

“Who’s the most competent for real, then?” Eponine asked. 

“Expecting legal trouble?” Courfeyrac teased. “And the answer is Marius, of course! He’s the best assistant a man could ask for. Even if he does have the habit of writing his notes in strange languages.” 

“Where is Marius?” Bossuet asked, but no one answered him because at that moment, a pair of footsteps stomped down the stairs, and the conversation in the room noticeably quieted. 

Javert peered around the room, his eyes eventually landing on their table. Without further ado, he made a beeline directly for them, pausing only for a moment to tip his hat in greeting before speaking. “Pardon me, but I have some questions I would like you to answer. I am here on behalf of an investigation into a man named Jean Valjean, a notorious escaped convict.” 

“Might be with Patron-Minette,” said Eponine, who was feeling even more ill-willed towards the group than usual after her encounter with Montparnasse. “They take all sorts.” 

Javert nodded, but showed no surprise at the mention of the group; Combeferre, likely, had already mentioned them. “If any of you have any information on the members of this gang, I ask that you deliver it to me as soon as possible so that I may bring this criminal to justice.” 

His eyes landed on Eponine in particular before returning to glance over the rest of them. “There is another investigation as well that I have recently been asked to take on, as I am in the area. I seek two young men who are wanted for murder and robbery.” 

“The Tholomyes business?” Bahorel said. Javert stared him down, but Bahorel just shrugged. “Word travels fast around here.” 

“Indeed. If any of you have information, once again, I request that you deliver it to me at once.” With that, Javert tipped his hat at them once more and was gone. 

Cosette watched him go, a small frown on her face that remained even once Javert was gone and the rest of the table was engaged in conversation. Eponine nudged her slightly. “Something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” Cosette said hesitantly. “Just . . . he looks familiar, that’s all. It’s nothing.” 

Cosette smiled, then, and went back to talking with the others, but Eponine tucked the comment away for future consideration. If something was up with Javert, Eponine wanted to know—especially if it involved Cosette. 

***

The Pinkerton threw a wrench into Enjolras's plans. Eponine hadn’t been able to get away to visit him since the man had arrived, as neither of them wanted him to question why the girl who worked for the general store had a habit of disappearing for hours on end. Gavroche occasionally served as an intermediary, but that was an imperfect solution, as he had school most days and Eponine didn’t want him involved in their more illicit activities. Their plans to break into the sheriff’s office in the city had been temporarily put on hold until Eponine had an excuse to leave for several days. Their next chance would likely be when she needed to restock the store, and that wouldn’t be for days yet. 

The waiting made him antsy, and the presence of the Pinkerton made him more so. Enjolras had stripped his camp completely and had taken to rotating between his hideouts instead, which was terrible for his writing but would at least decrease the chance of discovery. The Pinkerton hadn’t taken to searching the wilderness yet, but Enjolras was certain it was only a matter of time. 

He was prepared to do what was necessary, of course, although he would prefer to avoid it if possible. The disappearance of a Pinkerton agent would be a difficult thing to explain. 

Unless Enjolras managed to get him eaten by a mountain lion—now there was a thought. 

He entertained this idea for several minutes before dismissing it as an idle fantasy. He had more important business to deal with, such as checking over the next set of hideouts and weapons stockpiles. He made his way to the nearest stockpile, occasionally checking to ensure no one was following—he didn’t want to be surprised as he had been the first time he met Grantaire. 

And yet he still froze in shock when he stumbled into a small clearing and found Grantaire perched on a stool in front of a strange contraption, a box at his feet and a tent set up to his side. He pressed himself against a tree, but Grantaire didn’t seem to have heard him yet—he was absorbed in examining the contraption in front of him. Enjolras stepped forward, suspicious as to his intentions, but still couldn’t determine what Grantaire was doing. 

“What are you doing?” 

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder briefly before turning back to the contraption. “I know this may seem odd to merry wanderers such as yourself, but some of us have jobs to do, Puck.” 

“I have a job,” Enjolras protested. 

Grantaire wasn’t looking at him, but Enjolras could still see his smirk. “Jesting for Oberon and making him laugh doesn’t count. And neither does breaking into hotel rooms in the middle of the night.” 

Enjolras frowned at Grantaire and his strange contraption. He still wasn’t certain what it was, and that unnerved him. He realized, with a chill, that they were nearly on top of one of his weapons stockpiles—and that they had been at one the first time he had encountered Grantaire, as well. “Are you stalking me?” he demanded. 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Considering that you’re the one who broke into my hotel room and interrupted me while I was working, I think I should be accusing you of that.” 

Enjolras folded his arms over his chest and glared down at him. “I’m working right now, so technically you’re interrupting my work.” 

Grantaire looked at him incredulously. “What kind of work requires you to go out into the wilderness?” 

“You’re out here for work!” Enjolras exclaimed, motioning to the contraption. 

“I,” Grantaire said, “am a photographer. I’m required to be out here for hours on end. That’s the problem with dry collodion plates—they take so long to develop. But I’ll take that over the hassle of working with wet collodion out here. It gives me time to sketch, at least. Or it would, if someone hadn’t stolen my journal.” 

A flush of shame rose to Enjolras's cheeks, but he dismissed it. It was Grantaire’s own fault that Enjolras hadn’t returned it yet—Enjolras had attempted to twice already. And he’d hardly stolen it—Grantaire had dropped it, and Enjolras had picked it up to examine it and ensure the man wasn’t a danger. He still had his doubts about Grantaire, but the journal, at least, seemed to be harmless. Although if Eponine found out that he hadn’t returned it, he didn’t doubt that it would become harmful. 

“Take it, then,” he said, pulling the journal from his waistcoat and shoving it at him. 

Grantaire looked from the journal to Enjolras for a moment and then sketched out an elaborate bow from his sitting position. “My thanks, Monsieur!” 

Enjolras was tempted to take it back just for that, but Grantaire had already taken the journal from him and flipped open to a blank page. He removed a pencil from behind his ear and tapped it against the page for a few moments. 

“I saw a fox the other day,” he mused. “I wish it would come here again—I remember it, but not clearly enough. Any attempt would surely turn out poorly. Ah—!” 

Enjolras stopped short in his approach of the contraption. 

“Not in front of the camera, if you please,” Grantaire said, standing to pull Enjolras back around to the other side of the contraption. “This plate is almost done, and I’ll not have you ruin it.” 

“What are you taking a photograph of?” Enjolras asked. As far as he could tell, there didn’t seem to be much worth photographing, just trees and distant mountains that could hardly be seen. 

“The scenery!” Grantaire declared. “It’s quite popular, you know. My landscapes sell very well. Those still unfortunate enough to be trapped in the cities back East can’t simply step into their backyards and see such views as this, you see, so I send a little bit of it back to them, for their enjoyment.” 

“That’s frivolous,” Enjolras said. 

“That’s art,” Grantaire shrugged. “And it isn’t all frivolous, to be sure. I took a picture of a deer’s skeleton, the other day, which will likely be of some educational value, and I’ve been paid before for taking pictures for textbooks. You’re welcome to take a look, if you wish. Perhaps some of it will be to your liking.” 

Enjolras knelt down beside him and picked through the open box of developed plates at his side. Most of them were landscapes—trees, rivers, farms, the town—but he paused at two in particular. The images were inverted, but it was still easy to tell who they depicted. In one, Musichetta and Eponine stood at a bar, while in the other Bahorel and an unfamiliar girl stood in front of the Musain. 

“Those?” Grantaire said. “I should have known you would prefer the portraits to the landscapes. Out here, you see a landscape everywhere you turn, but I expect you see people much less. I suppose you think portraits less frivolous?” 

“Less than the landscapes,” Enjolras agreed. 

“Then,” Grantaire said, a smirk rising to his face. “Perhaps you would allow me to take your picture, as I have just finished with this! Think on it,” he said, before vanishing into the dark room. 

Enjolras's first instinct was to refuse, as he didn’t see the point in having a photograph of himself, but his eyes kept returning to the negatives bearing the images of his friends. It was a curious thing, he had to admit, to have your picture preserved in such a way. Although Enjolras certainly wouldn’t waste hours on it, as Grantaire had with the landscapes. 

“How long will it take?” 

“Only a few minutes with the wet collodion,” Grantaire said. “The light is good here.” 

“Then I permit it,” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire was silent, and for a moment Enjolras wondered if he shouldn’t have accepted, but then Grantaire burst from the tent, his eyes wide with shock and his cheeks slightly flushed. “You will? Right away, then—wait, let me move the camera—” 

Enjolras stood and waited for Grantaire to aim the camera at him, but although he picked it up, he didn’t set it down. “Are you going to take it, or not?” he demanded. 

“Not like that,” Grantaire said, still glancing about the area. “There—up that tree. I assume you can climb?” 

In answer, Enjolras went to the tree and gripped the lowest branch, swinging himself up into the tree. He stood again and reached up to grip the next branch with one hand, only for Grantaire to shout, “Wait!” 

Enjolras looked over his shoulder to see Grantaire holding up his hands. “Like that—don’t move. Can you hold that position?” 

“I can,” Enjolras said. 

“Then don’t move—not a muscle,” Grantaire said, before vanishing into the tent. He emerged again a few moments later and fiddled with the camera. After only a few seconds, he went back into the dark room. Enjolras wasn’t certain, but he assumed the picture had been taken, so after a moment of waiting, he lowered himself back down to the ground. 

Some minutes later, Grantaire emerged holding a frame. “It has to develop,” he muttered, staring fiercely at it. Enjolras, personally, thought this was quite a lot of trouble for a single piece of paper. 

Moments later, Grantaire made a triumphant noise and opened the frame, removing both plate and print. “How is it?” he asked, shoving it towards Enjolras without even taking a look at it. Before Enjolras could look at it, though, Grantaire crowded against him as if he couldn’t bear not to look. 

Enjolras hadn’t seen himself in years. He had no mirror—saw no need for one—and although he bathed in the river on occasion, he didn’t bother much with looking at his face. He shaved by touch alone, and didn’t bother with cutting his hair. He almost didn’t recognize himself, ragged and barefoot and wild, except for the glare that his face always seemed to naturally fall into. 

It discomfited him and yet, somehow, it pleased him as well. 

Grantaire, beside him, sighed. “It turned out well,” he said, brushing a finger against the edge of the print before pulling away. Enjolras pushed it at him. 

“Keep it,” he said. 

Grantaire blinked at him. “Me?” 

“Yes, you. What would I do with a picture of myself?” Enjolras said. “I don’t have a use for it.” 

“I suppose not,” Grantaire said, with his usual smirk. “What would you take a picture of?” 

“I could take a picture of you,” Enjolras said, almost surprising himself with his boldness. 

“And immortalize this face? I think not,” Grantaire laughed. “Besides, you wouldn’t know the first thing about how to do it!” 

“You could teach me. I’m a quick study,” Enjolras said. “And what’s wrong with your face?” 

Grantaire blinked at him. “What’s wrong with it? It’s—” 

Grantaire made a vague gesture at his face. “Yes,” Enjolras said. “It’s a face.” 

“It’s my face,” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras stared at him. “Your face is fine.” 

Grantaire snorted. “What a compliment!” 

“It’s nice,” Enjolras said. 

“Tell me, have you ever seen another human being before?” Grantaire said dryly. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I haven’t lived out here all my life, you know. I’m not actually . . . whatever it is you keep calling me.” 

Grantaire blinked at him for a moment. “I suppose I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “You seem to belong here—you fit here so well—it’s hard to picture you anywhere else. Well, beyond my hotel room, I suppose. Oh, don’t get angry, I’m only teasing you—come, we won’t take a picture of me, but I can show you how to take one, if you wish. It seems a tricky process, and you must work fast, but it isn’t as difficult as some would have you think.” 

Enjolras frowned, thinking. “The journal,” he said. “Could you take a picture of a page of the journal?” 

“I . . . you could,” Grantaire said, at last. “Although I can’t see why you would want to.” 

“Then that’s what I’ll have,” Enjolras said. “Pick a page.” 

Eventually, Grantaire settled on a sketch of a deer that he proclaimed “not horrible,” and he rigged up a system to hold the book up and keep it open while he showed Enjolras how the process was done. It truly wasn’t complicated, simply a matter of bathing the coated plate in the right chemicals at the right time and preventing any light from ruining the plate, but it had to be done fast, before the wet collodion dried.

“It takes practice,” Grantaire said, as he neatly slid the exposed plate into another bath. “I ruined most of my plates when I started, but now I don’t even when I’m drunk. Your fingers are nimble—you would probably be quick enough, given a few chances to practice, but I’m afraid I can’t waste all my plates on you. But here—your reproduced sketch.” 

Enjolras looked over the print. It was faded, more difficult to read than the sketch itself, but perfectly serviceable. “Thank you, Grantaire. I expect this will come in handy.” 

Grantaire looked at him, surprised. “You know my name?” 

“You told it to me,” Enjolras said. 

“I didn’t think you remembered,” Grantaire said. His expression was soft for a moment, but that ever-present smirk soon returned. “And yet, I don’t have your name.” 

“And you still won’t,” Enjolras said firmly. He tucked the print away inside his waistcoat and nodded once at Grantaire in lieu of tipping his hat, since he wore none. “I suggest you remove yourself from the location and find somewhere else to take your landscapes—I won’t be so kind the next time you intrude on my work.” 

“You never did tell me what work you did!” Grantaire called after him. 

“Goodbye, Grantaire!” Enjolras called back. “Don’t come back.” 

Grantaire, to his surprise, laughed. “As you would, sweet Puck. Return to your fairy business. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon.” 

And although he knew it was for the best that he never see Grantaire again, Enjolras found himself wishing that he would.

***

“So, spill,” Eponine said.

“Hello, Eponine, nice to see you as well,” Combeferre said. “Why, yes, I’m concerned about the Pinkerton wandering around town, how good of you to worry as well.” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “You’re a doctor. I have kids to take care of. He’s going to come to the obvious conclusion that I’m here for medicine. Or that we’re having an affair. Either way, there’s nothing to worry about.” 

Combeferre sighed and massaged his temples. “I know. This whole business has me paranoid—and concerned. Have you been able to see Enjolras?” 

“You know I haven’t,” Eponine said. “As far as I know, he’s alive. Gavroche saw him a few days ago. And if he was hurt or starving or something, you know he’d find a way to let us know he needed help.” 

“So I like to think,” Combeferre sighed. “But I assume you want to know more about Javert? I don’t have much. Mostly our meetings have been him demanding information from me. I let him know that we have problems with Patron-Minette, and that the young men he’s looking for may be with them.” 

“I wanted to ask you about that. How do you feel about me giving him the dirt on Patron-Minette?” she asked. “We could throw them at each other, hope they take each other out—two birds, one stone.” 

“It has potential,” Combeferre admitted. “But it may put too much of a spotlight on you. He might want to know how you come by your information. And we would be burning bridges with this—people might be wary of working with us if we turn in Patron-Minette.” 

“Better the spotlight’s on me than on Enjolras,” Eponine said. “He’s looking for a young man. He won’t think to be suspicious of me. And if I give him information, maybe I can get something out of him in return. And no one has to know it was us who spilled the beans on Patron-Minette. I’m not gonna give him too many details. And if people stop working with us just for turning in Patron-Minette, when we know what kind of business they’re mixed up in now, do we really want to work with them? I know you have plenty of contacts that don’t do business with them.”  

“I suppose,” Combeferre said, with a sigh. “Just be careful. Only tell him what he needs to know.” 

“I know, Combeferre, this isn’t my first rodeo,” she said. “I’ve got it handled. You relax and try to figure out what might have happened to those papers Enjolras wanted.” 

Combeferre groaned. “Don’t remind me. Courfeyrac and I have gotten in touch with all our contacts. We’re waiting to hear back, but this business with the Pinkertons has everyone scared stiff.” 

“You’ll work it out,” she said. “You always do. I’ll go talk to Javert. I’ll let you know if I get anything out of him.” 

Javert was renting a room at the Musain, most likely because he had been warned that while the Corinth might have better alcohol, the food was barely palatable. He took lunch alone, in his rooms, so Eponine headed up to his room and knocked on the door. 

“Enter,” Javert said, a moment after she knocked. 

He was sitting at a small table that he was currently using at a desk when she entered. Eponine stood in front of it, arms crossed over her chest, and said, “So, you want information on Patron-Minette.” 

“Yes.” Javert dipped a pen in ink and stared at her meaningfully. “I had wondered if you would come by, Miss . . .?” 

“Eponine,” she said simply. “And yeah, I know about Patron-Minette. What do you want to know?”

“Any information on its members and leaders,” Javert said. “You may begin when ready. 

Eponine breathed in slowly. “No telling where you got this information, right?” 

“Your identity will be confidential,” Javert confirmed. 

It was good to have confirmation, but she still wasn’t going to tell him anything that anyone who ran in the same circles couldn’t tell him. “The leaders of Patron-Minette call themselves the Jondrettes. Husband and wife, equally foul. Used to be known as the Thenardiers.” 

“I’m familiar,” Javert said, his voice dark. “I had suspected as much. They’ve weaseled their way out of prison before, but this time I will ensure it sticks. The others?” 

“They’ve got a few important lackeys. Claquesous, Babet, Brujon, Guelemer,” she said, hesitating before adding, “Montparnasse. Most of them aren’t too clever. Claquesous and Montparnasse are the ones you have to be careful of. All five of them can be found around the city. You know that big, ugly saloon with all the fake gold?” 

“I know it.” 

“That’s where Montparnasse goes when he’s not with the gang. Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer stick to seedier places. And no one knows with Claquesous,” she said. “How’s that for you?” 

“It is a start,” he said, as he made a few final notes. His eyes pierced her, and she felt certain that she knew the question that was coming next—he would ask how she knew what she did, and she would deflect. 

“Eponine Thenardier, isn’t it?” he said. 

“I—what?” 

He nodded and made another note on his paper. “We met very briefly when I assisted in the arrest of your parents some years ago—the child trafficking case.” 

Eponine had forgotten most of her childhood, and willingly so. Most of it she didn’t wish to dwell on, but now his words brought back vague memories of cold nights and sorrowful eyes that she quickly turned her mind away from. 

“I—I didn’t remember you,” she said. 

“I expected as much. You were very young. I had not thought you would rise above the path set for you by your parents. I am pleased to see I was mistaken,” he said. “Take care you remain on the path of the righteous. If that was all, you may leave.” 

Eponine left the Musain half in a daze. She realized, once she was on the street, that she hadn’t asked him any questions of her own, but it was too late to go back. She continued down the street, instead, unwilling to return to the confines of the general store. She let her feet lead the way, not caring too much where she went, and somehow ended up in front of the schoolhouse. 

School wasn’t out yet, but the room was completely empty. Eponine wandered around the area until she heard the sound of children chattering, and found them not far from the schoolhouse, working on their multiplication tables and enjoying the sun. Cosette, upon spotting her, smiled and held up three fingers. Eponine leaned against a tree and settled in to wait as Cosette finished her rounds among the students and returned to the front of the group. 

Cosette clapped her hands to draw their attention. “Time for lunch! I’ll see you all this afternoon. Don’t be late.” 

The students quickly dispersed, eager to escape from their studies, and Eponine was free to approach Cosette. “Outdoor lesson?” 

“It’s a nice day,” Cosette said, tucking her arm around Eponine’s. “Join me for lunch? We can have a picnic.” 

“Sounds nice,” Eponine said. 

Cosette smiled and pulled away, her fingers brushing briefly against Eponine’s before she was gone. Eponine took a deep breath and tried to cast off the lingering anxiety that Javert’s words had brought. 

Clearly she hadn’t done so well enough, since once Cosette had fetched her lunch and spread a blanket on the grass for them to sit on, she said, “Is something the matter, Eponine?” 

“Nothing,” Eponine said. Cosette gave her a look that plainly said she knew it wasn’t nothing, and she amended, “Nothing important, anyways.” 

“If it bothers you, then it’s important,” Cosette said firmly. “Even if it’s something silly like your shoes pinching your toes too much.” 

“Just—remembered something. From when I was a kid. Something I forgot. I still don’t really remember it—and I don’t want to, either,” Eponine said. 

“I understand,” Cosette said softly. “I don’t remember much of my childhood.” 

“What, you ?” Eponine said. She found it hard to belief that Cosette, with her loving, wealthy father, could have the same reasons for not remembering her childhood as Eponine did. 

Cosette picked at her lunch for a few minutes. “I didn’t always live with Papa—he took me in when I was a child, after my mother died. I lived with someone else before that. I don’t like to think about it.” 

“Yeah,” Eponine murmured. “Yeah, me neither.” 

Cosette leaned her head against Eponine’s shoulder. She was quiet for a moment, picking absent-mindedly at her lunch, until she said, “Do you think that Pinkerton agent will leave soon?” 

Eponine sighed and let her head rest against Cosette’s. “I sure fucking hope so.”

“I just want everything to go back to normal,” Cosette whispered. 

Eponine shut her eyes; Cosette’s hair was soft against her cheek. “Me too, Cosette. Me too.”  

Chapter Text

By next month, Javert still hadn’t left town, although he had returned to the city a few times. He was investigating Patron-Minette, Eponine knew, sticking his nose into every grungy bar and saloon in the city to track them all down and wait for them to lead him back to the Thenardiers. Eponine didn’t envy him his job; the moment one of them thought they were being tailed, the whole lot of them would pack up and relocate. She wished he would hurry up and finish his investigation, though. She’d managed to visit Enjolras a few times while Javert was in the city, but they hadn’t been able to make any headway on their own investigations. 

Hopefully, this time they would make some progress. Javert had left for the city in the morning, and with any luck he wouldn’t be back for a few days. That would give Eponine plenty of time to confer with Enjolras and Combeferre. 

Provided, of course, that she was able to track Enjolras down. Usually, he found her—he had a nasty habit of dropping out of trees or bursting out of bushes and scaring the living daylights out of her—but she’d been walking for ages now, and he had yet to make an appearance. 

When she finally found him, he was sitting on the ground, hunched over something. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Was it really necessary to move your camp?” 

“Have you seen this?” he exclaimed, smacking a hand against the paper. “This is—this is outrageous!” 

Eponine leaned over his shoulder and saw that he was reading the latest copy of Jehan’s paper. “No, it just came out—how did you even get that?” 

“Gavroche brought it to me, but that’s not important. Look at this!” Enjolras smacked a hand against the paper again. “He’s mocking everything I stand for—distracting from the message of the paper—” 

Eponine squinted down at the paper. “A cartoon?” 

Enjolras made an irritated noise and shoved the paper at her. Eponine took a closer look at the cartoon, which seemed to be poking fun at the front page article of last month’s issue, and snorted. Enjolras gave her a disgusted look. 

“What?” she said, shoving the paper back at him. “It’s funny, Blondie, lighten up. No one’s going to stop caring about your front page articles because of a silly picture. It might even make them care more—I bet you some of them are going to go back and read last month’s article again just to get what the hell it’s referencing.” 

“They shouldn’t need a—a silly picture to care about the rights of humankind!” Enjolras said, leaping to his feet and pacing back and forth. “It distracts from the message. We aren’t here for the people’s entertainment. We’re here for their education, their enlightenment! To inform them that we, as a people, are capable of change, and how we should change!” 

“They can be entertained and educated,” Eponine said. “And I don’t see you caring about Jehan’s poems, and those have absolutely nothing to do with the rights of humankind, or whatever. What’s really bothering you?” 

“Nothing,” Enjolras snapped, whirling around to glare at her before resuming his pacing. “He’s so—argh! I should go give him a piece of my mind.” He nodded once, sharply. “I should. I’ll go right now—where is he at this time of day, the Musain?” 

“Oh, no. You are not going into town like that,” Eponine said. “There is a fine line between rugged mountain-man and disgusting hermit, and you crossed it a long time ago.” 

“Grantaire didn’t care,” Enjolras said. 

“The man smells like a brewery, of course he wouldn’t care,” Eponine said, before his words had fully registered. “What do you mean, Grantaire didn’t care ?” 

“We talked,” Enjolras said. 

“You. Talked to Grantaire,” Eponine said. “When? How ?” 

“Talking typically involves opening your mouth and making a series of sounds to form words and sentences—” 

“You don’t talk to people,” Eponine said. “You lecture them on the rights of humankind, or on philosophy, or the desperate state of politics in this country—” 

“I talk to people!” Enjolras protested. “I’m talking to you right now.” 

“People who aren’t me, Combeferre, or Courfeyrac,” Eponine said. 

“Jehan,” Enjolras said. 

“All you talk about is the newspaper. And you haven’t had an actual conversation in weeks. Doesn’t count,” Eponine said. 

“Gavroche,” Enjolras said confidently. 

“Gavroche is ten ,” Eponine said. “And you don’t talk to him—he brings you things and you throw money at him and occasionally give him a lecture from your manifesto.” 

“It’s important to educate the youth,” Enjolras muttered. “Would you prefer I talk with him about . . . whatever it is children talk about?” 

“The point remains,” Eponine said. “You don’t talk to people. You do things like stealing their notebooks and accusing them of being Pinkertons, apparently, and at least in the universe I’m from, that doesn’t count as a conversation.” 

“I returned his journal, I’ll have you know,” Enjolras said. “And when I did, we talked.” 

“And what did this conversation consist of? Did you steal his boots this time?” 

“Of course not. He was wearing them,” Enjolras said. “I wasn’t aware he was a photographer—you said he was an artist.” 

“He said he was an artist,” Eponine said. “I don’t know, maybe photography counts as an art now.” 

“It would be useful, if not for the dark room,” Enjolras muttered. “But even so—maybe something could be done . . .” 

“Now I get it,” Eponine said. “You’re interested in him for the Cause.” 

“Of course I am,” Enjolras snapped. “Why else would I be interested in him?” 

Eponine paused at that and looked at him, considering. His face was flushed, as it was when he got passionate about his ideals, but maybe there was something else behind it this time. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, her tone teasing. “Why else would you be interested in him?” 

“There isn’t any reason,” he said. “I’m interested in the potential his photography has to be useful to the Cause—” 

“Or maybe,” Eponine said, “you’re trying to find a way that his photography could be useful so you have an excuse to be interested in him, because—” 

“Enough,” Enjolras said. He wasn’t flushed now—he was pale, all the blood gone from his face. 

“Because you don’t know how to be interested in someone if it isn’t for the Cause,” Eponine finished. 

Enjolras bolted. 

Before she could even react, he’d vanished into the trees completely, leaving no sign he had ever been there. She blinked, her brain still trying to catch up with what her eyes had seen, and then sighed and leaned against the nearest tree. “Shit. You know I actually had important things l wanted to talk to you about!” she called. 

No response came. 

“Of course,” Eponine sighed. She pushed herself off the tree and brushed herself off before turning around and heading back to town. There was no use looking for Enjolras when he didn’t want to talk to her; if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found. 

Eponine would still be there once he was done throwing a fit. In the meantime, there were other people she could talk to.

She found Jehan standing at a street corner, exchanging a paper for a handful of coins with one of the local farmhands. Eponine waited until the exchange was over before approaching. 

“Eponine! Here for another?” they asked. “You’re in luck—I just finished printing a fresh batch, since Courfeyrac bought all the rest of them this morning!” 

“Not right now,” Eponine said. “I was wondering if you’d seen Montparnasse around.” 

“Not since before that Tholomyes business,” Jehan said, with a sigh. “It’s a shame—Montparnasse was dreadfully pretty. But this whole thing, with the murder and the Pinkertons, is terribly exciting, isn’t it? It makes you wonder what sort of person one has to be, to be capable of something like that.” 

“A terrible one,” Eponine said. “You’ve been reading too many novels, Jehan.” 

“Maybe so,” Jehan said, cheerfully. “Have you read the poetry section for the month?” 

“Haven’t had a chance. Enjolras was too busy throwing a fit over that cartoon,” Eponine snorted. 

Jehan’s smile turned sly. “I thought he might enjoy that.” 

“I don’t think ‘enjoy’ is the world you’re looking for,” Eponine said. 

“You would not believe the month I have had,” Jehan sighed dramatically. “R either waxes poetic about his mysterious forest encounters, or rambles on about the writer of the front page articles. He still hasn’t realized they are one and the same. It’s enough to drive one mad.” 

“So your solution was to annoy Enjolras? You realize that I’m the one who has to deal with him, not Grantaire.” Eponine’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, encounters ? How many times have they met?” 

“Oh, three or four,” Jehan said. “I honestly stopped keeping track.” 

Eponine chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Enjolras didn’t tell me that.”

Jehan patted her arm. “They have to grow up eventually.” 

“Oh, ha ha,” Eponine said, rolling her eyes. “Jehan—you’d tell me if you thought Grantaire was up to anything, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course,” Jehan promised. “If I thought he was a risk to Enjolras at all, I wouldn’t let him get close. You know that, Eponine.” 

“I know. I know,” she sighed. “I’m just—concerned. With what’s going on, the last thing we need is new people sticking their noses in. We can’t be sure of his intentions.” 

“I’ll find out what I can for you,” they murmured. “If Grantaire is hiding something, or if he has an ulterior motive, you’ll be the first to know, Eponine. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”  

“Thanks,” Eponine said. “I’ll stop disrupting your sales. Good luck with the paper.” 

“Good luck to you too, Eponine!” Jehan called after her. 

Eponine wasn’t sure what exactly she needed luck for, but she wouldn’t say no to more luck in her life, so she accepted the farewell with a small wave over her shoulder as she set off down the street. She was pretty sure it was about time for class to let out for the afternoon, so she headed up to the schoolhouse in the hopes of catching Cosette on her way out. 

As she started up the hill to the schoolhouse, students started to pass her by. Some of them, she noted with amusement, were holding copies of Jehan’s paper. “An angel!” one of them sighed dramatically, pretending to swoon. 

“Our eyes met—” another sighed. 

“Struck! By a burst of light!” a third declared, with accompanying dramatic arm movements. 

“And I fell in love,” they said together, before bursting into giggles. 

Gavroche emerged from the schoolhouse, his eyes widening at the sight of her. He ducked his head and attempted to race past, but she snagged him by the collar as he ran by. 

“Gah! Ep, stop!” he protested. 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “A little bird told me someone was out delivering papers today. Something you want to tell me?” 

“It was only an hour or two!” Gavroche protested. “And it was just grammar that I missed.” 

She released him and ruffled his hair. “And it was just a nickel that you gave up.” Gavroche groaned. “Now go on.” 

He stuck his tongue out at her and raced off to join his friends, the lot of them rallying around him as he cajoled them into joining him for a game instead of heading home, as many of them had likely been instructed to do. 

Eponine waited for the last of the students to rush away, giggling over a newspaper, before ducking into the room. Cosette was still there, flipping through a newspaper with a small crease between her brows. 

“Interested in . . . what was the front page article this time? Suffrage?” Eponine asked. 

“Oh—I haven’t looked at it yet,” Cosette admitted, with only a brief glance at Eponine. “I was trying to find out what was so amusing today. Gavroche brought some with him after lunch, and I could hardly get them to put the papers down. I’m pleased that they’re reading, but I would prefer if they not disrupt class while doing it.” 

“Well, let’s see if I can help you out,” Eponine said, unfolding her own paper. “I haven’t read it, either.” 

She considered that they might have been looking at Grantaire’s cartoons, but Cosette said they had definitely been reading something—and quoting it. Suspecting one of the poems was to blame, Eponine flipped to the poetry section and began to skim through it. Jehan’s poems were usually Romantic, but some of them could be funny, either intentionally or unintentionally. 

When she spotted Marius’ name under one of them, she almost rolled her eyes. Of course—Gavroche enjoyed teasing Marius, and getting his fellow students to make fun of one of his poems sounded right up his alley. 

After reading it, though, Eponine knew that making fun of Marius wasn’t the least of it. Perhaps she was wrong, but—

“Cosette, have you ever met Marius?” she asked, carefully reading over the poem again. 

“Marius? He’s . . . Courfeyrac’s assistant, isn’t he? I actually don’t believe so. He always seems to be busy when I have the chance to join everyone at the Musain,” Cosette said. 

“Yeah, he’s been busy writing poetry. Love poetry,” Eponine said, with a harsh laugh. “Take a look.” 

Cosette took the paper from Eponine with a small frown. Eponine waited for her to read it. Even given the descriptions, it could have applied to a few people, but for the fact that Marius didn’t know her name. There was only one woman newer to town than Marius, and that was Cosette. Eponine dimly recalled, now, Marius rambling about some girl he’d seen on the street. She should have connected it sooner—of course Marius would fall in love with Cosette.

“Oh,” Cosette said, once she’d finished. “Well, that explains why everyone kept reciting it. It—it is referring to me, isn’t it?” 

“Seems so,” Eponine said. 

“Oh. That’s . . . flattering, I suppose,” Cosette said. 

“That’s it?” 

“What else would it be?” 

Eponine shrugged. “You’re not going to . . . I don’t know.” 

Cosette seemed to know what she meant, though, because she said, “I’m not interested in Marius, Eponine.” 

Eponine’s mouth went dry; Cosette didn’t look away from her, and Eponine found that she couldn’t look away, either. “Oh. That’s—that’s good.” 

She felt stupid for saying it—what did she even mean, “that’s good”—but Cosette smiled and agreed, “That’s good.” 

***

On top of his many hideouts and weapon stockpiles, Enjolras had several food caches. Living off the land, he had quickly worked out, was not for him. Instead he survived on regular deliveries from Combeferre and Eponine, purchased, he assumed, with the spoils from their jobs. With the Pinkerton in town, those deliveries had died down, but his sparse eating habits had luckily left him with a surplus of food carefully hidden around his network of hideouts, hidden so that they wouldn’t be carried off by animals or passers-by. 

This did, however, make them difficult and occasionally awkward to get, which was why the next time he saw Grantaire, Enjolras was crouched in a bush digging a hole in the ground. 

“Damn,” said Grantaire. “I hoped you were a squirrel.” 

“Last time I did this, I had a shovel,” Enjolras said. “I didn’t think it would be so hard to dig up without one.” 

“What are you doing? Digging for treasure?” Grantaire teased. 

“Close,” Enjolras said. His fingers struck cloth, and he made a pleased noise as he pulled the bag of food out of the ground and pulled out a tin of biscuits. He made an attempt at brushing off the dirt on his hands against his pants before pulling the tin open and helping himself to the biscuits, which were slightly stale, but still good. 

“You know, somehow I thought you’d eat berries and animals caught in homemade traps,” Grantaire said, reaching down to examine one of the cans. “Not . . . tinned beans.” 

“I don’t like to eat animals. It feels needlessly cruel,” Enjolras said. “And I liked tinned beans. Give them here. Biscuit?” 

Grantaire exchanged the beans for the tin of biscuits but didn’t take any, instead watching as Enjolras stabbed his knife into the tin, sawed around the edge, yanked it open, and upended the tin into his mouth. 

“That is absolutely disgusting,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras frowned into the empty tin of beans—it was always disappointing when they were gone. “I tried to live off the land, but it turns out that it’s very difficult when you don’t eat meat.” 

Grantaire chuckled at that. “I can imagine. So, what, you go into town regularly to buy food? Somehow I can’t picture you in the general store. The girl that works there is a force of nature—I think she’d kick you out on your ass.” 

“She would,” Enjolras agreed, with a small smirk at the thought of the expression on Eponine’s face if he tried walking into the general store looking like he did now. She’d escort him from the premises and directly into a bath. Grantaire gave him a strange look, but said nothing. “But no, I don’t go into town. I have other means of getting my food.” 

“Ah, the mysterious fairy magic,” Grantaire said. 

“Exactly,” Enjolras said, as he reached into the bag and pulled out a can of peaches. He opened it up and popped one of them into his mouth, only to grimace. Clearly, he hadn’t managed to get all the dirt off his fingers. 

“Here.” 

A damp handkerchief appeared in front of him. Enjolras looked over at Grantaire, who was just slipping away a canteen. “For your hands,” he said. 

Enjolras stared at him. Grantaire looked back at him, his expression growing ever so slightly perplexed the longer Enjolras didn’t accept the handkerchief. “Why did you do it?” Enjolras demanded. 

Grantaire blinked at him, his hand retreating. “Do what?” 

“The cartoon,” Enjolras hissed. “What else?” 

“The cartoon?” Grantaire repeated. “Wait—you mean that silly thing I drew for Jehan? The last illustrations I did went over well, so he asked me to do some more, and I suppose I’d been thinking about the article.” 

Enjolras was able to feel pleased that Grantaire had been thinking about his article for less than a second before Grantaire continued speaking. “The sheer naivety of it—I almost thought it was parody at first! I’m still not entirely certain it wasn’t, although everyone else seemed to take it completely at face value. And this latest article is hardly any better. Universal suffrage!” 

Enjolras felt sick to his stomach—had he misjudged Grantaire so completely? “You don’t believe in the right to universal suffrage?” 

He wanted to say more, to inform Grantaire exactly why he should and why it was important, but the words caught in his throat. 

Grantaire spoke before Enjolras could force himself to. “I don’t believe that it will happen,” he said. “It’s—a fantasy. A dream. There’s no chance of it coming to fruition, and hoping for it will only lead to disappointment. Even putting aside everything that would have to happen first, those currently in power will never give it up. Why should they wish to change the status quo when they have all the power? Why should they wish to share it? And so nothing will change.” 

“Because it is the right thing to do!” Enjolras snapped. “It is the right of every human being—” 

“I think people have more important things to worry about than whether or not they get to vote for which rich, white man has power over them, when they’re all the same, anyways—” 

“So, what, you believe that, what, that they don’t want or don’t care about the right to vote? That women will be too busy with household chores, so they won’t have time to vote or keep up with politics? Or, perhaps, that they aren’t as intelligent, and lack the capacity to have a useful opinion—” 

“Out here, people are concerned with trying to survive ,” Grantaire said. “Back East? They’re concerned with the day-to-day troubles of their lives. I don’t know how it is in fairy-land, Puck—

“Don’t patronize me—”

“—But out here people are selfish, jealous creatures who would sooner kick you when you’re down than offer you a hand up.” 

“You can’t deny that people care about others—” 

“Individually, certainly, people care for their neighbors. They’ll help each other to make themselves feel better, or because they know that they will inevitably have to rely on their neighbors in the future. But on a grand scale? Most people don’t think that far beyond themselves. You’re one of the rare few—you and whoever writes these articles—” 

Enjolras jabbed a finger against Grantaire’s chest, anger boiling in his blood. “Just because you’ve given up hope,” he snarled, “doesn’t mean the rest of us have. Go back to your drink, Grantaire. I was wrong about you, after all—you’re not a threat. You’re not an asset. You’re nothing at all .” 

He threw down the can of peaches that had been clenched in his fist all this time and turned on his heel, not caring to see where it landed as he raced away into the forest, running until he reached one of his hideouts. The horse he kept there looked up, prancing nervously as he hurled himself over the rickety fence keeping it contained. Enjolras threw himself onto the horse’s back and urged it on, eager to get as far away as possible. 

His eyes burned and watered. He told himself it was the wind and shut them firmly, trusting the horse to take him where it would. 

***

“Why the fuck do you smell like peaches,” Eponine said to Grantaire as she slid onto the bar stool next him. Grantaire didn’t look at her, just poured himself another shot of whiskey and tossed it back. He made to pour himself another, only to frown as the bottle gave up only a few more drops of alcohol. 

“‘Chetta, another,” he slurred, pushing the bottle towards her and nearly knocking it off the counter. 

“He’s been at it for hours,” Musichetta muttered to Eponine. “And no, R, I’m not giving you another. I’m cutting you off.” 

Grantaire scowled at her—it might have been threatening if he hadn’t looked like he was about to fall off his barstool. A stiff wind could have knocked him out. “Fine. I’ll go to the Corinth.” 

“And they’ll kick you out the moment you walk through the doors,” Musichetta said. 

They all knew it was true, but nonetheless Grantaire slid off his stool and took a determined step towards the front door. He paused, wavered, and murmured, “I think I’m going to be sick.” 

Musichetta managed to shove a bucket into his arms a split second before he threw up. Eponine grimaced and looked away, trying to catch Musichetta’s eye to share a commiserating look. Musichetta, however, looked past Eponine and motioned at someone to come over. 

Eponine looked to see Bossuet getting up from the dominoes table, where Mr. Mabeuf, for once, had been winning hands-down. Bossuet didn’t seem bothered by his losses, and even had managed a sympathetic tone as he patted Grantaire on the back. “Come on, R. Let’s get you into bed. Eponine, a hand?” 

Somehow, they managed to get Grantaire’s arms slung around their shoulders. His head lolled to one side. “Why do I always—ruin everything—” 

“Chin up,” Bossuet said, as he hauled Grantaire forwards. “It’ll look better in the morning. And when you’re sober.” 

“I never want to be sober again,” Grantaire groaned. 

They didn’t take the stairs—which Eponine thought was for the best, considering Grantaire’s state—and instead dragged Grantaire into the room shared by Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly. Grantaire had lost all desire to resist on the trip over, and allowed them to pour him into bed and turn him into his side. 

Bossuet settled onto the bed beside him, patting Grantaire’s shoulder sympathetically, and after a moment Eponine perched on the bed as well. “What happened?” 

“Not sure,” Bossuet said. “He was like this already when I got home. Musichetta couldn’t get anything out of him, either, except something about fairies? I think he was already a little drunk when he got here. He should really stop drinking in the wilderness, he’s going to get eaten by a mountain lion someday. Or that’s what Joly says, anyway.” 

Eponine hummed, considering. She had a feeling she knew what had happened in the wilderness—or, at least, who it had involved. 

“You can leave, if you need to. I’ll keep an eye on him,” Bossuet said. 

“I’ll be around in the morning. I want to talk to him,” Eponine said. 

“I can’t promise he’ll be awake, but he’ll be alive, at least!” Bossuet said. 

Eponine left the back room and passed through the main room of the Musain, nodding to Musichetta as she left. Seeing Grantaire had put her off her drink for the night, and she wasn’t in the mood to for the raucous atmosphere of the Musain any longer. She retreated to the small room above the general store, even though it was early enough that even Gavroche and Azelma weren’t home yet. 

She made herself dinner instead, leaving their portions warming on the stove, and settled down to read the front page article of the paper at last, taking advantage of the brief calm before Azelma returned home with complaints about something Matelote and Gibelote had said, and Gavroche returned with wild tales of what he’d gotten up to with Bahorel and Feuilly. Eponine listened to their chatter and helped them with their homework and made sure they finished their dinner, and then piled them all into bed. 

She woke up abruptly to a foot in her stomach, courtesy of Gavroche. “You’re dead, Gavroche!” she howled, as beside her Azelma attempted to roll away and ended up rolling right off the bed. 

“Only if you catch me,” Gavroche taunted. Azelma struggled her way out of the blanket and attempted to grab him, only for Gavroche to dart out the door. 

Eponine peered out the window. “Where is he going? It’s too early for school.” 

“He’s going to watch Mr. Feuilly shoe a horse,” Azelma yawned. “What’s for breakfast, Eponine?” 

Eponine made breakfast for the both of them and then sent Azelma off to school—along with Gavroche’s slate, since he had left it behind—before heading down to the store for the morning. She didn’t doubt that Grantaire would sleep until noon at least, so there was no point in going to the Musain immediately. 

Her opportunity arrived with Mr. Mabeuf in the afternoon, when he dismissed her early for the day. Eponine didn’t stick around, heading straight to the Musain. 

“In the back room, still,” Musichetta said, without being asked. Eponine nodded gratefully and headed to the room. 

Grantaire seemed to be asleep, but that wasn’t stopping Joly from fussing over him, adjusting the blanket even though it looked fine to Eponine. “Oh, good, you’re here,” he said, as soon as he’d spotted her. “I got called out to look at a cow—I didn’t want to leave poor Grantaire alone, but I was working up to it—keep an eye on him for me, Eponine?” 

He gathered up his belongings and was soon gone. Eponine crossed her arms over her chest and stared Grantaire down. “I know you’re awake.” 

Grantaire opened one eye. “I was afraid that if I revealed myself, the fussing would become too much to bear.” 

“I know you’ve been talking to Enjolras,” Eponine said. 

“Who?” Grantaire said. “I’ve been talking to a lot of people. It tends to come with living in a society, you see. And although Rousseau believes we would all be better off returning to the state of nature, I happen to quite like society—” 

“Enjolras,” Eponine said. “Blond. Pretty. Lives in the wilderness. Likes to talk about the woes of society.” 

Grantaire’s mouth worked silently. “Ah,” he said, at last. “Yes. Him. That—Enjolras?” 

“Yes, him. Now look, I don’t really care what’s going on between you and Enjolras,” Eponine said. “But he has more important things to worry about than figuring out his feelings for you.” 

Grantaire stared at her, wide-eyed. “His feelings?” 

“Unimportant.” Eponine jabbed a finger at him. “Keep your nose out of other people’s business, or I’ll make you keep it out. Ask around—you’ll find I don’t make idle threats. Clear?” 

“As glass,” Grantaire said, with a flippant wave of his hand. 

Uncaring of his hangover, Eponine grabbed his shirt and yanked him up from the bed. “If I even think you’re sticking your nose in where it isn’t wanted,” she hissed, “I’ll throw you back on the first train to whatever fancy-ass city you came from. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear .” 

“You’re clear, you’re clear,” Grantaire said quickly. “Now let me go before I’m sick all over poor Joly’s bed. He’d never be able to sleep in it again.” 

Eponine released him, and Grantaire fell back onto the bed. She turned on her heel and left him there, and only didn’t slam the door because Musichetta wouldn’t like it. Eponine waved to Musichetta as she headed outside, only to slam into Courfeyrac. 

“Eponine!” Courfeyrac gripped her shoulders and beamed down at her. “There you are, Combeferre wanted to talk to you.”

“I’ll head that way. Is it—” 

“Urgent? Very,” Courfeyrac said, practically pushing her out the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Gav and Azelma get fed!” 

So it was that kind of business. Eponine stopped off at home to switch out of the dress she’d been wearing since Javert had come to town, back to the much more maneuverable trousers that she preferred, and checked and double-checked her guns and bullets to make sure she was prepared for whatever came their way. 

As soon as she was ready, she headed straight to the sheriff’s office, where Combeferre waited for her. 

“We’ve tracked the documents Enjolras wanted from Tholomyes’ train car,” he said. “My contacts inform me that a man named Le Cabuc has them. He lives in the city, but keeps to himself and lives on the outskirts. If you’ll look here . . .” 

Eponine peered over at the map of the city he spread out over his desk, looking for the train station to orient herself. Combeferre’s finger tapped against a small square at the very edge of the city, along the tracks but far from the station. “Le Cabuc’s house,” he said. “He lives on the top floor, although he owns the entire building, and keeps the rest of the floors empty. He’s a private individual, by all accounts, and rarely leaves the house except to buy food. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what he wants with the documents. He’s an author, by all accounts, and apparently not the sort of person who would usually associate with my contacts. Perhaps he bought them thinking they were something else, in which case he may be willing to part with them for the right price, but I can’t say for sure what his motivations in acquiring the documents were. I’m not even certain how he came about them in the first place.” 

Eponine chewed on her lip. “He couldn’t be our murderer, could he?” 

“The man hardly goes outside and by all accounts hates all methods of travel except walking because they make him terribly sick,” Combeferre said. “I suppose he could be, though. In any case, exercise caution. Don’t let Enjolras get impatient and rush in without thinking things through, please.” 

“You know me,” Eponine said, with a mocking little salute. “Professional Enjolras wrangler.” 

“And I wouldn’t know what to do without you,” Combeferre said. He rolled up the map and handed it to her, and she slipped it away into her bag. “Feuilly should have your horse ready by now, I believe. Good luck.” 

“Thanks. I’ll see you when we’re done.”

Feuilly did have her horse saddled up and ready to go, and wished her luck as she mounted and rode off in search of Enjolras. She had a rough idea of the area where he had been the day before, and although he most likely wasn’t there anymore, it was a good place to start. There was no sign of him until she reached the nearest hideout, which was conspicuously missing a horse. From there, she just had to track the horse, which led her out of the woods and to the riverbank. 

She spotted the horse first, carelessly grazing near the river. Enjolras lay next to the river, just out of reach of the water, staring up at the sky. Eponine dismounted and walked up to him, but he gave no sign of having noticed her. He was so clearly lost in thought that she almost felt bad for disturbing him, but they had business to take care of. 

“Enjolras,” she called. “Combeferre tracked down your documents.” 

Enjolras sat up abruptly, the light back in his eyes, as if the Enjolras of moments before had never existed. “Where?” 

“A man named Le Cabuc,” Eponine said. 

She filled him in on the details as they rode to the city, answering what questions she could and letting him bluntly know that, no, Enjolras, she didn’t know exactly what time of day Le Cabuc took his baths. 

“He reportedly doesn’t leave the house,” Enjolras muttered. “So  breaking in will be difficult. If we wait for night, perhaps, and sneak in while he’s asleep . . . that may work.” 

“So, a stakeout,” Eponine said. “There had better be a saloon nearby.” 

There was, as it turned out, a saloon not far from Le Cabuc’s house, but it was unfortunately one of the ones that Eponine knew members of Patron-Minette frequented. They spent the hours until nightfall in a saloon further away, instead, and as the sun set they made their way across town to spend their final moments of waiting in the shadow of Le Cabuc’s house. 

It was a tall, narrow, rickety building, the sort that looked liable to fall down if you sneezed at it wrong, backed right up against the train tracks as if someone had squeezed it in there once everything else had already been built. There were no lights on anywhere, but Eponine recalled that Le Cabuc kept most of the house empty, so she didn’t expect there to be many. It was odd that there weren’t any lights on in the top floor, not even a candle, but maybe Le Cabuc was the type to turn in early. Or maybe he was the type to work even when the light started to fade, not bothering to light a candle simply because he was so enveloped in his work. Heavens knew that Eponine had more than once come across Enjolras still scribbling away even though he could hardly see the paper he was writing on. 

Beside her, Enjolras clicked open his pocket watch. “About . . . midnight,” he said. 

Eponine leaned over and squinted down at the pocket watch. “Are you sure?” 

“Close enough,” Enjolras declared, snapping the watch shut and sliding it back into his waistcoat. He tied his bandana over his face, and she did the same. “Let’s go.” 

The door was locked, but Eponine picked it quickly, and then they were in. The first floors were, as anticipated, completely empty. There wasn’t even any furniture placed in an attempt to make it look lived-in, just bare walls and bare floors and too much dust. They stepped cautiously over the floor, wary of any creaky boards, until they reached the stairs. 

The stairs led into a small sitting room, furnished with a desk piled high with papers, stove, a couch, and a low table in front of the couch. A meal, only half-eaten and still slightly warm, lay on the table. Enjolras went straight for the desk, while Eponine continued on to the one door in the room. It wasn’t locked, and the door swung open with only a faint creak. Eponine waited for a moment, but heard nothing in the room beyond. After a few moments, she stepped through. 

It was immediately apparent that this was Le Cabuc’s bedroom, and just as immediately apparent that it was completely empty. 

Eponine glanced around and found a balcony with a ladder leading up to the roof, but that too was empty. Le Cabuc could have been on the roof, she supposed, but if that was the case, then she would most likely be able to hear him coming down. 

“Enjolras. He’s not here,” she said, lighting a candle so that she could actually see what she was doing. “Keep an ear out in case he comes up the stairs.” 

Enjolras made a noise of assent, and Eponine turned her attention to searching the bedroom. There wasn’t much in the room, not even in the way of personal effects, and the only furniture was a bedside table, a bed, and a large wardrobe. There were a few things on the table—a picture, a mostly-empty bottle of cologne, and a small notebook—but not much, and nothing valuable. Le Cabuc, evidently, was quite fond of his cologne, as the whole room reeked of it, and Eponine spotted an empty bottle of it on the floor. A threadbare coat had been tossed over the bed, and Eponine rifled through it before searching the bed itself. Both searches turned up nothing, so she turned her attention to the wardrobe. 

She opened the door and immediately gagged, her hand flying to her mouth. 

The man in the wardrobe had clearly been dead for at least a day or two already. It was immediately clear why the room smelled so strange—it wasn’t just the cologne, as she had thought at first, but the decaying scent of the body stashed in the wardrobe. 

“Eponine,” Enjolras hissed, flying into the room and simultaneously stuffing papers into his bag. “He’s coming—” 

Enjolras stilled as he reached her side. “Is that—” 

“I don’t know.” Eponine shook her head. “I don’t know who—” 

Her eyes landed on the bedside table. There was a picture, there, of a man with a woman. Slowly, she picked it up and held it next to the man’s face. Even dead, there was an unmistakable resemblance between the dead man and the man in the picture. 

“I think we found Le Cabuc,” she said grimly. 

The door creaked, and Enjolras's hand flew to her arm, gripping tight. Eponine didn’t wait to see who was behind the door before grabbing him and hauling him to the balcony. 

“Stop!” 

“Climb!” Eponine snapped, shoving Enjolras at the ladder. He scrambled up, and she followed after him. Enjolras reached down to help her up, pulling her onto the roof behind him. Eponine kept him moving, running across the roof and peering over the edge only to let out a curse. 

“Not even a damn drainpipe,” she said, staring down at the drop straight to the ground. At best, they’d break both their legs trying to drop down. 

A shot rang out, and they both froze. 

“Hands in the air. And turn around—slowly.” 

Eponine did as commanded, raising her hands up to her head as she turned to face their assailant. The light was dim, but even so she was able to recognize him. 

Inspector Javert faced them down, his gun aimed squarely at Eponine. 

“Well, well,” he said. “The boys from the train. Couldn’t resist killing again, hmm?” 

Neither of them spoke. 

“Your name, boy,” Javert snapped. 

“John Smith,” Enjolras drawled. 

“Don’t play games,” Javert said. Enjolras didn’t speak again, and Eponine, too, remained silent. 

Underneath their feet, the roof rattled. A train whistle blew. 

“Very well,” Javert said, slowly. “If you will not answer that question, perhaps you will answer this one. Do you know a man named Jean Valjean?” 

“Jean Valjean?” Enjolras repeated. 

Javert’s eyes snapped towards him. “You know him?” 

Eponine reached over, grabbed the back of Enjolras's shirt, and threw herself backwards. The gun fired, but didn’t hit her; Eponine felt nothing until she landed against the roof of the train car, momentum sending her rolling to the edge of it until she managed to grab a handhold, Enjolras coming to a stop against her side. His head moved up, and she shoved it back down, pressing his hat more firmly over his hair. 

“Stay down,” she hissed. “Don’t move.”  

“We’ll stop—at the station—” Enjolras gasped.

“I know. Once the train slows, get off, and run for the horses,” Eponine said. “We’ll split up.” 

Still aching from the fall—her ribs hurt terribly, and Eponine dreaded what she would find when she finally examined them—they got down from the roof, crouching on the small platform between the cars. The train crossed the city quickly, and soon they were slowing to a stop. Before they reached the station, Enjolras leapt from the train, Eponine jumping the moment she felt him move. They had left the horses hitched near the station, and reached them quickly. 

“Go,” Enjolras urged. “Get out of here.” 

“Only if you do the same,” Eponine said, shoving him at his horse before he could protest. “Now get on the horse.” 

Enjolras, expression mutinous, got on the horse, as Eponine got on hers. As soon as they were both mounted, they rode off, heading away from the city but moving in different directions. It wasn’t long before Eponine couldn’t see Enjolras at all, the world narrowed down to the aching of her body and the pounding of the horse’s hooves over dirt. 

She lost time, somewhere along the road, and came to as her horse stopped in the stable. She fell from the horse and stumbled down the street, falling heavily against the house that Feuilly kept near the stable. She hammered on the door until it opened, and nearly fell inside when it did. 

“What, damn it—Eponine?” 

Eponine waved over her shoulder. “My horse—could you—?” 

Feuilly clasped her shoulder. “Of course. Is Enjolras . . .” 

“Fine. Last I saw. We split up. Fucking Javert,” she spat. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Feuilly said. “Get some rest. You look awful.” 

“I feel it,” she groaned. 

“Do you need help getting home?” 

“It’s just across the street, Feuilly, I can handle it,” she said. “You just take care of my horse—I don’t need Javert knowing that I wasn’t in town tonight.” 

“He won’t be able to find out a thing,” Feuilly promised. “I’ll wipe down all the horses—yours won’t seem any different from the others.” 

“You’re a saint,” Eponine said. 

Somehow, she managed to make it up the stairs to the apartment. Gavroche and Azelma were fast asleep, and didn’t stir as Eponine changed into her nightclothes, carefully testing her ribs to make sure they weren’t too injured before falling into bed beside them. 

She felt completely exhausted, but every time she closed her eyes she saw the man in the wardrobe. 

Sleep was a long time coming. 

***

Enjolras didn’t know where he was. 

He had been on a horse at some point, but now he was on his feet—when had he left the horse behind? He wasn’t sure why he had left it behind, although he was certain there had been a reason. 

His hand landed against a tree. Enjolras stared at it for a time, wondering if it was familiar. He knew these woods like the back of his hand, like his own childhood home, but the longer he stared at the bark beneath his hand the more his head spun. 

It was no use—

But he had to keep moving. 

His feet moved beneath him, acting without any input from him, walking on even when Enjolras wanted nothing more than to stop. His body ached, or it had—Enjolras wasn’t sure if it still ached, or if he just thought that it should. 

His hand landed against a tree. Enjolras stared at it and wondered if he had seen this tree before. He pushed away from the tree, his body moving, his feet stepping forwards and catching on something. He fell forwards, landing heavily against something. A tree—but this tree was soft, and steady, and warm, and Enjolras was very cold. 

“You—Enjolras?” 

Enjolras looked up. “Grantaire.” 

Grantaire’s hands gripped his arms firmly, his eyes frantically roving over Enjolras's body. “Enjolras, what happened?” 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, gripping the man’s shirt tight, knowing that if he let go that he would fall. 

“Grantaire,” he said, wondering if he had already said that, supporting himself against Grantaire as his legs went limp beneath him. “I think I’ve been shot.”

Chapter Text

Eponine woke up late the next day, but still didn’t feel rested at all. She lay in bed for a time, wondering what time it was, until she forced herself to get out of bed and get dressed. If Javert was in town, she needed to do her best to appear inconspicuous. She grabbed the nearest clean dress and pulled it on, and then trooped down to the general store. At least her job didn’t require her to do much more than stand around and talk to people. 

Courfeyrac was her first customer of the day, and he spared a quick glance around the room to ensure that they were alone before grabbing a tin of hair pomade and heading up to the counter. “What happened?” 

“Javert happened. Is he back?” 

“He came in this morning,” Courfeyrac said. “Whatever it was, official news hasn’t reached us yet, but Javert is in a snit—he’s practically turned the place upside down.” 

“Le Cabuc is dead,” Eponine said. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “Did Enjolras—” 

Eponine shook her head. “He was already dead when we arrived, had been for some days. Shoved in his own wardrobe.” 

“Poor bastard,” Courfeyrac muttered. “Some days, hmm? So, we likely have an impersonator on our hands.” 

“Could be,” Eponine said. “It sure seemed like someone was living there. I didn’t get much of a chance to look around before Javert showed up. We managed to shake him, but we had to split up. Have you seen Enjolras?” 

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know?” 

The bell over the door rang. Courfeyrac disguised their whispered conversation by closing the small gap between them to kiss both her cheeks. “You’re a saint, Eponine!” he said. He winked at her playfully and dropped a few coins down to pay for the pomade before heading out the door, tipping his hat to Cosette on the way out. 

Eponine wasn’t sure whether to relax or not. It was just Cosette—but then, it was Cosette . “Good morning,” she said, unsure what else to say. 

“Good morning, Eponine,” Cosette greeted cheerfully, ignoring all the products in the store in favor of heading right to the counter. “We’re having lunch break right now—I thought I might ask you to join . . . me . . .” 

A frown flickered over her face. “Is that—is that my dress?” 

Eponine looked down—she hadn’t realized when she was getting dressed, but she was wearing the dress that Enjolras had stolen for her to wear on the train robbery. She’d almost forgotten that she still had it. Just like she had forgotten to ask Enjolras where he had stolen it from in the first place. 

“It is,” Cosette said, sounding more perplexed than anything. “I remember—I ripped it there, on the sleeve, and I had to repair it.” 

It was just her luck, Eponine mused with a dawning sense of horror, that this would happen to her. 

Cosette opened her mouth; Eponine hunted for a believable explanation. 

The door slammed open. “Eponine,” Courfeyrac said. “We need you to distract Javert. Now.” 

“I—what?” Eponine said. 

Courfeyrac grabbed her arm and dragged her from behind the counter. “ Now , Eponine!” 

“But—how?” 

“I don’t know!” Courfeyrac threw up his arms. “Talk to him, ask him questions, seduce him for all I care! Just keep him away from Combeferre’s office!” 

“Wait, what’s going on with Combeferre?” 

“I’ll explain later,” Courfeyrac said. “Gavroche told me he was heading right for Combeferre’s office, you have to go now .” 

An arm linked around Eponine’s, and she found herself being tugged forwards. “We’ll take care of it,” Cosette said, calmly. “Courfeyrac, do whatever you need to do.” 

Cosette pulled Eponine out the front door as Courfeyrac escaped through the back window; Javert, thankfully, hadn’t gotten far, and had only just passed the Musain as Cosette called out, “Mr. Javert! Lovely to see you.” 

Javert stopped short and gave them an awkward, if polite, nod. “Ladies. Can I be of assistance?” 

“Of course,” Cosette said cheerfully. “It’s such a shame we haven’t had a chance to talk before, Mr. Javert. I wanted to ask if you would be willing to talk to the students someday—they don’t get exposed to many different job opportunities all the way out here, you see, and they might never get another chance to talk to a Pinkerton agent!” 

Javert nodded sharply. “Perhaps. At the moment, however, I am occupied with an investigation.” 

“Two investigations, isn’t that right?” Cosette said. 

“Indeed. Your information was quite valuable, Miss Thenardier,” Javert said. “Your information led me to a second encounter with the outlaws I seek.” 

Eponine’s mouth went dry. “With Patron-Minette?” 

Javert tipped his head. “I am afraid I cannot share details of an ongoing investigation, of course, but rest assured that your information is being put to good use. I have yet to unearth any news of Jean Valjean, but I suspect that he is in league with this gang of villains. If either of you hear anything, I ask that you inform me at once. Now, I must—” 

Cosette’s hand tightened on Eponine’s arm. “Is it true there was another murder?” 

Javert, who had been about to turn away, froze. “Where did you hear that?” 

“News travels fast around here,” Cosette said quietly. 

After a moment, Javert nodded. “I ask that you not spread this news further, but yes, there was another murder in the city. I suspect it was at the hand of the two outlaws I seek. Young men, one with dark hair and one with light hair. If you see any suspicious individuals answering to these descriptions, I ask that you inform me.” 

Cosette pressed a hand to her chest. “Why, Mr. Javert, we should have spoken sooner! Just last night, I saw two young men pass by my house. I didn’t think anything of it, since I don’t know many people around here, but they seemed to be in an awful hurry.” 

“Show me,” Javert said. 

Still arm-in-arm with Eponine, Cosette led the way back to her house, Javert following close behind them. The ranch was quiet for the moment, all the hands off eating their lunches in the house according to Cosette, so they were able to walk the grounds uninterrupted. 

“It was along here,” Cosette said, once they reached a path that led behind the house. It was a good place to pick, Eponine thought—the ground was so well-trodden that it was impossible to tell one set of tracks from another. “That’s my bedroom up there, see?” 

Javert scanned the surroundings. “I will examine the property. You should remain here—these men are armed and dangerous.” 

With that, he set off along the path. Cosette pulled Eponine towards the house. “Come on,” she murmured. “We have to warn Papa.” 

It was immediately clear which man was Cosette’s father; he was seated at the head of the table, and his white hair made it obvious that he was older than everyone else at the table. He greeted them both with a smile, and happily accepted the kiss that Cosette laid on his cheek. 

She lingered for a moment by his ear to whisper something too quietly for Eponine to hear, although she suspected it had to do with the Pinkerton. He looked troubled, but nodded, and then turned his attention to Eponine. “And your friend?” 

“Oh! This is Eponine. I forgot you haven’t met,” Cosette said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .” 

“Thenardier,” Eponine provided. 

His eyes widened. “Thenardier? Not—” 

“I don’t associate with the rest of my family,” Eponine said quickly. 

He nodded, a frown briefly passing over his face before he smiled again. “Then I am glad to welcome you to my house, Miss Thenardier. I am Ultime Fauchelevent. I’m glad you’ve been such a good friend to my daughter.” 

Cosette smiled, as well, so that Eponine felt trapped between the two smiling faces. “Would you like to come up to my room? It’s more quiet, there.” 

“Sure,” Eponine said. Whatever this conversation would entail, she had a feeling she couldn’t avoid it. 

Cosette’s room was elegant and dainty, like a room in a princess’s castle. The bed was as big as the one Eponine shared with her siblings, and piled high with more pillows than any one person could possibly need. Eponine lingered by the door, uncertain of her welcome, while Cosette made herself comfortable. 

Cosette sat down on the bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. “Now, tell me why Courfeyrac needed you to distract Javert, and why you’re wearing my lost dress.” 

Eponine sighed. “I suppose I owe you, after what you did, but it’s not just my story to tell.” Enjolras, she decided, would just have to suck it up. “I’m one of the outlaws Javert is investigating.” 

Cosette’s eyes went wide, and Eponine hurried on. “Not that we killed anyone! They were dead already when we got there. Tholomyes, we were just going to rob him. It’s—well, it’s what we do. We take from people who don’t need it and give it to those who do.” 

Cosette’s hands flew to her mouth. “The boy from the train,” she gasped. “I thought—I thought you looked familiar, but I thought it was because—you tried to rob me!” 

“In my defense, you were riding first class,” Eponine said. “They can usually spare a pocketwatch or two.” 

Cosette bit her lip. “I’d never ridden the train before. Papa wanted the trip to be comfortable. Not that—we do have money. Papa gives it away freely to those who need it, but he doesn’t rob people to do it.” 

Eponine shrugged. “We all have our own ways. Me? I don’t have any money of my own beyond what I’ve got saved away for Azelma and Gav. Mabeuf pays me with a roof over our heads, and the money from the robberies provides for the rest. And we help out other people, too. How d’you think that schoolhouse got built? And how you got all those books and slates?” 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re wearing my dress,” Cosette said. 

“I didn’t know it was yours, or I would’ve given it back,” Eponine said. “That was my—associate. I mean, I can still give it back, if you want.” 

And Cosette, to Eponine’s surprise, giggled. “That’s okay. I think it looks better on you, actually. I’ve just been wondering where it went all this time! It vanished right off the laundry line—and it’s so heavy, I couldn’t believe that it had just blown away—” 

Somehow, Eponine found herself laughing as well, imagining Enjolras taking down the dress from the laundry line and running away with it. 

“I thought,” Cosette said, between giggles, “I thought that maybe—maybe mountain lions had stolen it—” 

“Mountain lions!” Eponine laughed. “What would they want with a dress?” 

“I don’t know! It seemed as likely as anything,” Cosette said. 

They laughed until they were breathless and couldn’t laugh any longer, and then Eponine found herself grinning at Cosette. She looked like a fool, she was sure, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop smiling. 

“Thank you for telling me, Eponine,” Cosette murmured. 

Eponine shrugged. “Least I could do, after you distracted Javert like that. Nicely done!” 

Cosette giggled. “The best part is—it wasn’t really a lie. I did see two men outside that night. But, um, they were two of the farmhands, and they were, well—” 

Eponine’s eyes went wide. “ No .” 

“Yes!” Cosette buried her face in her hands. “Oh, I hope he doesn’t actually track down my mysterious men, they would be so horribly embarrassed that I saw them.” 

“Maybe he needs a distraction from the distraction,” Eponine said, peering outside to see if she could see Javert. She quickly realized that she was looking out the wrong side of the house, but paused at the window anyways as she spotted a small figure running up the road. “Gavroche!”

Cosette joined her. “Why, it is! Come on, Eponine, maybe he has news from Courfeyrac.” 

They reached the door at the same time Gavroche did, pink-cheeked from his run but not breathless at all. “Heard you came here, Miss,” Gavroche said cheekily. “You’re late for class!” 

Cosette gasped. “I completely forgot! Thank you for coming, Gavroche. Eponine, would you mind seeing Mr. Javert back to town?” 

“Not at all.” 

While Gavroche and Cosette hurried back to the school, Eponine went around to the back of the house. She didn’t have to go far, as she ran into a rather sour-faced Javert at the side of the house. “Couldn’t find anything?” she asked. 

“On the contrary,” Javert said bitterly. “I found rather more than I wanted. I did not find, however, the men that I sought.” 

Eponine fought not to laugh as she hurried along behind him, keeping pace with him as they returned to the town. Courfeyrac was lingering outside the Musain, and he gave her a meaningful nod as she passed. She peeled off from Javert to join him, and Javert continued down the road to Combeferre’s office. 

“This way,” Courfeyrac said, leading the way to Combeferre’s house. Courfeyrac let himself in through the back and opened the door to the bedroom Combeferre kept for patients who were in need of it. 

Eponine stepped through the door and immediately flew to the side of the bed, nearly knocking over the figure already seated there in her haste to reach the man lying in the bed. “Enjolras. What happened?” 

His face was hot with fever, but he was frighteningly pale. She brushed his sweat-soaked curls away from his face. His eyes opened briefly, but soon fluttered shut once again. 

“He was shot,” Courfeyrac said. “He—he hasn’t been in a state to tell us what happened. We thought you would know.” 

“I didn’t know—Javert fired, but I thought he missed.” Eponine’s hand clenched in the blanket. “Dammit, Enjolras, if I knew you were injured, I wouldn’t have let us split up!”

“Grantaire brought him here,” Courfeyrac continued, and Eponine’s eyes fell on the figure sitting beside the bed. Grantaire looked miserable, and still slightly shocked, as if he wasn’t completely sure what was happening. 

“Found him in the woods,” Grantaire said. “Now I’m stuck being his alibi. If anyone asks, I’m trapped in this room, horribly ill with—I don’t know, cholera, or dysentery, or something.” 

Eponine took a deep breath and returned her attention to Enjolras. “But he’ll be fine. Enjolras was shot before, and he was fine. It doesn’t even bother him anymore.” 

Courfeyrac shifted back and forth. “Well—that time was different. Combeferre said the bullet just grazed him, really, ripped up the skin and flesh a bit but passed right through. This time it—it lodged in his arm. In the bone. That’s why you had to distract Javert—Combeferre had to do emergency surgery on it to get the bullet out.” 

“But he’s okay now?” Eponine said. “Combeferre got the bullet out. He’ll be fine.” 

“We think so,” Courfeyrac said. “We . . . Combeferre said he’s pretty sure he got all the pieces out. And put the bone back together right. But there’s—there’s the risk of infection. Combeferre said.” 

“I don’t give a damn what Combeferre said!” Eponine snarled, holding Enjolras's hand tight between hers. “He’s going to be fine.” 

Courfeyrac rested a hand on her shoulder. “He will be,” he said, regaining confidence. “Enjolras is strong. Watch, come tomorrow he’ll just be irritated at us for fussing over him, and by the day after that he’ll be trying to escape! Grantaire, it’s your job to keep an eye on him!” 

“Why him?” Eponine demanded, throwing a scowl at Grantaire, who didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras's face, creased with pain. 

“Because you have siblings and a store to take care of,” Courfeyrac said. “And Combeferre and I have our jobs and Javert. Grantaire has art, which . . . well, art is lovely and all, but it isn’t exactly important.” 

Grantaire finally looked away from Enjolras, raising one eyebrow at them sardonically. “And the drinking, of course. You can’t forget that; it’s the most important thing I do.” 

“And it can be done just as well here as it can be in the Musain!” Courfeyrac declared. “So, I will leave him in your capable hands—I have to go save Combeferre from Javert.” 

Courfeyrac closed the door behind him softly, leaving them in silence. “You can go,” Eponine said, after a moment. “Azelma and Gav can take care of themselves for a few days.” 

“I’ll stay,” Grantaire murmured. “It’s as Courfeyrac said—I have nothing else important to do. Or, perhaps, although I have things that are important to do, they all pale in comparison to this, and become unimportant. There’s no need for you to worry about leaving me alone with him; even I can’t mess up watching over an injured man. And I hardly think I can distract him from your business any more than his injury is already distracting him.” 

Enjolras's hand tightened around hers. She looked down and found that his eyes had opened. His face was creased with pain, but his gaze was fixed on her face. “Eponine. My bag—” 

Eponine looked around quickly and spotted the bag in the corner of the room. “It’s here.” 

“See if there’s—anything. The papers,” he murmured, his eyes slipping shut once again. 

“I take it back,” Grantaire said. “Not even his injury can distract him.” 

Eponine couldn’t help but snort as she went to retrieve the bag. “That’s Enjolras for you.” 

“He really believes in all that, doesn’t he? That he can . . . change the world, or whatever,” Grantaire said, waving a hand through the air. 

“He’s an idealistic idiot and he’s going to get himself killed one of these days,” Eponine said. “But that’s why he has me. I don’t think we can change the world or improve society, not like he does. But maybe we can help some people, and that’s enough for me. Even if it isn’t enough for Enjolras . . . I’ll keep him from going too far for the Cause.” 

Eponine slung Enjolras's bag over her shoulder. “Keep an eye on him. I don’t care if you have to knock him out, just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” 

Grantaire gave her a mocking salute. “Aye-aye, Captain. Have no fear, I’ll ensure he stays in bed. Not that he’s even lucid enough to get up.” 

“Don’t underestimate the strength of his stubbornness,” Eponine said. “I’ll be back to check on him when I have the time.” 

She ensured the door to Combeferre’s house was locked as she left, just in case Javert decided to go snooping, and then headed back to the shop. A few people were in the store, looking rather cross at her absence. Eponine dealt with them quickly, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries, and once they were gone counted down the hours until she could close up. 

Once she’d finally reached closing time and the last of her customers had left, Eponine grabbed Enjolras's bag and, instead of going to the Musain as was her usual custom, ran upstairs to the apartment and upended the contents of the bag over the floor. Papers flew everywhere. Eponine sat in the middle of them, grabbed the nearest paper, and got to reading. 

Hopefully, there would be something she could use. 

***

Familiar words washed over him. 

“—and then, of course, he goes on to quote Rousseau. Personally, I believe he could do without the quote entirely, as his words are naive with or without it. Ah, but you don’t want to hear me rambling. Don’t wrinkle your brow so, I’ll continue—” 

Enjolras frowned as the stream of words continued. He attempted to wave a too-heavy hand. “Enough. Enough.” 

“Enough? And here I thought you enjoyed the front-page articles. Don’t tell me I’ve won you over to my side so easily.” 

“It’s . . garbage. Complete trash.” Enjolras managed to wave his hand. “Get me a pen, I’ll write a new one right now—a better one—” 

A hand, warm and slightly calloused, caught his. “Careful,” the voice warned gently. “You’ll worsen your injury. Not that you can probably feel it right now, considering the amount of morphine Combeferre gave you.” 

Enjolras waved his other hand, and found that this one moved more easily than the other. “A pen,” he repeated. 

The hand patted his. “How about I fetch the pen and write your words while you dictate to me? I promise not to misprint your speech. What would you write about? Your mysterious cause? Or a letter to the writer of the front-page articles, to tell him what’s wrong with his writing?” 

Enjolras frowned. “Why would I write a letter to myself?” 

The voice was silent for a moment. “ You wrote those articles?” 

“I did,” Enjolras said, because he was fairly certain that he had. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton, but he was almost completely positive that he had written the articles. “Yes. I did.” 

The voice was quiet for so long that Enjolras wondered if it had gone. He tried to open his eyes, which felt like they had been glued shut, and somehow managed to open them enough to blearily peer at the owner of the voice. 

“Grantaire,” he said. “It’s you.” 

Grantaire gave him a funny expression. Enjolras tried to put a word to it, but all of his words seemed to have flown out of his mind. “It’s me,” he said. “Were you expecting someone else?” 

Enjolras frowned. There was something about Grantaire—something he had done—or something he hadn’t done?

“My head hurts,” Enjolras complained. 

Grantaire released Enjolras's hand—Enjolras had forgotten that Grantaire was holding his hand, but found himself missing the warmth once he was gone—and adjusted something on Enjolras's head, removing it and then replacing it with something damp and cool. “You have a fever,” he said, his voice soft and quiet. “You need to rest. Combeferre made broth for you, though, if you feel able to eat.” 

Enjolras scowled, or at least attempted to. He wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded. “I want beans. Not broth. I dislike broth.” 

Grantaire laughed softly. “If you can keep down the broth, I’ll talk to Combeferre about getting you something else. But you’ve thrown up on me once already, and I don’t care to repeat the experience.”

“When—” Enjolras frowned, trying to get his thoughts in order and his head to stop spinning. “I didn’t—Did I?” 

“It’s no worse than anything I’ve done,” Grantaire said. “And you have a better excuse for it, besides. Although I’d rather you were drunk or hungover than sick out of your mind with fever, if you ask me.” 

“I am—I am not out of my mind,” Enjolras said. “I am perfectly in my mind, thank you.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Grantaire said. “Here, let’s try the broth—don’t try to use your arm, let me help you up—” 

Enjolras's head spun as he sat up. 

The next thing he was aware of was doubling over a bucket, vomiting up liquid as a hand rubbed over his back. “You’re alright,” Grantaire soothed. “I’ll get you some of those peppermint sticks you like, hmm? I might not be Eponine, but I’m sure I can manage to find some.” 

Enjolras shivered, somehow freezing cold and burning hot all at once, and wondered how Grantaire knew about the peppermint sticks. Enjolras hadn’t told him—had he? 

Hands eased him back down against the pillows, and a cool cloth wiped his face. Enjolras shut his eyes and only opened them again when a sudden pain lanced through his arm. 

He must have made some pained sound, for Combeferre made a soothing noise. “It will be over soon,” he said. Enjolras attempted to see what Combeferre was doing, but Grantaire sat in the way, keeping Enjolras from seeing his arm. 

Combeferre set something to the side, and Grantaire made a gagging noise. “Oh, God.” 

“Hold his arm steady,” Combeferre said, in that detached, clinical tone Enjolras dimly recognized from the last time he’d been seriously injured. Grantaire’s thumb moved back and forth over Enjolras's arm, a sufficient distraction until the pain in his arm spiked again. 

“Can’t you give him something?” Grantaire said, his voice pained. 

“I’ve given him more than I’m comfortable with already,” Combeferre said. “The wound hurts, but he’ll have to bear it for now.” 

“Is it—is it supposed to look like that?” 

Combeferre said nothing. Enjolras let his eyes close. 

***

Enjolras's room smelled of sickness, strong enough that Eponine took a step back the  moment she opened the door. Grantaire looked up as she opened the door, the bags under his eyes grown larger since she had last seen him. 

“Ah, I had wondered when you would come again,” Grantaire said. “I wanted to ask you something.” 

“How is he?” Eponine asked. 

Enjolras looked a far cry from their avenging angel, lying there in the bed. His hair was slightly damp, although with sweat or water she couldn’t tell, and his curls were limp. He was pale and shaking, and it seemed like every blanket in the house had been piled on top of him. His arm was wrapped in bandages, and Eponine was thankful for it—she didn’t even want to imagine what the wound looked like. 

“Combeferre would know better,” Grantaire said. “His fever hasn’t yet broken. He keeps hardly anything down. When he sleeps, he sleeps fitfully, and when he is awake he is often delirious. He cries out, sometimes, names that aren’t familiar to me—I believe he mistook me for his father, earlier.” 

“Is Combeferre here?” Eponine asked. 

“He was a minute ago, to bring some broth.” Grantaire nodded to a bowl on the table, still full. “Enjolras hasn’t woken up yet, but he likely will soon, as the morphine wears off.” 

Eponine took another step back. “I’ll go look for him.” 

“Wait—peppermint,” Grantaire said. “Enjolras wanted peppermint sticks? He said you gave them to him.” 

“I—yeah,” Eponine said. “I can get some. I’ll be back.” 

She hurried over to the store, doing her best to ignore Mr. Mabeuf watching her with worry in her eyes as she grabbed a handful of peppermint sticks. No one talked about it, but everyone knew that something was happening. Javert had been kept busy by an influx of helpful and curious townsfolk, and last she heard Bahorel and Feully had dragged him off on an expedition into the wilderness in search of his outlaws. At least it meant that she didn’t have to worry too much about hiding her activities from him. 

When she returned to the room, Enjolras was still sleeping,  but Grantaire accepted the peppermint with a thankful, tired smile. 

“To be honest, I don’t think he even remembers asking for them,” he murmured, rolling the wrapped sticks around in his hand. “But I thought it might make him happy. Will you stay until he wakes?” 

“I have to find Combeferre,” she said. 

“I’m here.” Eponine jumped and twisted around at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Combeferre gave her a tired smile as he sat down in the sitting room. After a pause, Eponine shut the door to the bedroom and joined him, setting Enjolras's bag on the table between them. 

“I had a look at the papers Enjolras took from Le Cabuc’s house,” she said. “Most of them were nothing, just bits of writing that Le Cabuc did, but some of them had different writing on the back, like someone else reused them.” 

She spread the papers in question across the table, and Combeferre picked them up and examined them. In the silence of the sitting room, Eponine could faintly hear voices from the bedroom. 

“So, our imposter had a few different buyers lined up for the papers,” Combeferre said, setting down a list that noted several names in shorthand, accompanied by prices and any pros or cons. 

“He must have made his decision and vacated the house just before we got there,” Eponine muttered. “I’ve been looking through the other notes and trying to figure out who’s who. He’s crossed out all but three of them, so that’s who I’ve been looking at. O. T.—I think that’s Old Thenardier, that’s what the people in Patron-Minette called him behind his back. This could be one of his men.” 

“Less money than the rest,” Combeferre noted. “But ‘settles a debt.’ Curious.” 

“S,” Eponine said, going to the next one. “More money than O. T., and it says ‘in case of arrest.’ I think that has to be the sheriff—maybe hoping to buy a favor?” 

“Or a lawyer with that initial,” Combeferre said. “I’ll have Courfeyrac look into it.” 

“And this one,” Eponine said. “O. O. And a lot of money.” 

Combeferre stroked his chin and scanned the list. “Easily three times as much as anyone else. Whoever it is has to be wealthy—Courfeyrac might have some ideas. Thank you, Eponine.” 

“It’s not like I can do anything else to help.” Eponine paused. “How is he, really?” 

“Not well,” Combeferre said. “Not . . . he’s not well at all.” 

Combeferre scrubbed at his face with his hands, his face showing every bit of his exhaustion. 

“Don’t forget to look after yourself,” Eponine said, as she piled the papers back into the bag. “It won’t do him any good if you go collapsing.” 

“I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on, to see if there’s anything I haven’t tried, anything I haven’t thought of, anything that means I won’t have to—” Combeferre bit his lip. “It’s his writing arm , Eponine.” 

“He’ll pull through,” Eponine said. “You’re the best damn doctor I’ve ever met. He’ll be back to scribbling away at his manifesto before you know it.” 

Combeferre gave her a small smile. “Thank you, Eponine. I’ll let Courfeyrac know about your information.” 

Eponine pretended not to hear the sounds of retching from the bedroom as she left. She closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it for a moment, composing herself and pushing away her worries and fears. She wouldn’t be any help to anyone if she was consumed by her concern for Enjolras. She just had to keep moving. 

She ended up at the Musain, perched on a bar stool. “Whiskey, please,” she said to Musichetta, who poured it for her without question. 

Eponine downed it in one go, and only then did she look around the room. Marius, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet were sitting at a table together. Courfeyrac and Bossuet were deep in discussion, but Marius was gazing at nothing, occasionally letting out a small sigh. 

“How is he?” Musichetta murmured. 

Eponine shook her head. “I’d rather not think about it. And don’t ask Combeferre about it, either. He has enough on his mind.” 

“And Grantaire?” 

“Exhausted, like all of us,” Eponine said. She stared down at her glass, idly tilting it around so that the whiskey swirled around the ice. “He’s . . . doing better than I thought he would. At taking care of Enjolras. I kind of thought he would’ve given up by now or gotten drunk or something.” 

“Grantaire has his problems. But he cares a lot about people,” Musichetta said. “Enjolras is in good hands—I think you can spare a moment to worry about yourself. You look awful, Eponine. When was the last time you slept?” 

“A few hours last night,” Eponine said. “I can’t sleep even when I lie down. I keep thinking—I shouldn’t have let him split up with me. I should’ve made him come back to town with me. I was asleep in bed while he was out there, losing his horse and bleeding out and stumbling around, and it was just fucking luck that Grantaire was out sketching and happened to run into him. He could’ve died, and I wouldn’t have known for days.” 

“Well, you can’t do anything to change that now,” Musichetta said practically. “Right now, you aren’t doing him any good by not taking care of yourself. Luckily, you have us.” 

“Us?” 

When Musichetta made a beckoning motion, Eponine expected Joly or maybe Bossuet to join them, not for Cosette to say, “Oh, Eponine. How are you?” 

“She’s terrible,” Musichetta said. “Get her out of here, she’s scaring away all my other customers.” 

Cosette laughed. “I think I can help with that. Would you like to come to dinner at the ranch house? Azelma and Gavroche are welcome to come, as well.” 

“I should stick around here. Just in case something changes,” Eponine said reluctantly, even though dinner with Cosette sounded pretty damn good. 

“If anything changes, I’ll send Courfeyrac running to let you know,” Musichetta said. 

“Wait, what am I doing?” Courfeyrac called. 

Eponine looked between Musichetta’s stern gaze and Cosette’s pleading expression. “Fine,” she sighed. “Just for dinner, and then I have to get back.” 

“Excellent!” Cosette clapped her hands together. “Oh, it will be wonderful to have company for supper—we have the hands for lunch, but usually it’s just Papa and I for supper. Let’s be off, then.” 

Arm-in-arm with Cosette, Eponine allowed herself to be pulled away from the Musain. A brief hunt for Azelma and Gavroche revealed that Azelma was in the middle of eating with Irma and Floreal, while Gavroche had vanished with no sign of where he had gone. Suspecting that he had chased after Bahorel and Feuilly, Eponine gave up the hunt after checking his usual haunts and went with Cosette to the Fauchelevent Ranch. 

“Papa,” Cosette called as she entered. “Eponine’s come for supper.” 

Something in the kitchen clattered noisily, and moment’s later Cosette’s father poked his head out to give Eponine a kindly smile. “Miss Thenardier, lovely to see you.” 

“Eponine’s fine,” Eponine said. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Fauchelevent.” 

“Any friend of Cosette’s is welcome here,” he said. “Please, make yourself at home. Supper won’t be much longer.” 

Supper was fresh biscuits and gravy and roasted vegetables and chicken, and Eponine didn’t taste a bit of it. She cleaned her plate mechanically, and could only bring herself to feel a little bit sorry that she couldn’t thank Mr. Fauchelevent as enthusiastically as the meal no doubt deserved. 

“Stay the night?” Cosette asked Eponine as she washed the dishes and Eponine dried them, having forced her way into the clean-up as thanks for the meal. 

Eponine hesitated—Gavroche and Azelma would be fine, she knew, and if anything changed with Enjolras, someone would send for her no matter what time it was. “I should get back.”

Cosette smiled sadly. “I understand. I’ll have Papa get a horse for you.” 

“I—wait.” Eponien grabbed Cosette’s hand, pulling her back to her side, before she could leave. “I want to stay. I just—” 

Cosette pressed Eponine’s hand between hers. “I don’t know much about what happened,” she said softly. “But someone is very badly injured, and he’s very important to you, isn’t he?” 

“He’s . . .” Eponine sighed. “He’s my partner. He was the first person to welcome me here. You know he—” She laughed, even though she felt like she might cry. “I heard him tell Combeferre once that he felt I was like an older sister to him. The look on his face when Combeferre told him that I was younger than he was . . .” 

Cosette laughed, and somehow that made Eponine feel better. “I know he’s strong. But I can’t help but worry for him, the same way that I worried when Azelma got a terrible fever, or when Gav fell off the roof and broke his leg, or that time he tried to catch a wild horse and nearly got his head cracked open, or . . . well,  you know Gav. We’d be here all night if I tried to list all the stupid thing he’s done. Enjolras and I, we . . . well, we do a lot of stupid things. And we’ve gotten hurt because of them, but not like this. Not—not like this.” 

Slowly, Cosette’s arms wrapped around her, pulling Eponine tight against her. Eponine rested her head against Cosette’s shoulder, and only realized that she was crying when her tears dampened the fabric. 

“Stay the night, Eponine,” Cosette whispered. “Things will look better in the morning.” 

Eponine could only nod and hope that she was right. 

Cosette led her upstairs by the hand, taking her to Cosette’s bedroom. Eponine glanced around, taking in everything she hadn’t had a chance to look at the last time she had been there. There was an open book on the table, with a bookmark between the pages, and a picture of a woman. 

“My mother,” Cosette said. “It’s the only picture of her I have.” 

On closer look, Eponine realized that it wasn’t a photograph, but a detailed drawing. Still, something about it was familiar. “She looks . . .” 

“Familiar?” Cosette said. “Well, I’m not surprised. She did work for the Thenardiers, until she died.” 

“The—but then you were—” 

Eponine stared at Cosette, at her eyes, at her hair. She didn’t look familiar, not at first, not until Eponine put her into the context of the Thenardier’s gang of crooks. They’d all looked different, then. Eponine had worn frilly dresses and bows in her hair, and she had looked down on the grubby children of the people who worked for her father, with their worn clothing and dirty faces and unkempt hair. Had there been a child who looked like Cosette? There could have been—there had been—

“Euphrasie,” Eponine whispered. 

Cosette blinked at her. “Yes? Well, no one calls me that any longer. My mother called me Cosette, and that’s the name she gave to Papa when she asked him to look after me. But I didn’t think you remembered, Eponine.” 

“I didn’t.” Eponine said. “Who would want to? Fuck, I was—I was terrible to you. My parents sold you to some stranger, without a care for what could have happened to you.” 

“That was Papa,” Cosette said. “My mother sent him to find me, but the Thenardiers didn’t want to let me go.” 

“Yeah, well I guess that made them realize how profitable children could be. They got arrested once, but then they went right back to their old ways. As long as they came out ahead, they didn’t care who they screwed over. Even family.” 

Cosette’s eyes widened. “I thought—I thought I was remembering wrong, Eponine. They didn’t—their own children!” 

“Yeah,” Eponine said. “My brothers. Maybe Gav and Azelma and I, too, if we’d stuck around long enough. I couldn’t—I had to get us out of there.” She laughed harshly. “Fuck, I’m a terrible person. All those kids they sold, and I didn’t give a damn until it was happening to my own family. Until Gavroche came and told me what had happened.” 

“Eponine,” Cosette murmured, her hands stretching out towards Eponine.

Eponine jerked away, falling against the door, and scrambled for the doorknob. “I have to—” 

The door swung open at last, and Eponine fell through. She didn’t dare look back at Cosette as she turned and fled, leaving the Fauchelevent Ranch behind her. 

***

Someone was crying. Harsh, ugly sobs, the type that made Enjolras's heart wrench to hear them. He struggled to open his eyes, to see who was crying, to see if he could help. He was greeted by a familiar head of dark, curly hair which he immediately recognized as belonging to Grantaire. 

Enjolras attempted to lift his hand, only for something to hold it down. “Don’t try to move your arm,” Combeferre said. 

Enjolras tried his other hand, and this one moved easily to land on Grantaire’s head. “Stop crying,” Enjolras said. “I don’t want you to cry.” 

Grantaire made an odd, choking noise. “E-Enjolras. Combeferre, must you—” 

“I must. Don’t worry, he won’t feel a thing. The morphine will put him to sleep. You should go, though. I can handle this myself.” 

Grantaire sat up. Enjolras's hand fell from his head, but Grantaire caught it between his hands. “No. I’ll stay. I’ll—if you don’t mind.” 

“It won’t be pretty,” Combeferre said. 

“Has anything about this been pretty?” Grantaire said. “I’m not so new to the horrors of life that you must protect me from them.” 

Combeferre was quiet for a moment. “You might need to hold him down.” 

“You said he wouldn’t feel anything.” 

“I hope he won’t. The—the last man I did this to received no anaesthetic.” 

“None?” 

“Whiskey.” 

“Ah. I might need some of that. Anaesthesia for the heart, if not the body.” 

“You and I both,” Combeferre said, his tone unexpectedly bitter. Enjolras turned his head to the side, attempting to catch Combeferre’s gaze. He thought, most likely, that they were discussing him, but he couldn’t piece together what exactly they were discussing. His head spun as he moved it, throwing his thoughts into a pain-fueled whirl. 

His arm was stretched out beside him, wrapped tightly in bandages. Enjolras couldn’t feel it—or perhaps he had grown so used to the pain that it no longer registered. His eyes drifted over to the table at the side of the bed. Equipment was piled on top of it, and Enjolras wondered absently if it had been there before, or if it had been moved there recently. Something that Enjolras thought was a kind of tourniquet, a saw, bandages—his eyes skimmed over the rest of the equipment, drawn to the motion of Combeferre preparing a needle and syringe. 

Combeferre didn’t smile as he gently brushed Enjolras's hair away from his face. Grantaire’s hands were still tight around Enjolras's hand. “I’m sorry, my friend,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras realized that his eyes were shining with unshed tears. 

Enjolras's eyes landed on the equipment again, afraid although he couldn’t have said why. “Combeferre—my arm—you won’t—” 

“Rest, Enjolras,” Combeferre soothed. “Everything will be well.” 

The needle slid into his body, and Enjolras faded away. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras was hot when he woke up. The reason was clear as soon as he opened his eyes; he was trapped underneath a blanket and pressed up against a warm body. It felt familiar, somehow, although Enjolras had never shared a bed with anyone in his life as far as he could remember. Or so he would have liked to have said, but his memories felt strange, as if there was something he was forgetting, something that he was meant to remember. 

He shifted, trying to escape from his prison of blankets, only for a hand to drop beneath the blankets and brush over his hair. 

“Shh,” Grantaire whispered. “I know, it’s hot, but you can’t move yet.” 

Enjolras tried to recall why Grantaire was there. “Why can’t I move?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and his throat dry. 

The door opened, and Grantaire pressed firmly down on Enjolras’s head. He made an exaggerated groaning noise, as if he was in pain. 

“As I said, Mr. Javert, only my patient is in here,” Combeferre said. “Now, if you would, he needs to rest!” 

The door shut, and Grantaire moved his hand from Enjolras's head. A few moments passed, and then the blanket was lifted from Enjolras's face. 

“Apologies,” Grantaire said, as he slid from the bed. “Javert hasn’t turned up anything in his search of the town, and he’s been getting rather suspicious of my continued presence in Combeferre’s house.” 

Enjolras blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes and peered around the room. He easily recognized it as Combeferre’s spare room, which he often used for patients who required close observation. “Combeferre’s house? How did I get here?” 

“Well, you seem rather more lucid,” Grantaire said, his tone surprised. “You don’t remember? I brought you here once you collapsed, after—well.” 

Enjolras frowned as he thought back. He remembered going to Le Cabuc’s house and running into Javert there, and then the desperate escape from the city, but from there his memories faded. He’d been shot, though, he remembered that much—the pain in his arm made it rather difficult to forget. 

Enjolras instinctively went to rub at his arm, freezing when his fingers touched nothing but air. His head whipped around to stare at Grantaire, who was halfway out of his seat, his hands frozen between him and Enjolras. 

“My—” Enjolras's mouth worked silently, his words stolen away. 

“Combeferre tried to save it,” Grantaire said desperately. “He did everything he could, but it was—there was nothing to be done.” 

“But my writing ,” Enjolras said desperately. His hand moved over his arm—over the space where his arm had been, where, horribly, Enjolras could still feel his arm, even though when he looked there was nothing. 

“Better your writing,” Grantaire said, “than your life.” 

Enjolras smacked his hands—his hand—against the bed. “I would rather have my writing than my life! To die for the Cause—I was prepared for that. I expected that. I knew my words could anger someone, or that my actions might put my life at risk. I thought—as long as I contributed something, as long as I changed something—I would be happy with that. But now, what can I do? I speak, yes, and I reach a few—not enough, not nearly enough! They misremember my words or they forget them, and they can’t simply pass them on to someone else. And my work with Eponine—I can fire my gun, yes, but who would be cowed by an outlaw with one arm? And when we hop a train, how can I, with only one arm to hold on with? I would be dead weight—I would drag Eponine down, and I refuse—I refuse —”  

Enjolras choked on his words, fighting down the sob desperately trying to escape. “What can I do?” 

Arms wrapped around him, pulling him to the side of the bed. Enjolras fell onto a solid body and collapsed against it, too weak to fight against the hand wrapped around his back and the other cradling the back of his head. 

“You’re alive ,” Grantaire said, his voice choked. “You’re alive, and as long as you’re alive, you can do anything. I don’t—I don’t believe in much at all, but I believe that you can do anything. Don’t devalue your life, not when Combeferre fought so hard to save it, not when Eponine spent every night worrying over you. You aren’t just a machine for the cause, created to churn out pamphlets and educate the masses. You have—you have people who love you. This whole damn town loves you. You aren’t alone. You know that anyone you ask will drop everything to help you.” 

Enjolras took a deep, shuddering breath. Grantaire smelled like sweat, lingering sickness, and, strangely, peppermint. “Even you?” 

He felt Grantaire’s chest move with the force of his sigh. “Enjolras, if you asked, I’d listen to you speak and write your damn pamphlets myself.” 

Something about the sentence struck him as strange. Enjolras frowned over it for a moment, turning it about in his head, before he realized. “How do you know my name?” 

Grantaire burst out laughing. “Your—of all the things, that’s what you ask about? I’ve been looking after you in this room for days, Enjolras, it was bound to come out eventually. I daresay I know more things about you than half the town, after all this.” 

“What? How?” Enjolras demanded. 

“You were a bit—delirious,” Grantaire said, his joviality melting away at the reminder of the ordeal. “You . . . mistook me for people. Or asked for people. Once you cried over . . . I think your pet dog? Max.” 

“Maximilien,” Enjolras corrected, frowning. “Only Combeferre and Courfeyrac know about that.” 

“And now me,” Grantaire said, with a shrug. 

Enjolras scowled. “That’s hardly fair. You know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.” 

“I hardly know everything—” 

“You should tell me about yourself.” 

Grantaire pulled away; Enjolras found himself missing the warmth of his body. Now that he was out of the blankets, he felt unnaturally cold. “You want to . . . hear about me?” 

“That’s what I said,” Enjolras said, the severity of his tone somewhat undermined by the shiver that wracked his body. 

Grantaire frowned. “You’re cold—you’re still recovering from the surgery. Combeferre would have my head for letting you even halfway out of bed.” 

Enjolras attempted to protest, but Grantaire ushered him back into bed, tucking the blankets around him. “Now, I’m going to fetch some broth,” Grantaire said firmly. “And if you drink as much of it as you can without complaining about how much you dislike broth, I’ll tell you something you want to hear. And, maybe, if you’re especially good, I’ll give you a peppermint stick.” 

Enjolras scowled at him. “This is blatant bribery, and I won’t stand for it.” 

Grantaire laughed. “I’ll be right back. Combeferre will be glad to hear you’re awake.” 

Enjolras allowed his eyes to close as Grantaire left. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep. Days, Grantaire had said, and yet Enjolras felt as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. He’d been asleep for too long already; he didn’t have the time to indulge himself in rest. Who knew where Le Cabuc’s murderer was now. 

The door opened again, and Grantaire entered with a bowl. “Combeferre had to leave, but he said he would return tonight to examine  you,” Grantaire said as he took his seat beside Enjolras's bed with the air of someone who had done it many times before. He held out the bowl. Enjolras reached for it, nearly dropping it when only one hand reached out to take the bowl instead of the two he expected. The bowl was only saved by Grantaire, who had yet to let go. 

“Careful,” he said, steadying Enjolras’ hand with his own. “You haven’t recovered yet.” 

“It’s a bowl of broth,” Enjolras snapped. “I think I can handle that much.” 

“I know. But please—allow me?” 

Enjolras met Grantaire’s eyes, pleading and yet resigned, and found he couldn’t look away. How long had Grantaire sat by his side, tending to him, worrying about him? Enjolras had been unconscious or delirious, unaware of what was happening to himself, and all the while his friends had suffered on his behalf. 

Grantaire wanted to look after him, for whatever reason—Enjolras could withstand the injury to his pride. 

“If you will,” he said. 

Grantaire helped him drink the broth, slowly, until Enjolras could stomach no more. He sank down to the bed, exhausted far more than he thought such a simple action warranted. He didn’t even feel like he could eat the promised peppermint, and shook his head when Grantaire offered it. Grantaire, however, didn’t seem surprised. He simply picked up a book and flipped from somewhere in the middle to the front. 

“I read to you from the papers at first, but you didn’t like that,” Grantaire explained. “So I brought this instead—I started already, but I doubt you remember, so I’ll start again from the beginning lest you be too confused. Maybe this time it will stick. Anyways.” 

Without waiting for a response from Enjolras, Grantaire cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice was somewhat deeper. “‘Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace; four happy days bring in another moon . . .’” 

***

“Enjolras can’t stay here anymore,” Eponine said. “Javert’s getting too suspicious of you.” 

Combeferre sighed and massaged his temples. “I know. I know. But where else could he go? He can hardly go back to living at his camp. He’s still recovering—he needs supervision. He can’t go to the Musain, not when Javert is staying there, and frankly I wouldn’t trust his wound not to get infected all over again if we put him in the Corinth. Courfeyrac is living with Marius, and I think Javert is watching him as well, so he can’t stay there, and your room hardly fits the three of you as it is. Frankly, I don’t see that we have any other options.” 

“We might,” Eponine said. “I think . . . I think the Fauchelevents might be willing.” 

Combeferre’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain? They haven’t lived here long.” 

“Cosette already helped us once, and I think her father will go along with whatever she wants,” Eponine said. “They’ve got a big house, a bunch of farmhands . . . even if Javert goes snooping, they can pass Enjolras off as a farmhand that got injured working. Cows kick pretty damn hard; it can’t be that impossible for that kind of injury to get infected and need to be amputated.” 

“It could certainly happen,” Combeferre mused. “It’s not a bad plan. We’d have to move him at night and ensure Javert is distracted, or else do it when Javert is out of town. Eponine, you know them best. You should ask them.” 

Eponine bit back a protest—she’d known when she suggested it that Combeferre would ask her to go. Sure, if she refused he would go, but he had enough on his plate as it was. And Eponine wasn’t going to risk Enjolras's safety for her pride. “Yeah. I’ll go.” 

Combeferre gave her a thankful, if distracted smile, as she left his house and went off to the Fauchelevent Ranch. It was best to get it over with—Cosette was still at the schoolhouse, and Eponine didn’t particularly want to run into her at the moment. They hadn’t spoken since Eponine had gone over for dinner, and Eponine wasn’t sure how to break this new silence that had fallen between them. 

The hands were all at work when she arrived at the ranch, so she kept an eye out for Mr. Fauchelevent as she walked through the property. Eventually she spotted a head of white hair exiting the stables, and she hurried over to him. He turned, startled, as she approached, but smiled once he recognized her. 

“Miss Thenardier,” he said. “I’m afraid Cosette isn’t home yet.” 

“I wanted to talk to you, sir,” Eponine said. 

Mr. Fauchelevent’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “Very well—come, I’ll make us some tea, and we can sit and talk about whatever has you bothered.” 

Mr. Fauchelevent got them settled in the bright, airy sitting room, providing them not only with tea but also a tray of cookies. Eponine politely sipped at her tea and nibbled at her cookie until Mr. Fauchelevent asked, “Well, what was it you wished to talk about?” and she knew she could put it off no longer. 

“I’ve got a friend who’s in bad shape. He’s been staying with Combeferre, but Javert’s been sniffing around. We need to keep him away from Javert, somewhere he can recover safely. I was hoping . . . I was hoping you might let him stay here.” 

Now that the words were out of her mouth, they seemed terribly presumptuous, but it was too late to take them back. She could only wait, hardly daring to breathe, as Mr. Fauchelevent considered what she had said. 

“This friend,” he said. “Is he a member of Patron-Minette?” 

Eponine shook her head rapidly. “No! No, he’s—well, I don’t know how much he’d want me to say, but I can assure you he’s not one of them. He cares more about this town and the people here than anyone else. He’s got nothing to do with Patron-Minette or my parents, you can ask Combeferre and Courfeyrac if you don’t believe me.” 

“There’s no need for that,” Mr. Fauchelevent said, giving her a kind smile. “If your friend needs a place to recover, he’s welcome to stay here for as long as he likes. I have plenty of room.” 

Eponine breathed at last. “Thank you. Thank you, sir. I’ll—would it be fine if we moved him here tonight?” 

“I’ll be awake,” Fauchelevent promised. “Now, what exactly happened to this friend of yours?”

“He . . . lost an arm,” Eponine said hesitantly. “His writing arm. He might be a bit of a bastard because of it, so sorry in advance. He’s a lot better than he was, but Combeferre says he needs time to fully recover.” 

Fauchelevent patted her hand reassuringly. “He’ll be back on his feet before you know it.” 

“Thanks. I should be getting back—I have to let Combeferre know,” Eponine said, rising from the couch. “Thanks for the tea. And for letting him stay.” 

“Of course.” Fauchelevent showed her to the door. “I’ll be waiting for you tonight. Oh, and Miss Thenardier?” 

On the verge of heading out the door, Eponine paused. “Mr. Fauchelevent?” 

“I believe Cosette misses you—I may not be certain what passed between the two of you, but friendships such as yours shouldn’t be given up so easily,” he said. 

Eponine could only nod as she turned and left, heading back down the road the way she had come. Combeferre was pleased to hear the news from Fauchelevent, and immediately proceeded to pack a bag containing anything he thought Enjolras might want or need, as if the Fauchelevent Ranch was across an ocean rather than a short walk away. 

It was late when Courfeyrac knocked on their door. “I’ve just come from the Musain,” he reported. “Javert just finished his dinner and went to his room—now’s the time. Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly are keeping watch at the Musain. Feuilly is readying horses for you.” 

Eponine slung Enjolras’s bag over her shoulder as Combeferre helped him up from the bed. Enjolras allowed the assistance until he was on his feet, and then waved them off. “I lost an arm, not my legs. I can walk,” he snapped. 

Still, Eponine watched, ready to intervene, as Enjolras made his way through the house. Combeferre and Courfeyrac stopped at the door of the house, not wanting to draw attention with a large group. “I’ll come when I can,” Combeferre promised. “Courfeyrac will continue to look into the papers you brought back.” 

Enjolras nodded to them both, but said nothing, instead turning on his heel and starting down the street. 

“You should take the side streets,” Grantaire suggested. “To avoid the Musain.” 

“This way, then,” Enjolras said, leading the way down a side street. Eponine followed behind him, and Grantaire, after a moment’s pause, did the same. 

The moment they turned the corner and were out of view of Combeferre’s house, Enjolras stopped short. He wavered, his knees buckling, and Eponine rushed forwards to steady him, Grantaire doing the same on his other side. 

Enjolras slumped over, leaning his weight against Grantaire. “I didn’t want Combeferre to worry,” he murmured. 

“Worry about yourself for once, huh, Blondie?” Eponine said, eyeing his pale face worriedly. “If you’re going to swoon, give us some advance warning.” 

“I don’t swoon,” Enjolras muttered crossly. He stood upright, shifting his arm so that it laid across Grantaire’s shoulders. Eponine tried not to react as the stump of his other arm brushed against her, but Enjolras hissed in pain and shifted away from her. Unsure what to do, Eponine adjusted the bag, briefly catching Grantaire’s eyes. He nodded, once, and then Eponine looked away. 

Enjolras breathed out slowly. “We shouldn’t linger,” he said. “Feuilly will be waiting.” 

Their progress across town was slow, but steady, and they managed to reach the stables without further incident. Feuilly stepped into view as they approached, leading two horses. Enjolras let out a small, surprised noise and pushed away from Grantaire, stepping up to one of the horses. 

“Patria. You found her,” Enjolras murmured, stroking the horse and laughing softly when she nuzzled him. 

“Not quite,” Feuilly said. “She came home all on her own. I went outside and there she was, waiting for me to let her in. Oh—and don’t worry about your other horses. Bahorel, Gav, and I brought them back to the stables to look after them for you.” 

Enjolras let out a sigh of relief. “Good. I was worried about them.” 

Eponine went to her own horse, greeting it briefly before mounting. By the time she was settled, Enjolras was finally done saying hello to Patria. He gathered up the reins with one hand, moved what remained of the other arm, and then froze. 

Feuilly coughed. “Hold on—I have a, erm, something we can use for a mounting block somewhere around here.” 

Eponine busied herself with checking over her equipment and making sure the bag was secure, not wanting to discomfort Enjolras further. 

A yelp rang out; Eponine jerked around, her hand flying to her pistol, to see Enjolras being lifted into his saddle by Grantaire. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras exclaimed, his cheeks flushed. Grantaire grinned and released Enjolras’s hips. Feuilly peeked out from the stable and, seeing Enjolras on his horse, smiled in relief and vanished back into the stable. 

“I don’t need your help,” Enjolras hissed. Eponine tried her best to look as if she wasn’t listening. 

“I’m offering it anyways,” Grantaire said quietly. 

“I didn’t ask for it, or accept it,” Enjolras said. 

“I had thought that it might be more embarrassing to stand here, waiting, than to get the matter over with quickly. Tell me I was mistaken, and I won’t do it again.” 

Enjolras said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Eponine saw Grantaire nod once. “Feuilly! Have you found your mounting block?” 

“Well—yes,” Feuilly said. He opened his mouth, shut it, and went to retrieve the mounting block. Grantaire stepped up and settled himself behind Enjolras.

“Thank you, Feuilly,” Enjolras said, giving him a grateful nod before nudging Patria into motion. Eponine followed behind them, her own horse easily falling in behind Patria.

“Patria is well-trained. I’m capable of riding her without either of my hands, let alone one,” Enjolras said. 

“Excellent! I’m a poor rider, and I need all the help I can get,” Grantaire said cheerfully, reaching down to pat Patria. “Mademoiselle Patria, I am in your hands!” 

Enjolras fell silent, and they continued on without speaking until they reached the Fauchelevent Ranch. Eponine dismounted and went to knock on the door, while Grantaire slid off the horse and then helped Enjolras down. 

The door cracked open to reveal Cosette, who opened it fully as soon as she saw them. “Please, come in,” she said. “Papa prepared the guest room upstairs for you. Do you need. . .?” 

Grantaire waved her off as he followed Enjolras into the house. “We’ve got it.” 

Eponine busied herself for a moment with grabbing Enjolras’s bag, but then there was nothing left to do. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and cleared her throat. “Hey.” 

Cosette smiled tentatively. “Hello, Eponine.” 

“I, uh. Thanks. For doing this,” she said. “Even though . . .” 

Cosette shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought up things you didn’t want to talk about.” 

“No, I—” Eponine took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. For everything, back then. I understand if you don’t—if you don’t want—” 

Cosette reached out and took Eponine’s hands. “Oh, Eponine, I forgave you for that a long time ago. We’ve both changed since we were children, and for the better. I thought . . . I thought you might prefer to forget all about it, and that you might not want to—to be around me.” 

“I do,” Eponine said, before she could even think. “I do want—that. To be with you.” 

Cosette blinked, and then her cheeks flushed pink. Eponine replayed her sentence in her mind, and then felt her cheeks burn. “I mean—well, that is—” 

Before Eponine could finish her sentence, Cosette swooped in and kissed Eponine’s cheek. “I’d like that as well,” she said, softly. “But we should go before those boys get into trouble.” 

Eponine laughed. “You’ve forgiven me for when we were kids, but you might not forgive me for saddling you with Enjolras.” 

As if on cue, raised voices echoed from the second floor. Cosette’s father came downstairs, looking rather bemused. “Your friend is a charming young man,” he said to Eponine. “But I’m afraid that if you leave the two of them alone any longer, I won’t have much of a guest room remaining.” 

Eponine sighed and heaved the bag over her shoulder. “I’ll sort them out.” 

“I’ll come, if you don’t mind. I’d like to meet your friend,” Cosette said. 

As soon as they reached the second floor, Grantaire stepped through the door and shut it behind him. 

“Okay, what happened? You look unusually happy,” Eponine said. 

Grantaire grinned at her. “I never thought I would be relieved to be yelled at by Enjolras, but it is good to have him back to his normal self. Good luck!” 

Whistling, he set off down the stairs. Eponine opened the door, holding the bag in front of her like an offering. “I brought your things. I’m not sure what Combeferre packed, but I’m sure it’s everything you could ever possibly need.” 

“That man is—is—insufferable!” Enjolras exclaimed. 

“Combeferre?” Eponine said dryly. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed with a huff and moved to rub at his arm, only to frown and set his hand down in his lap when he encountered nothing but air. 

Eponine took a moment to survey him as she set down the bag and opened it. He was pale, although thankfully not sweating with fever as he had been for so long, and his brow was faintly creased with pain. 

“Looks like Combeferre packed you an entire library,” she noted, as she stacked the books on the table beside the bed. “These should last you . . . what, a week?” 

“Did he pack Hobbes ?” Enjolras said, clearly horrified. 

“Maybe he’s trying to motivate you to get better faster,” Eponine said. 

Enjolras gave the book in question a distasteful look that clearly said he would flee back into the wilderness before picking up Hobbes. His gaze shifted, then, to look over her shoulder, and the distasteful look melted away into a polite, if serious, expression. “You must be Miss Fauchelevent. Thank you for your hospitality. I assure you, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.” 

“Oh, just Cosette is fine,” Cosette said. “You’re a friend of Eponine’s, after all. You’re more than welcome to stay for as long as you need. But I’ll leave you to get settled now. Just shout if you need anything!” 

Cosette shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone. Eponine sat beside Enjolras. “Swanky place,” she noted. “Way better than your camp.” 

“I liked my camp,” Enjolras muttered. 

“Say that again the next time it rains for a week straight,” Eponine said. 

“If I ever get to go back,” Enjolras said, his fingers again going to the space where his elbow had been before quickly retracting. 

Eponine ruffled his hair roughly, grinning when he protested and tried to swat her away. “Are you Enjolras or not? You and I both know you’ll be back in fighting shape in the span of a week, and Combeferre’ll have to tie you down to the bed if he wants you to rest. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to get us anywhere, Blondie. Hurry up and get better so we can get back to work.” 

At her words, Enjolras steeled himself and nodded firmly. “You’re right, of course,” he said, and then smirked. “You’d better watch out, Thenardier, or I’ll become a better gunslinger with one arm than you are with two.” 

“I only hope Gav doesn’t try to emulate you in this, too,” Eponine said dryly. “I’ll see you around, Blondie. Don’t drive the Fauchelevents too crazy.” 

Cosette was waiting outside when Eponine left the room. “Let me walk you out?” 

“It’s your house,” Eponine said. “Go ahead.” 

Cosette’s hand slipped into Eponine’s, their fingers threading together, as Cosette led her down the stairs. She stopped in front of the door and turned to face Eponine. 

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Eponine could hear Cosette’s father puttering about upstairs, humming to himself, but Enjolras’s room was silent. 

“Don’t worry about your friend,” Cosette said. “Papa and I will look after him for you. Eponine, you . . . if you do something dangerous, you’ll be careful, won’t you?” 

Eponine squeezed her hands. “I will. I promise.” 

Cosette chewed nervously on her lower lip, her eyes searching Eponine’s. “Good. That’s good.” 

Slowly, Cosette reached up and brushed her fingers against Eponine’s cheek. Her expression was hesitant at first, but when Eponine didn’t move away, that hesitance changed to determination. She surged forward, wrapping her arms around Eponine’s neck and pressing their lips together. Eponine stumbled back, surprised by the sudden weight of Cosette’s body, and hit the wall. Cosette shifted away, and Eponine moved on instinct, her hands flying to Cosette’s waist and pulling her in for another kiss. 

“Cosette? Was that you?” 

Eponine cursed Mr. Fauchelevent as Cosette pulled away. “Um—yes, Papa! I, um, tripped. Everything’s fine.” 

The upstairs fell silent again, and Cosette and Eponine looked at each other. Eponine was certain her cheeks were as red as Cosette’s, although she doubted that she looked half as pretty. 

Cosette giggled and let her head drop to Eponine’s shoulder. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.” 

“Not as long as I have,” Eponine said. 

“Since I saw you in the store, when I went to introduce myself,” Cosette said. 

“Since I saw you on the train,” Eponine countered. 

“That’s not fair! I couldn’t see most of your face then,” Cosette protested. “I thought you were a boy.” 

“That’s the whole point of a disguise,” Eponine said, teasing one of Cosette’s curls. “I almost forgot to rob you, you were so pretty.” 

“Oh!” Cosette said, pulling away from Eponine for a moment to take a locket from under her dress. “Would you like to see it?”

Cosette opened the locket to reveal a small lock of hair. “It belonged to my mother. She pawned it, but Papa found it again for me.” 

“Now I feel even worse for trying to rob you,” Eponine said. 

Cosette leaned against her. “It’s alright. It’s just a belonging. People are more important—I had Papa, and now I have you. So even if we met the way that we did, I’m glad for it.” 

“Cosette! Are you still up?” 

“Yes, Papa!” Cosette called back. “I’ll go to bed soon, don’t worry!” 

She smiled apologetically at Eponine. “Sorry. I should go to sleep before he starts wondering what’s going on and comes downstairs. I’ll see you later, though, won’t I?” 

“Tomorrow, if I have time,” Eponine said, kissing Cosette again. Cosette hummed happily. Something thumped upstairs, and Eponine reluctantly tore herself away and went to the door. “And—Cosette—I’m glad I met you too.” 

Cosette smiled and kissed her one last time. “Goodnight, Eponine.” 

***

Enjolras had read through all of his books twice—even Hobbes—by the time Combeferre reluctantly cleared him for strenuous activity. By then thoroughly sick of the confining walls of the Fauchelevent’s spare room, Enjolras set about avoiding being inside by any means. It was imperative that he get himself in fighting order as soon as possible; as such, Enjolras busied himself with evaluating his abilities. 

He was, of course, already accustomed to firing his pistol with only one hand. Firing two pistols at once had often been enough to scare away any members of Patron-Minette that decided to try their chances; they often weren’t experienced or intelligent enough to recognize showmanship from skill. Even though it was practically useless, Enjolras had been experienced with showmanship simply because it unnerved people. 

Experimentally, he twirled his pistol and then fired at one of the cans set up on the fence. 

The metal split, the can fell from the fence, and Enjolras smiled. 

Reloading was tricky, but he managed it by using his legs to hold the pistol in place while he loaded the cartridges. It was awkward, but hopefully with practice it would feel less so. 

Satisfied with his performance with the pistol, at least for the moment, Enjolras turned his attention to the rifle propped against the fence. 

The rifle was his new archnemesis. 

Enjolras had considered himself decently skilled at using the rifle. Not as good as Combeferre, who was more talented with it than he let on, and not as skilled as Enjolras himself was at using his pistols, but still good enough. 

Using it without a second hand to steady the rifle was harder than he expected. Enjolras was resolved to figure out a way to  manage the rifle, but that could wait for the next day. 

Enjolras went, instead, to Patria. 

He’d started to practice with Patria even before Combeferre had cleared him for strenuous activity. It had earned him several lectures, of course, but ensuring that Patria was properly trained would cover for Enjolras’ own inadequacies. He’d figured out mounting and dismounting, training Patria to get accustomed to his modified method of mounting. There was a mounting block that Fauchelevent had kindly offered for his use, but out in the wilderness there was no guarantee that he would have such conveniences. Enjolras had therefore resolved to figure out how to mount without them. 

Cosette, who had assisted him with training Patria, had very kindly not laughed at any of Enjolras’ many failures. 

He hated that the most, in some ways—the kindness. Fauchelevent had refused any offers of assistance around the ranch, as had Cosette. They offered to help him in any way that they could, whenever he needed it, until he wanted to scream. He didn’t know how Eponine could stand it, but she seemed taken with Cosette’s sweetness. 

He would almost rather they laugh. At least then he could comfortably react with anger. At least then if he yelled, Eponine wouldn’t blame him for it. He disliked fighting with Eponine; it wasn’t something that he was accustomed to. She’d stormed off in a huff after he’d yelled at Cosette for offering to help one too many times, and he wasn’t sure where she had gone or if she would return. 

Enjolras didn’t need their assistance. Patria had already been trained to respond to his seat, with little to no input from the reins. Mounting and dismounting had been the hard part, but even that was getting easier with practice—his dismount this time was still a little rough, but much better than it had been. He’d been too nervous to attempt riding bareback just yet, but perhaps he would attempt it soon. Patria was a fairly small horse—Enjolras was certain he could manage it, given practice. 

“You’ve gotten better at that.” 

Enjolras glanced over to Grantaire, who was settled against the fence, his journal balanced on his knee. His hand moved the pencil smoothly over the page, sketching out whatever he’d been looking at. Enjolras walked to his side and looked down, somehow unsurprised to find a sketch of himself riding Patria. 

“How was my posture?” he asked, examining the picture as if somehow that would reveal his performance. 

“You’re favoring your right side,” Grantaire said. “But that’s probably to be expected.” 

Enjolras chewed the inside of his cheek and stared down at the sketch. Grantaire gave him an amused look. “It’s only a sketch,” Grantaire said. “It’s not even that good. I’m fairly certain that staring at it won’t reveal the secrets of the universe to you.” 

“You hardly need to be modest. Your sketches are quite skilled,” Enjolras said. 

“Oh. Well. Thank you.” Grantaire hesitated, and then grinned. “High praise, coming from you! Although, I’m not sure I trust your artistic judgment, Puck, living as you do. Tell me, do the foxes and rabbits have art galleries out in the wilderness like people do back East?” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and prodded him with the toe of his boot. “If you’re going to bother me, you might as well make yourself useful and help me with Patria while you do.” 

“Putting me to work already,” Grantaire sighed, even as he got up and joined Enjolras in removing Patria’s tack. “And here I thought I might get a chance to do some sketching.” 

“You already did,” Enjolras said. 

“I did,” Grantaire agreed, removing the bridle and setting it on the fence. “And now I’m yours for the day. Where do these go?” 

Enjolras frowned and surveyed the area. “I’m not sure. Cosette usually takes them. And she’s . . .” 

“Fed up with your irascible nature?” Grantaire suggested. “I heard on my way in. She and Eponine went off on their own to have a picnic.” 

Enjolras huffed and undid another buckle on the saddle. “Typical. And she told me not to get distracted! Who knows where those documents could be? Not me, since apparently Eponine is too busy cavorting to find out!” 

“Documents?” 

“Nothing you need to know about,” Enjolras said sharply. “At this rate, I might as well go look into them myself . . .” 

He forced his fist to unclench before his nails could draw blood and took a deep breath. “It’s not important,” he said. 

Grantaire hummed thoughtfully  as he removed the saddle and set it on the fence. “I suppose we could look for where these go on our way back to the stable.” 

“We aren’t going to the stable,” Enjolras said, striding past Grantaire and clicking his tongue so Patria would follow. 

“Well, well,” Grantaire said, as he fell into step beside Enjolras. “Running off, are we? I should have known you would rebel against captivity before too long.” 

“I’m hardly captive, and I’m hardly rebelling,” Enjolras said. “I’m taking you with me, aren’t I?” 

Without waiting for a response from Grantaire, Enjolras led the way out of the paddock. Enjolras knew the area around the Fauchelevent Ranch well. It had been one of his favorite hideouts before it had been sold, and he had spent plenty of time in the woods around the property. He led the way to a suitable area, where there was a large rock he could use for a mounting block if it truly proved necessary. 

Grantaire leaned against a tree, watching, as Enjolras stood beside Patria. Enjolras eyed the distance from the ground to Patria’s back, spared a moment to be thankful that he wasn’t trying to ride Eponine’s horse, and took a deep breath. 

“Okay, girl,” he said, as he grabbed a handful of her mane. “Let’s do this.” 

Without giving himself another moment to think about it, he vaulted as he had so many times before, swinging one leg up and over Patria’s back. He attempted to reach over with his other hand, realizing too late that he couldn’t, and reflexively gripped tighter with his legs to compensate. He stayed where he was for a moment, not all the way on Patria’s back but not quite in danger of falling off, and forced himself to relax. He was on the horse. That was what mattered. Now, he just had to get all the way on and sit up. 

Enjolras wriggled and squirmed until he was all the way on Patria, and then sat up and patted her. “There. That wasn’t so bad.” 

A snort from behind drew his attention. Enjolras turned, scowling, just as Grantaire burst into laughter. 

“I’d like to see you do better,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire, still laughing, raised his hands in protest. “Not me! I am utterly incapable of mounting a horse without a mounting block, and I’ve never ridden bareback before. I’ve barely ridden at all! I told you as much when I rode with you, didn’t I?” 

Enjolras had assumed that was a lie to make him feel better, and still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t. “Let’s see it, then,” he said, as he swung one leg back over Patria and slid down. “Just do what I did. I’ll even allow you to stand on that rock, if you’re so insistent that you need a mounting block.” 

Enjolras guided Patria into position as Grantaire got on the rock. Grantaire eyed Patria skeptically. “She won’t move while I’m getting on, will she?” 

“She’s trained not to,” Enjolras said. “Now go on. Don’t waste time.” 

“Right.” Grantaire took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s do this.” 

The moment Grantaire attempted to jump up, Enjolras knew he had overcompensated. He was standing on the rock—he hardly needed to put as much effort into the initial jump as Enjolras had. Grantaire got his leg over Patria’s back and kept going, his momentum bringing him right back down to the ground again, his eyes comically wide as he fell. 

Enjolras couldn’t help it; he laughed. 

“Well at least one of us is happy,” Grantaire groaned. “I’m always glad to make a fool of myself for the entertainment of others. What’s next, turning cartwheels and juggling?” 

“No. I need to practice more,” Enjolras said. He stepped around Patria to find Grantaire still lying on his back. Enjolras hesitated only a moment before offering him his hand, and Grantaire hesitated only a moment more before accepting. Enjolras pulled him up as Grantaire pushed himself to his feet, the combined force sending Grantaire stumbling slightly into Enjolras. His hand landed against Enjolras’ chest as he steadied himself, radiating warmth through Enjolras’s shirt. 

Enjolras cleared his throat and stepped back, Grantaire’s hands falling away. Enjolras returned to Patria, while Grantaire returned to his sketchbook and his flask. Enjolras practiced his mounting and riding until the sun started to set, at which point he knew it was time to return to the Fauchelevent Ranch, lest he miss dinner and be subjected to concerned looks from his hosts. Enjolras had had his fill of concern. 

Grantaire walked beside him until they reached the Fauchelevent Ranch, passing the time with conversation about the books Enjolras had recently read that Grantaire had read as well—which was most of them, to Enjolras’s surprise. However, despite having read the same books, they had come away with vastly different opinions on them. Enjolras ended up so enthralled with their debate that he very nearly missed Eponine leaning against the porch as they approached the house. 

“Enjolras,” she called, bringing an abrupt halt to their conversation. 

Grantaire glanced between them and took a small step back. “I’ll . . . take Patria to the stables, shall I?” he suggested. 

“Don’t bother,” Eponine said, her eyes not moving from Enjolras. “How are you doing?” 

“I’m capable of riding and shooting, if that’s what you’re asking,” Enjolras said. 

“Good,” Eponine said. “Because Montparnasse is in town, and he’s got some news you’ll want to hear.”

Chapter Text

Montparnasse was holed up in Jehan’s bedroom above the print shop, getting the gunshot wound on his arm tended to by Combeferre. He’d been luckier than Enjolras had been—the bullet had grazed him, and all Combeferre had to do was stitch it up. Eponine noticed that he was being rather less gentle than he had been with Enjolras, and Montparnasse winced at every pass of the needle. 

“There, there,” Jehan said, patting Montparnasse’s hand idly before moving on to clear another pile of books off a chair. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Montparnasse said through gritted teeth. 

“I would never,” Combeferre said, in the tone of voice that meant he absolutely would. 

“You’re lucky Combeferre is treating you at all,” Jehan said firmly. “I told him he wasn’t obligated, given what you’ve done.” 

Montparnasse looked rather uncomfortable, as if worried that Combeferre might decide to stop in the middle of his work. “That’s in the past, yeah? We haven’t done anything to Les Amis in months.” 

Eponine rolled her eyes and took a seat in the chair Jehan had just cleared. “Just tell us what’s going on, already.” 

Enjolras took the seat beside her and stared Montparnasse down until he looked ready to run from the room, Combeferre’s needle in his arm be damned. “Okay!” he said. “Okay, I’ll tell you. I said I would, didn’t I? So long as you let me stay here.” 

“That depends,” Enjolras said coldly, “on what you have to say.” 

“Look, so we were all in camp,” Montparnasse said. “‘Cause someone’d been sniffing around that isn’t the two of you, and we thought Jondrette should know about it. Except Guelemer, the big idiot, let himself be followed. And—look, this business with Jondrette is good and all, but I didn’t sign up for this. I’ve got my stash hidden away, I’ll go my own way—I’m not getting mixed up with the Pinkertons.” 

“The Pinkertons?” Enjolras said, leaning forward in his chair. 

Montparnasse shrugged one shoulder, careful not to move the arm that Combeferre was working on. “Yeah, the Jondrettes have him tied up in camp right now. They think that as long as they keep him from reporting back, problem solved, but the way I figure it, if this Pinkerton goes missing, that only means more of them will follow. I’m getting out while I can.” 

His eyes met Eponine’s. “And I recommend you do the same.” 

Eponine pointedly looked away from him, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair. “The way I see it, problem solved. Patron-Minette will take care of Javert, the other Pinkertons will come looking and take care of Patron-Minette, and once they’re gone, we can carry on, business as usual.” 

“It is expedient to just let our two problems take care of themselves,” Enjolras mused. 

Courfeyrac, who up until now had been sitting silently on Jehan’s bed given the lack of chairs, waved his hands. “Um, are we just going to put aside the fact that they’re probably going to kill him? Everything else aside, Javert hasn’t done anything other than try to investigate a murder. He might be investigating the wrong people, but his heart’s in the right place.” 

Eponine snorted. “You’re assuming that Javert has a heart.” 

“He’s a Pinkerton,” Enjolras said firmly. “At best, he is complicit in the actions of an organization which has sold itself out to the government for the sake of profit, which enables the subjugation of the working class—” 

“Yes, Enjolras,” Combeferre said; Eponine had no doubt that he had heard this particular tirade many times before. “However, would you really condemn a man to die simply for pursuing justice?” 

Enjolras’s expression was set, at first, but then a small sigh escaped him. “Montparnasse. Where is the Patron-Minette camp at the moment?” 

Eponine listened carefully as Montparnasse described how to reach the camp, which was currently located relatively close to the Fauchelevent Ranch. Enjolras seemed to know the area Montparnasse was describing, although Eponine wasn’t familiar with it, and quickly laid out a plan of attack. “Eponine, Combeferre, Courfeyrac—you’ll deal with any members of Patron-Minette we encounter. Jehan, you and I will approach from the side and attempt to reach Javert. Montparnasse, you’ll be with Jehan and I.” 

Montparnasse shook his head rapidly. “I’m not going anywhere near there—Jondrette shot me when I left, and I was lucky enough that he grazed me. I don’t fancy my chances if I return. But I can tell you where they’ve got Javert—last I saw, they had him tied up near the food, where Mrs. Jondrette could keep an eye on him.” 

Eponine leaned in to whisper to Enjolras. “The old lady fancies Montparnasse, you know. She likes a pretty face.” 

Montparnasse eyed her warily. “What’d you tell him, Eponine?” 

“You’ll come with us,” Enjolras said firmly, his hand settling against the revolver tucked away in a holster. “One way or another.” 

“Fine,” Montparnasse said quickly. “No need to get hasty, I’ll come. But you owe me for this.” 

“Considering that Combeferre treated you despite everything you’ve done, I think you’ll find that you owe us,” Enjolras said. “Now, what would you say is the best time to approach?” 

“Ordinarily I’d say in the afternoon or evening, while everyone is out visiting saloons, but they’ll be packing up camp and preparing to move, all hands on deck. So I’d say at night, when they’re all tired from the day’s work,” Montparnasse said. “It’ll take them a few days to move, so you have time, but not much.” 

“Tomorrow night,” Enjolras said firmly, glancing around the room to see if anyone disagreed. When his eyes landed on her, Eponine nodded firmly. 

After discussing their plans for the next night in more detail, they dispersed to make their preparations. Jehan and Montparnasse remained above the print shop, Combeferre and Courfeyrac returned to the sheriff’s office, and Eponine rode back with Enjolras to the Fauchelevent Ranch. 

“So,” she said. “What’s the deal with you and Grantaire?” 

Enjolras made a disgruntled noise. “We’re raiding the Patron-Minette camp tomorrow night. Don’t we have more important things to discuss?” 

“I think we’ve discussed it to death,” Eponine said. “And you have to admit, you two have been spending a lot of time together.” 

“Not as much as you and Cosette,” Enjolras said. 

Eponine couldn’t help but smile at the reminder. “Things have been . . . good.” 

“Just don’t get distracted,” Enjolras said. 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to get distracted on a job. Honestly, Enjolras. Being with Cosette doesn’t mean I’ve completely lost my sense of professionalism. Just because you apparently can’t trust yourself not to think with your dick doesn’t mean the rest of can’t.” 

Enjolras’s head whipped around to stare at her, his eyes wide and horrified and his cheeks flushed. “Eponine!” 

Eponine laughed. “I’m just saying, the world isn’t going to end if you stop ignoring your emotions for once. And trust me, if anything, it’s less distracting once you’ve gotten over the whole song and dance.” 

Enjolras arched an eyebrow at her. “So you think I should . . . get over it? If that’s the case, ignoring it seems the best way to go about doing so.” 

“That’s not what I said,” Eponine said. “I said to get the whole ‘will we or won’t we’ bit over with.” 

“We won’t,” Enjolras said. “End of story.” 

“Sure,” Eponine said. “You say that now, and next thing you know you’re hiding in a pile of hay from their father, half-naked.” 

“More than I needed to know,” Enjolras muttered. “If you could, please refrain from angering Cosette’s father so much that he throws us out of his home.” 

Eponine smirked at him, unrepentant. It had been funny, after the terror of nearly being caught by Valjean had passed. “That sounds like a problem for you to deal with.” 

“I’m not the one cavorting with his daughter,” Enjolras snapped. 

“Thank God,” Eponine teased. “You’re pretty enough that Cosette might actually go for you, and then I’d be in trouble.” 

Enjolras shuddered. “Enough. I don’t particularly care what you get up to with her as long as it doesn’t interfere with our work. Just leave me out of it.” 

Eponine laughed; if they hadn’t been riding, she would have ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, you’re safe from us. Now, Grantaire, on the other hand . . .” 

He groaned. “Not this again.” 

“Come on,” Eponine cajoled. “Just answer my questions for this one trip, and then I’ll drop it.” 

She could practically see him calculating how much time they had before they reached the ranch and considering how many questions she could possibly ask in that amount of time. “Fine,” Enjolras said reluctantly. “But then you drop it.” 

Eponine considered all the questions she could ask and dismissed them just as quickly. 

“What do you think of him?” she asked, finally. 

“He’s . . . interesting,” Enjolras said, forming the word slowly. 

“Interesting? How?” 

Enjolras considered for a moment. “I never know what he’ll say or do. He’s intelligent, clearly, given his arguments, but he seems intent on not doing anything with that intelligence beyond antagonizing me. He debates me endlessly, but I’m not certain if he even believes what he’s debating, since one day he’ll say one thing, and the next he’ll say another. It’s absolutely infuriating, but when I accuse him of simply playing Devil’s advocate, he’ll just laugh and say that he likes the expression I make when I’m angry! He’s impossible!” 

Eponine squinted at him. “Do you want to kiss him, or punch him in the face?” 

“Neither! Both!” Enjolras waved a hand through the air. “I don’t know!” 

“Amazing,” Eponine said dryly. “For once, something that even the great Enjolras himself can’t figure out.” 

Enjolras groaned. “Why are you doing this to me, Eponine? I was perfectly happy ignoring it.” 

“Were you?” Eponine said doubtfully. “Seems to me like he’s been driving you crazy no matter how much you try to ignore him. It might be worth it to try not ignoring him.” 

They reached the ranch at last, and Enjolras dismounted while Eponine remained on her horse. 

“Goodnight, Eponine,” Enjolras said, leading Patria back to the barn. “Get some rest before tomorrow night.” 

“I’m just saying, it might help get that stick out of your ass!” Eponine yelled after him, cackling when Enjolras briefly released Patria to flip her off. 

“What might help?” 

Eponine swore, her hand nearly flying to her gun before she recognized the voice. “Jesus, Cosette! Don’t startle me!” 

Cosette stood from the bench on the porch and walked over to stand beside Eponine’s horse. This way, Eponine was several hands taller than Cosette, but that didn’t stop Cosette from lacing her fingers through Eponine’s and smiling up at her. “Sorry. I thought you might come by. Grantaire said you and Enjolras had some business to take care of.” 

“He still around?” Eponine almost hoped he was, just so Enjolras could run into him. 

“I think he left already,” Cosette said. “But do you really want to talk about Grantaire?” 

“Not really,” Eponine said, swinging her leg over and dismounting as Cosette stepped back to make room for her. Cosette stepped closer again once Eponine was on the ground, wrapping her arms around Eponine’s neck and kissing her so sweetly it took Eponine’s breath away. 

“Business taken care of?” Cosette asked. 

Eponine sighed and rested her head against Cosette’s shoulder. “If only. No, tomorrow night we’re going to deal with Patron-Minette.” 

Cosette’s arms tightened slightly. “Let me come with you,” she said. “I know how to shoot, Papa taught me—” 

Eponine shook her head immediately. “No. It’ll be dangerous—you should stay here.” 

“It’ll be dangerous for you too,” Cosette said. “Please, Eponine. I can handle myself.” 

“You ever shot someone before?” Slowly, Cosette shook her head. Eponine had assumed as much. “There’s a difference between shooting game and shooting a person. I hope you never have to find that out. Just . . . be here for me when I get back. Please.” 

Cosette stared into Eponine’s eyes and then, at last, nodded. “Alright. I’ll stay here. But be careful, please, Eponine.” 

Eponine nearly sighed in relief, but restrained herself and instead grinned at Cosette. Tomorrow she’d be facing off against Patron-Minette, but for now she wanted to enjoy what time she had with Cosette. “What, you don’t want to play nursemaid by my bedside? I promise I’m a better patient than Enjolras.” 

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Cosette laughed, and Eponine couldn’t help but join in. 

It was strange, how Cosette did this to her. She felt like she laughed more with Cosette than she ever had in all her life. It was like Cosette had a lightness to her that somehow spread to Eponine, lifting her out of the usual mire of stress and worry that made up her life. Sure, she was still worried about the job tomorrow night, but it didn’t seem as bad when Cosette was smiling up at her like that. 

“It’s awfully late, Eponine,” Cosette said, her smile playful and shy all at once. “You’re welcome to stay the night, if you like.” 

“You know what?” Eponine said. “I think I would like that.” 

***

“Eponine is a terrible person.” 

Patria didn’t say anything in response, of course. That was what Enjolras liked about horses; they would listen and not say anything and not tell anyone else what he said. Talking to Combeferre or Courfeyrac inevitably resulted in the other member of the pair finding out what he had said, and talking to Eponine usually involved submitting himself to teasing. They all gave him advice, of course, but sometimes Enjolras didn’t want advice. 

Sometimes he just wanted to complain about his compatriots. 

“So I’m focused on the job,” he continued as he stroked the brush over Patria. “Eponine isn’t focused enough. She’s been distracted ever since this—whatever she has with Cosette, as if there aren’t a dozen more important things to focus on!” 

His mind returned, again, to the conversation he had had with Eponine as they returned to the Fauchelevent Ranch. 

“And I do not have a stick up my ass!” 

A bark of laughter interrupted him; Enjolras turned on his heel and whipped out his revolver. “Who’s there?” 

“Whoa there, cowboy. It’s just me.” Grantaire stepped out of the shadows of the stable, hands raised up and a smirk on his face. “What’s this about the stick up your ass?” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and slipped the gun back into its holster. “Just something Eponine said. I don’t know why you two aren’t friends; clearly, you share the same juvenile sense of humor.”

“I set off her protective instincts,” Grantaire said, his wise tone belied by the playful wink he gave Enjolras. 

Enjolras didn’t even want to try to understand that statement, and he busied himself with Patria in the hopes that Grantaire would get bored and go away. Grantaire was a distraction, and Enjolras couldn’t afford distractions. He had plans to make, still, for the raid on Patron-Minette, and he had other work to attend to besides. 

Eventually, however, he ran out of things to do, and Grantaire was still there. Reluctantly, Enjolras put his equipment away and left the stall, pausing as he came face-to-face with Grantaire. 

Grantaire’s expression was uncharacteristically serious. Enjolras had intended to ignore him and continue on to the house, but he found himself stopping, waiting to see if Grantaire would say anything. 

He half-expected some stupid joke, but Grantaire said, “You and Eponine robbed the train that day, didn’t you?” 

“Which day?” Enjolras said, without thinking. He could have smacked himself. This was why Grantaire was a liability; he made Enjolras do stupid things, like stealing journals and breaking into hotel rooms and practically admitting to robbing trains. 

Grantaire, surprisingly, grinned. “What, no denials?” Without waiting for Enjolras to respond, he continued. “As I was traveling to the city, my train was robbed. I, mercifully, was spared—I can hardly afford a first class ticket, and they were apparently the main victims, but I did see one of the robbers in passing. Now, most people put it up to Patron-Minette, but I saw this robber before Patron-Minette hijacked the train. When I reached Les Amis, however, I discovered that I hadn’t been entirely spared—quite a few of my books had gone missing.” 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “And what does this have to do with me?” 

He remembered, of course. He had gone to the baggage compartment to search for any valuables or useful documents. One of the bags had a supply of paper, which Enjolras had taken without thinking, as he was always in need of paper, and several books that Enjolras had immediately wanted to read. He’d only realized later that their previous owner had written in them extensively, small notes and critiques that Enjolras had read as thoroughly as the books themselves. Somehow, he had failed to connect that cramped scrawl, those insights that had fueled several potential articles, with Grantaire. 

Grantaire held up a book. Enjolras recognized the worn cover immediately as one of the ones he had taken from the train; how many times had he referenced the notes it contained? 

“You left this in the Fauchelevent’s sitting room,” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras was certain that he could come up with a reasonable explanation for this, or at the very least something that would make Grantaire drop the subject and leave. 

“So?” was what came out of his mouth. 

Grantaire flipped through the book. Unbidden, Enjolras’ eyes traveled up his body, landing on his mouth, twisted into an amused smirk. “I’ve always enjoyed this book,” he said. “As I’m sure you know.” 

Enjolras had noted that Grantaire had written in this book more than the others, but he didn’t say as much. 

Without waiting for a response, Grantaire  flipped towards the back of the book with the familiarity of one who had read it many times before. His eyes skimmed over the page, briefly, before he looked at Enjolras again. 

“‘And are you not a flute-player?” he said, not looking away from Enjolras. “That you are, and a performer far more wonderful than Marsyas . . . When we hear any other speaker, even a very good one, he produces absolutely no effect upon us, or not much, whereas the mere fragments of you and your words, even at second-hand, and however imperfectly repeated, amaze and possess the souls of every man, woman, and child who comes within hearing of them.’” 

Grantaire swayed slightly, as if torn between moving forwards and staying where he was. His eyes didn’t move from Enjolras, and Enjolras found that he didn’t want them to. “‘And if I were not afraid that you would think me hopelessly drunk,’” Grantaire murmured, “‘I would have sworn as well as spoken to the influence which they have always had and still have over me. For my heart leaps within me more than that of any Corybantian reveller, and my eyes rain tears when I hear them . . . I have heard Pericles and other great orators, and I thought that they spoke well, but I never had any similar feeling; my soul was not stirred by them, nor was I angry at the thought of my own slavish state. But this Marsyas has often brought me to such a pass, that I have felt as if I could hardly endure the life which I am leading.’” 

Grantaire paused for a moment, his eyes moving from Enjolras back to the page. Freed from the trap of Grantaire’s gaze, Enjolras forced himself to look away. His eyes caught on Grantaire’s hands, watching as his fingers traced a line on the page while he continued speaking. “‘And I am conscious that if I did not shut my ears against him, and fly as from the voice of the siren, my fate would be like that of others—he would transfix me, and I should grow old sitting at his feet.’” 

Grantaire put away the book, but didn’t stop speaking; he moved forward, and Enjolras found himself frozen in place. “‘For he makes me confess that I ought not to live as I do, neglecting the wants of my own soul . . . Therefore I hold my ears and tear myself away from him. And he is the only person who ever made me ashamed, which you might think not to be in my nature, and there is no one else who does the same.’”

At once, Enjolras remembered how to breathe, the breath he had been holding escaping him in a rush. Grantaire stepped forward once more, nearly closing the gap between them, but didn’t move further than that. 

If he wanted, Enjolras could have easily left. He should, he knew—he should leave and let this strange encounter go unmentioned. He would return the books and the notes Grantaire had written in them, remove every trace of Grantaire from his life. He could not allow himself to be distracted, and Grantaire, with his eyes and his mouth and his hands and his mind, was the ultimate distraction. 

Grantaire shifted back, and Enjolras moved forwards. Grantaire’s eyes widened as Enjolras seized him by the front of his waistcoat and pulled him in, mashing their mouths together with enough force that their teeth clacked together painfully. Enjolras pulled back with a wince and met Grantaire’s eyes, still wide with shock. Slowly, Grantaire reached up to press his fingers to his lips. 

“I—” Apologize, Enjolras almost said, but Grantaire reached out and brushed his fingers against Enjolras’s cheek, smoothing back a few strands of hair and tucking them behind his ear. Slowly, he leaned in and pressed their mouths together, much more gently than Enjolras had. Grantaire’s lips were dry and rough, but Enjolras didn’t care. It was hard to care about much of anything with Grantaire pressed against him. 

But there were things he had to care about, regardless. 

Enjolras pulled away. “I have to go.” 

He hadn’t meant to offer an explanation, but as Grantaire’s expression closed off, Enjolras found himself opening his mouth again. “I have work to do. For tomorrow night.” 

Enjolras didn’t move, either to approach or retreat, and neither did Grantaire. At last, Grantaire took a step back, broadly gesturing for Enjolras to move past him and exit the barn. “‘Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night. The starry welkin cover thou anon with drooping fog as black as Acheron.’” 

Enjolras sighed. “Would it kill you to speak plainly, for once?” 

“It might,” Grantaire said. “But I will attempt it, for you. Go, Enjolras. I won’t distract you, if that’s your concern.” 

Enjolras knew that he should leave—Grantaire had told him to, after all, and it was true that Enjolras should ensure that everything was in place for tomorrow night. He certainly didn’t need to spend the time parsing Grantaire’s cryptic statements. But even though the way was open for him to leave, he found himself rooted to the spot.

“I should go,” he said, unsure whether he was speaking more to Grantaire or to himself. “I have much to do.” 

Grantaire opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Perhaps you could do with some assistance.” 

“Assistance? From you?” Enjolras said, taken aback at the offer. 

Grantaire shrugged, the motion painfully casual. “If you don’t want me there, of course, you need only say so.” 

“No,” Enjolras said, before he could even think it over. He cleared his throat. “No, assistance would be welcome. I was merely surprised—you don’t even know what I’m doing.” 

“Whatever it is, I will endeavor to do my best. Unless it deals with mathematics—I’m helpless when it comes to mathematics,” Grantaire said, the sarcastic grin returning to his face. 

“Oh,” Enjolras said, feeling oddly adrift at the sight of that grin. “So am I.” 

“Excellent,” Grantaire said, his smile growing. “Then we’ll be helpless together, you and I, and perhaps we’ll muddle through. I swore off mathematics after leaving school, but perhaps it won’t be so terrible with you by my side.” 

Something in Grantaire’s expression stole Enjolras’s breath away; he had to look away before he was able to speak. “Luckily,” he said, as he busied himself with cleaning up the stall and ensuring it was closed, “I do not anticipate much mathematics in our future. Your sketching abilities, however, may come in handy.” 

“Oh? So, do I finally get to learn more about what your work entails?” Grantaire asked. 

Enjolras nodded and led the way from the stable, Grantaire following just behind him. “You do. We’re going on a scouting mission. Tell me, how much do you know about Patron-Minette?” 

***

As soon as her preparations were completed, Eponine made her way to the appointed meeting place. She’d checked her weapons and made sure that if anything went wrong, Gavroche and Azelma would be taken care of. They were at school now, as if it were any other day, while she headed to one of Enjolras’s many hideouts. 

She expected him to be busy with preparations, and he was, but she was surprised to find that he wasn’t alone. Grantaire was asleep at his side, his head pillowed on a rather grimy coat that unmistakably belonged to Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t seem to be paying much attention to him, since he seemed to be attempting to memorize the contents of a sheet of paper spread over his lap, but then Grantaire shifted and Enjolras ran his fingers through his hair. 

“So, did you finally get that stick up your ass dislodged?” Eponine teased. 

Enjolras cast her a disparaging look. “Don’t be crude, Eponine. We just went on a scouting mission.” 

Eponine settled herself on Enjolras’s other side and peered over at the paper, finding that it contained a detailed map of the Patron-Minette camp. “Someone was busy last night,” she said. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to leave him out of it.” 

“His talents are useful,” Enjolras said. 

“Oh, sure,” Eponine said. “That’s why you’re touching his hair.” 

Enjolras’s hand jerked away from Grantaire’s head, and he shot a withering glare at Eponine. 

“That is beside the point,” Enjolras said stiffly, shoving the paper at her. “Memorize this. It is as accurate as we could make it without being spotted.” 

Eponine scanned the paper. The layout hadn’t changed much from when she had left. A few clusters of tents, some wagons for supplies, a cooking and eating area, and an area for prisoners. The Thenardiers kept the prisoners  and the supplies close to their tent, to more easily keep an eye on them. Eponine tapped the page where most of the tents were clustered, on the far side of camp from the supplies and prisoners. “We’ll deal with the guards and everyone else who’s still awake while you sneak around the back, I assume.” 

Enjolras nodded. “Yes, that was my thought. I have some plans in mind, but I would prefer to wait for the rest of our compatriots to go over them.” 

“Makes sense,” Eponine agreed, and produced a deck of cards from her bag. “Old Maid or Blackjack?” 

They started with Old Maid, but had moved on to Blackjack by the time Grantaire woke up and asked to be dealt in. Courfeyrac arrived not long after and joined them, and the four of them were in the middle of a hand when Combeferre and Jehan arrived with Montparnasse, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. 

“Excellent,” Enjolras said briskly, setting aside his cards without a second thought to the game. “Now that we’re all here, we can finalize our plans. As I’m sure you remember, we decided that Eponine, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac would serve as a distraction, while Jehan, Montparnasse, and I would rescue Javert. We will approach the camp together, investigate the situation further, and then separate. I have here a rough map of the compound, which you should all take the opportunity to memorize. Montparnasse, if anything is incorrect, inform us.” 

Jehan held the map while everyone else leaned in to take a look at it. Montparnasse shrugged. “Looks good enough to me.” 

“As you said, most people were asleep,” Enjolras said. “However, I did spot a few guards. Do they have specified patrol routes?” 

“Nah. We just wandered around wherever we felt like it,” Montparnasse said, shrugging. 

Enjolras frowned. “So their movements will be unpredictable. Focus on removing the guards from the equation. If possible, do not alert the rest of camp to our activities. Ideally, we’ll be able to remove Javert from the camp without this turning into a shootout.” 

Eponine, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all nodded, although Eponine didn’t have much faith that their plan would hold up for long. Things had a habit of going wrong around Patron-Minette. 

“Grantaire.” 

Grantaire jumped as Enjolras spoke, spilling the cards he had been fiddling with over the ground. “Yes?” 

“I have a task for you as well,” Enjolras said. Grantaire pointed at himself silently, looking rather stunned at the idea that Enjolras had a task for him. “If you hear gunshots, take Patria and ride to town as quickly as you can. Find Bahorel or Feuilly, or, if failing them, Gavroche. They will know what to do.” 

After a few moments of shocked silence, Grantaire nodded, his expression tense. No one spoke until Courfeyrac clapped his hands together. “Well! It seems to me that we have a bit of time to kill until it’s time, and we have an excellent deck of cards going unused. Deal us all a hand, Grantaire—what do you say, everyone, up for a round of poker?” 

They played until the sun had set and they could no longer read the cards, and then spent the rest of the waiting time listening to one of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras’s usual philosophical discussions, with enthusiastic interruptions courtesy of Grantaire. The discussion ended up devolving into a debate between Grantaire and Enjolras. Eponine was relieved when Combeferre announced that it was probably time to go; the tension had long since gone from amusing to unbearable. 

Enjolras jabbed a finger at Grantaire. “We’ll finish this later.” 

WIth that, he turned on his heel and swept away into the forest. Eponine followed him, keeping close so she wouldn’t lose track of him in the dark. He motioned for caution as the sounds of the camp began to filter through the forest. Closer, and she could see the light of the campfires. 

Enjolras laid down on the ground, and the rest of them followed suit. “There,” he whispered, pointing towards the camp. “Two guards.” 

Eponine spotted them easily; they stopped to talk with each other for a brief moment before continuing on their separate ways. Combeferre pointed out two more members of the gang sitting around the fire, passing a bottle back and forth. It looked quieter than Eponine remembered, so she supposed most of the camp really was asleep, like Montparnasse had said. 

Enjolras nodded at her and then slipped away, vanishing into the darkness with Montparnasse and Jehan. Eponine exchanged looks with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, took a deep breath, and went after one of the guards. He went down easily when she thumped him hard over the head. She winced as he hit the ground, drawing the attention of the two men who had been drinking. Luckily, they dismissed it, and she was free to continue to circle the camp, hunting down the rest of the guards. 

By the time she reached the other side of the camp, she had started to see signs of the other half of their party passing through; a few bodies had been tied up and dragged into the undergrowth, and the back of one of the tents was slit open. 

Eponine moved, ready to join up with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but froze at a familiar voice. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” her mother crooned, so close that a shiver went down Eponine’s spine. For a moment she feared that the woman was speaking to her—she’d always had a weird way of knowing when Eponine had gone against her bidding—but then Montparnasse spoke. 

“I know. The old man said he’d shoot me if I showed my face again, but I couldn’t stay away,” Montparnasse said, in that drawl he used when he was trying to win someone over. He thought it made him sound slick, but Eponine just thought it was stupid. 

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he continued, and Eponine froze again. She wouldn’t put it past Montparnasse to betray them—she should have expected it. 

“Oh?” her mother said, in that sickly-sweet voice of hers. 

Eponine cautiously moved closer, trying to get a clear view of them. 

“Yes,” Montparnasse said. “Madame Jondrette, I couldn’t bear to be apart from you.” 

Eponine moved past the tent blocking her view just in time to see Montparnasse sweep her mother into his arms, expertly turning her so that she was facing away from the tent. It was a good method of distracting her, Eponine had to admit—her mother had always had a weakness for Montparnasse. But that didn’t make Eponine feel any less like she was about to gag. 

Through the open tent flap, Eponine could see Jehan and Enjolras sneaking out through the slit cut in the back of the tent, Javert supported between them. 

A shot cracked through the air. Jehan immediately dropped to the ground, dragging Javert down with them, as Enjolras bolted for the entrance of the tent. Montparnasse shoved Eponine’s mother away and reached for his own gun, although he didn’t move, probably considering which side to help in the ensuing fight. Eponine didn’t wait for him to make up his mind before drawing her own gun and running towards the gunshot—it had come from the other end of camp, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were. 

Her mother let out a scandalized shriek as Eponine raced past, but Eponine ignored her in favor of taking cover by a half-packed wagon. Peeking out from behind it, she could see that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had taken cover inside a tent, occasionally emerging to take shots at the members of Patron-Minette who had gathered to fight them. There weren’t as many of them as Eponine had expected, which she was certain was due to something Courfeyrac and Combeferre had done. 

Still, she wasn’t going to worry about the details just now. She steadied her pistol, took aim at a member of Patron-Minette who was leaning out of his tent, and fired. 

Blood spurted from his arm as her bullet struck true, and he dropped his gun and pulled back, howling in pain. A few minutes passed—Courfeyrac managed to hit another member of Patron-Minette that dared to emerge from a different tent—before another member took his place, and Eponine fired again. She didn’t hit his arm this time, but his hand. She couldn’t help but wince as he screamed and clutched at his hand; she wouldn’t be surprised if she had blown off one of his fingers with that shot. Beside her, Enjolras fired, managing to hit someone in the shoulder. 

Combeferre, somehow, managed to shoot someone still hidden inside the tent, which freaked out enough of them that they started escaping out of the back of the tents and running for the hills. Eponine fired at another of them, barely missing his arm. He yelped and leaped out of the tent, hands raised above his head. “Stop! Stop, don’t shoot, I ain’t paid enough for this!” 

The firing stopped; a few more members of Patron-Minette emerged, hands raised up as well. Eponine kept her gun trained on them as Courfeyrac stepped forwards and began to disarm them; she didn’t trust them as far as she could throw them. 

He’d just tied the last of them up when a tent flap opened. Eponine turned to see her father storming out, wearing his dressing gown and pulling plugs out of his ears. 

“What in hell is going on out here?” he yelled, before freezing as he took in the sight before him. The members of his gang were either tied up, injured, or gone; Eponine’s mother was tied up as well, and Montparnasse was watching over her with a bored expression on his face. 

Enjolras stood and aimed his revolver at Thenardier. “Mr. Thenardier. Always a pleasure to see you.” 

Thenardier’s face twisted into a furious scowl. “The Enjolras boy. I’d hoped you were dead.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Enjolras said. “Tie him up, Courfeyrac.” 

Eponine kept her gun trained on Thenardier as Courfeyrac tied him up. Enjolras glanced at her briefly before turning his attention back to Thenardier. “He’s your father, Eponine. What would you like to do?” 

Eponine considered, for a moment, just shooting him. It would be so easy; all she had to do was move her finger the slightest amount, and then he would be out of her life forever. 

Her father whimpered. “Eponine, my girl—I’m your father, we’re family—” 

Eponine lowered her gun. “You’re no family of mine,” she said, before turning to Enjolras. “Let the Law have him. I’m certain there’s a bounty out for his arrest—that money could help a lot of people.” 

Enjolras nodded once. “If that’s what you want. But there was one more thing I wanted to know, Thenardier.”

“If I tell you,” Thenardier interrupted, “then will you let me go free?” 

“That depends on what you have to tell me,” Enjolras said coldly. “Those documents that belonged to Tholomyes—you were interested in purchasing them. Who was the seller?” 

Thenardier’s face twisted with anger. “Claquesous,” he spat. “But he backed out on me, didn’t he, that no-good—” 

Enjolras nodded sharply and turned on his heel. “Combeferre, I trust you can handle it from here?” 

“Of course,” Combeferre said, as he gripped Thenardier’s arm and hauled him to his feet. 

Thenardier looked between them. “Wait—wait, you said you’d let me go—” 

“I said I would consider it,” Enjolras said, and then walked away from him without another word. 

Eponine followed him over to Jehan, who was still waiting with Javert. He was unconscious, and now that she got a decent look at him, he didn’t look too good. “Come on,” she said, getting one of her arms around Javert and heaving him up, Jehan taking Javert’s other side to help her. It took a bit of maneuvering, but they managed to get Javert comfortably supported between them. 

“Someone get us a goddamn horse!” she yelled. “I am not hauling his ass all the way back to town.” 

“On it!” Courfeyrac called. 

Eponine moved towards Courfeyrac just as another shot fired. Javert jolted, and Eponine hastily adjusted her grip on him even as she tried to figure out where the shot had come from. Something warm and wet soaked through her shirt. 

“Behind!” Enjolras shouted. Eponine twisted around as best she could while keeping hold of Javert to see that he had taken up position behind her, aiming into the woods. “Eponine, get him out of here!” 

Eponine glanced down to see blood soaking through Javert’s shirt. “Shit,” she breathed. “Jehan, come on, move—” 

Together, they dragged Javert forward as Courfeyrac led a horse over to them. The three of them managed to get Javert slung over the horse, and Eponine, as the best rider, took the saddle. 

“He needs medical attention,” Combeferre said, drawing up to them on a horse of his own. “The ranch?” 

“Shit.” Eponine rubbed a hand over her face. She hated to bring this down on Cosette’s head, but it was closest. “Yeah. I think we have to, unless we want Javert to bleed out.” 

Combeferre spurred his horse into action, turning towards the ranch, and Eponine followed. Three horses moved after her, and she quickly glanced around to see Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Montparnasse. 

“Where’s Enjolras?” she called. 

“He ran off somewhere, I lost track of him!” Courfeyrac called. 

Eponine cursed; she would go after him, but she was the one with Javert on her horse. “And you didn’t go after him?” 

“I tried!” Courfeyrac protested. “I told you, I lost track of him! He knows this place way better than I do.” 

“Jehan!” Combeferre called. “Get to town and find my medical bag. Bring it to the ranch. And see if you can find Grantaire; he might have gone to find the others. Tell them what happened.” 

Jehan split from the group with Montparnasse, leaving just the three of them and Javert to ride to the Fauchelevent Ranch. The sun was just starting to rise as they arrived at the house, the farmhands not even awake yet. Courfeyrac ran up to the house and hammered on the door as Combeferre and Eponine got Javert down from the horse—the blood had spread across most of his shirt, and he was pale and unresponsive. 

Cosette opened the door and gasped as her eyes landed on Javert. “Is that—?” 

“Javert,” Eponine confirmed. “He’s been shot. You were the closest place.” 

Cosette bit her lip and glanced behind her. “I’m—I’m not sure—” 

“Let them in, Cosette.” 

Mr. Fauchelevent appeared behind Cosette and laid a hand on her shoulder. Cosette looked up at him nervously. “But Papa—” 

“It’s fine, Cosette,” he said. “Bring him upstairs. Is there anything I can bring you?” 

“Hot water, alcohol, bandages,” Combeferre said. Cosette moved aside to let them in, and together Eponine and Combeferre dragged Javert in and hauled him up the stairs. Evidently past whatever nervousness had plagued her, Cosette rushed past them to open the door to the bedroom and strip the bed. They laid out Javert on the bed, and Combeferre immediately got to work. 

Eponine left him to it; there wasn’t much she could do to help, and she would just be in the way if she stayed in the room. She busied herself with taking care of the horses they had ridden away from the Patron-Minette camp. She was in the middle of removing the tack from one of the horses when Cosette joined her, getting to work on the next horse. 

“Whose horse is this?” Cosette asked. 

“No idea,” Eponine said. “Someone in Patron-Minette, I assume. I was going to ask if you had room in your stables for them.” 

“I believe we do,” Cosette said, as she removed the saddle and carried it over to the fence. 

Together, they made quick work of the horses. Once they had finished, Cosette called over some of the farmhands to find room for the horses and put away the tack. Eponine was left with nothing to do but stand there uselessly. With a sigh, she leaned against the fence and wracked her brain for anything else she could do to busy herself. 

A hand touched her side, and Eponine opened her eyes to find Cosette standing beside her. “Are you hurt?” 

“What?” Eponine glanced down at the blood still staining her shirt. “Oh. No, that’s Javert’s. I’m fine.” 

Cosette let out a sigh of relief. “Good. I’m glad. Would you like some clothes to borrow, though? I’m sure I can find something that would suit you.” 

Grimacing, Eponine plucked at the stain on her shirt. It was still damp, and now that Cosette had drawn her attention to it, Eponine had to admit it was irritating. “I won’t say no. I could do with a bath, too.” 

Cosette giggled. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but . . .” 

Scowling playfully, Eponine elbowed Cosette, who giggled and grabbed Eponine’s hand. Cosette pulled Eponine along to the ranch house, bringing her to the washroom. Eponine didn’t mind a cold bath and didn’t want to wait for the water to heat up, so they just filled the tub with water from the pump without heating it over the fire. Eponine scrubbed herself off quickly while Cosette went in search of clothes. 

By the time Cosette returned, Eponine had bundled herself up in a towel and settled in front of the fire to warm herself; her teeth were still chattering from the chill of the bath. 

“Oh,” Cosette said, as she draped a pile of clothes over a chair and moved it towards the fire. “You’re done already.” 

Eponine laughed and wrung out her hair with one of the towels Cosette had given her. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

“I could have heated the water, you know,” Cosette said. 

“I know. But I shouldn’t stay long. I have things to take care of,” Eponine sighed. She was dry enough by now, so she grabbed the clothes from the chair and began to get dressed.

Cosette blushed and averted her eyes. “Anything I can help with?” 

“Just tracking down some folks to deal with what’s left of Patron-Minette,” Eponine said. “Enjolras ran off, so who knows where he is. There’s no sense in waiting around for him. He’ll show his face again at some point, but in the meantime there’s things I can take care of. You’re welcome to come along, but I’m just going to be riding around and carting people back to the jail.” 

“I’d like to come,” Cosette said, her voice quiet but strong. “I want to see them face justice just as much as you do.” 

Eponine paused in the middle of buttoning her shirt. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, but it was true—Patron-Minette had tormented Cosette’s past just as much as they tormented Eponine’s. 

“Alright,” Eponine said. “If you’re sure. We could do with a wagon—there are a lot of people to transport back to town. If you can get that ready, I’ll ride into town and see if I can track down Bahorel or Feuilly to help us. If you run into Courfeyrac, tell him what we’re doing.” 

She rode back into town on a borrowed horse; Feuilly wasn’t at the stable, and a quick glance into the gunshop revealed Bahorel wasn’t there, either. Gavroche might know where they were, but she couldn’t see him anywhere, either. As a last resort, she hitched her horse outside the Musain and went to talk to Musichetta. 

The bar was empty. Eponine was surprised for a moment before she realized that it was still early in the morning and Musichetta might not even be awake yet. She went to the bedroom and knocked on the door. 

Musichetta, looking irritated to be woken, yanked the door open only a few moments later. “If you’re looking for the boys, they ran off to do something about Patron-Minette. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.” 

“That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Musichetta,” Eponine said, already turning to go. She mounted her horse and rode back to the ranch, where Courfeyrac and Cosette were waiting with a wagon. 

“Sounds like everyone else is already dealing with Patron-Minette,” Eponine said. “We’d better get a move on before they take care of everything without us.” 

“Can’t let them have all the fun,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully as he swung himself up onto the wagon. Cosette hopped up beside him and took control of the reins, guiding the horses to follow Eponine as she led the way back to Patron-Minette’s camp. 

When they got there, it was clear that Bahorel and Feuilly had been at work for some time already. Most of the members of Patron-Minette who hadn’t been tied up were tied up now, and several of them had been loaded into a wagon. Those who had been injured were being tended to by Joly, with Bossuet’s assistance. 

Bahorel dumped an unconscious man into the wagon and waved at her cheerfully. “Finally decided to join us, Eponine?” 

“We thought you might want another wagon,” Eponine said. 

“You’re right about that!” Bahorel laughed. “I was about to start stacking them on top of one another.” 

Courfeyrac hopped down from the wagon and went to help Feuilly carry off another member of Patron-Minette. Eponine took the opportunity to survey the area; Gavroche ducked out of one tent and ran into another, his pockets heavy with pilfered items. Feuilly, Bahorel, and now Courfeyrac seemed to have the members of Patron-Minette well in hand. 

“Has anyone seen Enjolras?” she asked. 

“Not at all,” Feuilly said. “Gavroche came to get us, but everyone was gone already when we arrived. What happened?” 

“Javert got shot,” Eponine said. “We had to take him to the Fauchelevent Ranch. Grantaire didn’t come with you?” 

“Just Gavroche,” Feuilly said. “We haven’t seen Grantaire at all. I didn’t even know he was with you.” 

Eponine frowned and urged her horse on, riding towards the area she had last seen Gavroche. He emerged from a tent, grinning from ear to ear, and bounded up to her eagerly. “Eponine, look!”

“Gav, have you seen Grantaire or Enjolras?” she asked, disregarding the pile of items he held up for her perusal. 

“Sure,” Gavroche said. “I was playing cards with Grantaire when you got in that fight with Patron-Minette, wasn’t I? He sent me to go get Feuilly and Bahorel and all them. Haven’t seen him since, or Enjolras.” 

Eponine sighed and continued on her way. “I’d better go look for them. Who knows what trouble they’ve gotten into without me. Keep an eye on the rest of them for me, Gav.” 

“Aye-aye, Captain!” Gavroche cheered, saluting her as she urged her horse onwards, deeper into the woods. She kept a careful eye out for tracks—Enjolras was careful to leave as few traces of his presence as possible, but Grantaire wasn’t, and even Enjolras made the occasional mistake in the middle of the night. Her eyes picked out a broken branch here, a bare footprint with the print of a boot just behind it over there, a torn thread stuck in the bark of a tree. Eventually, she stopped needing to hunt for clues—all she needed to do was follow the sounds of a whispered argument. 

“We’ve been going in circles. We’ve passed that tree a dozen times and you know it—” 

“This is the closest I’ve come to finding him in weeks! He’s here, I just need to track him down—” 

“Face it, Enjolras! If whoever you’re looking for was here, he’s long gone by now.” 

Eponine’s horse stepped into the clearing. Enjolras and Grantaire had been nearly nose-to-nose, but as she approached Enjolras whipped around, pistol aimed steadily at her. 

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” 

He let out an irritated sigh and slid the revolver back into the holster. “Eponine. Have you found anything?” 

“Just the two of you,” Eponine said. “No sign of our mysterious shooter?” 

“Signs, yes,” Enjolras said. “The shooter himself? No.” 

“Him?” Eponine asked. 

“Boot size,” Enjolras said, motioning with his hands. “The depth of the footprints also indicated someone heavier than me. Also, the majority of Patron-Minette’s members are men. I made an educated guess.”

“I hate to say it, but I have to agree with Grantaire, here,” Eponine said. “If you haven’t found him by now, he’s long gone. But don’t worry—I’ve got a feeling I know who our shooter is, and I might be able to track him down for you.” 

“Claquesous?” Enjolras said. 

Eponine nodded. “I looked around the camp. We’ve got Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer accounted for, but not Claquesous. He’s a snake, but he’s got to surface sometime if he wants to sell those documents. Montparnasse might have some thoughts on what he’s up to. And there’s Javert. He’s at the Fauchelevent Ranch right now, and he’s been investigating Patron-Minette for weeks. If we can get him to spill what he knows . . .” 

Enjolras scowled at the mention of Javert, but nodded. “You have a point. Fine, we’ll regroup at the Fauchelevent Ranch.” 

“Knowing Combeferre, he’s already got Javert talking,” Eponine laughed. She turned her horse around and nudged him into a walk, Grantaire and Enjolras walking along beside her. By the time they reached the camp, only Gavroche and Cosette remained, waiting with a few horses while Gavroche showed off his ill-gotten goods to Cosette. Enjolras went around to the horses, examining each of them in turn, while Eponine went up to Cosette. 

“The boys took the wagons back to town,” Cosette explained. “Courfeyrac said to tell Combeferre and Enjolras that he would handle everything.” 

“That’s Courfeyrac for you,” Eponine said, with a satisfied nod. “We’ll come back to the ranch with you, if you don’t mind. We’ve got some stuff we want to ask Javert.” 

Cosette bit her lip nervously. “Do you think he’ll be awake enough for that?” 

“I hope not,” Eponine snorted. “If he’s out of his mind with morphine, I figure we’ve got more of a chance of getting him to spill.” 

Cosette giggled and swatted her. “That’s terrible! I’m certain that’s against . . . some sort of ethical thing.” 

“Enjolras would know,” Eponine said. “But don’t get him started on it, please, or we’ll never get him to shut up.” 

“I think he’s distracted at the moment,” Cosette said, glancing over to where Enjolras was watching Grantaire struggle to mount his horse. 

“Put your legs into it,” Enjolras said, in a remarkably unhelpful tone. “If I can mount a horse with one arm, you can do it with two.” 

“We—can’t all—be nimble forest sprites,” Grantaire grunted as he tried to heave himself into the saddle.  

“Stop pulling pigtails and get him something to stand on already, Enjolras!” Eponine called. “You can give him all the riding lessons you want later.” 

“Eponine!” Enjolras snapped, his cheeks flushed. 

Eponine turned over her words in her mind and snorted. “Well, I didn’t mean it like that, but if that’s where your mind goes . . .” 

“We’re leaving!” Enjolras snapped, turning on his heels and heading over to the horse he had evidently picked out for himself. He turned abruptly halfway to the horse, went to an upturned metal tub, and kicked it over to Grantaire before returning to his horse. Grantaire tipped an imaginary hat at Enjolras before hopping up on the tub and using it to mount his horse, earning a roll of the eyes from Enjolras in response. 

“Watch them spend the entire ride back bickering,” Eponine muttered to Cosette. Already, Enjolras had moved his horse closer to Grantaire’s, all the better to bicker with him. Eponine shook her head and leaned down to offer an arm to Gavroche and pull him onto the horse in front of her, while Cosette made use of the tub to mount the remaining horse. 

“Let’s go,” she said to Cosette. Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras seemed to notice as they left, too engrossed in whatever they were discussing—it seemed to involve a lot of hand-waving and blushing on Enjolras’s part, whatever it was. “They’ll catch up once they notice we’re gone.” 

They passed a blissful few minutes casting glances at each other while Gavroche regaled them with tales of his exploits, but had only just passed out of earshot of Grantaire and Enjolras when hooves thundered towards them. 

Enjolras rode up beside her, scowling fiercely. “Back with us, then?” Eponine said, before he could complain about being left behind. 

“You could have waited—” 

“And listen to you flirting? No thanks,” Eponine said. “Say what you will, at least I have the courtesy to do my flirting where it won’t bother others.” 

“I wasn’t flirting!” Enjolras hissed, glancing over his shoulder to where Cosette had fallen back to ride beside Grantaire as if afraid Grantaire would manage to overhear. The two of them were deep in conversation, but Cosette met Eponine’s eyes and gave her a small smile and a little wave. Grantaire caught sight of the motion and looked forwards; spotting Eponine and Enjolras looking their way, he smirked and blew a kiss. 

Enjolras sputtered and whirled around. “He’s ridiculous!” he hissed to Eponine. “Did you see that? He mocks me at every turn.” 

“That, Enjolras, is what we humans call flirting,” Eponine drawled. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, Grantaire will give you a crash-course in it.” 

“I have more important things to worry about!” Enjolras snapped. The conversation behind them halted for a moment before Cosette picked it back up again. Enjolras hesitated for a moment before continuing more quietly. “I can’t afford to be distracted, Eponine.” 

“So you keep saying,” Eponine said. “Personally, I think that excuse is getting a little worn thin.” 

“It isn’t an excuse, it’s a legitimate concern—” 

“If you ask me, you keep bringing it up because you’re afraid of what you’ll do without your excuses to protect you,” Eponine interrupted. 

“My personal life is none of your business,” Enjolras said. 

“Don’t give me that. We’ve been up in each other’s personal business since the day we met,” Eponine said. “I’m just saying, you can let yourself cut loose once in a while. A roll in the hay never hurt anyone. Just get it out of your system, and then I can stop having to watch the two of you try to flirt.” 

Enjolras choked on his words. “I—you—don’t be crude, Eponine! And I do not want a roll in the hay!” he whispered harshly. 

“Oh, so you want more than that?” Eponine teased, raising an eyebrow at him. 

Enjolras, to her knowledge, had never cared much for company. He’d lived out in the wilderness since before she had met him, his only company occasionally Courfeyrac and Combeferre and, once she had met him, Eponine herself. This had never seemed to bother him. Eponine had always figured that he viewed relationships as either an asset to the Cause or a distraction from the Cause. Friendships usually fell into the former category, and romantic relationships into the latter—Eponine and Courfeyrac had often joked that Enjolras had left town because he’d gotten tired of the girls in town fawning over him. 

So when Enjolras blushed at her words and avoided meeting her eyes, she couldn’t deny her surprise. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, too late to be honest. 

“Wait—you mean—” 

Before she could figure out what to say, Enjolras spurred his horse on, quickly passing out of earshot. 

“That went well,” Gavroche said. 

Eponine scowled and ruffled his hair roughly. “You better not go spreading that around.” 

“I won’t, I won’t!” Gavroche said. He grinned up at her cheekily. “Unless . . . ?” 

“Unless nothing,” Eponine said. “You’ll keep that to yourself, or I’ll have Cosette give you lessons on Saturdays.” 

Gavroche’s mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t.” She stared him down, not giving an inch, and he twisted around. “Cosette! You wouldn’t let Eponine make you give me lessons on Saturdays, would you?” 

“That depends on what Eponine gives me in exchange for my Saturdays,” Cosette teased. 

“I dunno. I’d make it something good, though,” Eponine said, tossing a wink over her shoulder. 

Cosette laughed. “Well, with a promise like that, how could I not?” 

Gavroche wrinkled up his nose. “You two are gross. I’m gonna ride with Grantaire instead.” 

Eponine grabbed hold of him before he could make good on his word and jump down from the horse—they were moving at a brisk trot, but she wouldn’t put it past him. “Calm down, we’re almost there anyways.” 

Gavroche made his escape the moment they approached the ranch house. Eponine dismounted, but then hesitated, torn between helping with the horses and investigating what was going on in the house. Cosette, however, was quick to take the reins from her. “I’ll handle the horses,” she said. “You go on and see what’s happening with Javert.” 

Eponine pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, Cosette. You’re the best.” 

Grantaire had already taken a seat on the porch and was stretching out his stiff limbs; Eponine quickly passed him and headed up the stairs, where she could hear the tell-tale sounds of Enjolras in righteous fury. She expected to find him in Javert’s room, but to her surprise found him attempting to glare down Combeferre, who had taken up position in front of Javert’s door and showed no signs of moving. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. 

“Combeferre,” Enjolras said, gesturing irritably, “refuses to let me in to speak with Javert!” 

“Javert is asleep,” Combeferre said. “He needs rest in order to recover. You can come speak to him when he’s awake, and not a moment sooner.” 

Enjolras let out an irritated noise and stormed down the stairs, brushing past Eponine roughly. Eponine glanced after him, but decided it was better to let him cool down before attempting to talk to him. “How’s Javert?” 

“Out of danger, at the moment,” Combeferre said. “The bullet luckily missed anything important. He should be fine, given time and rest.” 

“When do you think he’ll wake up?” 

“I’m not sure,” Combeferre said. “I would stay, but I should get back to town. I assume I’ll have a jail full of outlaws waiting for me.” 

“I’ll keep an eye on Javert,” Eponine said. 

Combeferre nodded distractedly, his mind clearly already a million miles away. “Let me just pack my things,” he murmured, heading back into the room. 

Eponine left him to it and went back downstairs. Cosette was nowhere in sight, probably still dealing with the horses, and Grantaire was sitting on the porch. Eponine looked around, but didn’t see Enjolras anywhere. 

“Did you see Enjolras?” she asked. 

Grantaire shrugged. “He ran off that way,” he said at last, nodding towards the small road leading into the ranch. “Took his horse with him, too. I tried to ask where he was going, but he didn’t take kindly to that.” 

“Of course he didn’t,” Eponine muttered. “Wonderful.” 

She didn’t have the time or the patience to run around looking for Enjolras. Instead, she went back upstairs, passing by Combeferre on his way down, and let herself into Javert’s room. She sank down into a chair and let her head fall back. “What a fucking mess.”

Chapter Text

Enjolras had always found writing to be relaxing. The gentle scratch of pen or pencil against paper, the smooth lines flowing one into another, the words seamlessly moving from his mind to the paper. Nothing calmed his mind like getting all his thoughts out on paper, like opening a dam and letting the water out, or something—Jehan would have had a better comparison. 

Now, it was an exercise in frustration. 

With his left hand, his handwriting was practically illegible, even to himself. He had always liked the way that writing in ink felt, but now his hand inevitably smudged the letters while they were still in the middle of drying, leaving the entire thing completely impossible to read. He had to contort his arm awkwardly to avoid smudging the letters, but that made him too uncomfortable to write for any length of time and didn’t do any favors for the legibility, besides. 

And, the whole time, the arm that wasn’t there ached incessantly. 

With an irritated growl, Enjolras balled up the sheet of paper and threw it against the nearest tree, to land on the ground with all the others. 

"Excellent form." 

Enjolras barely managed to restrain from groaning. This was the last thing he needed. "Grantaire. What are you doing here?"

Grantaire leaned against a tree, slouching casually as if he didn't have a care in the world. It made Enjolras's blood boil to look at him. He forced himself to look away—he needed to keep a clear head, especially now that their murderer was running loose somewhere. 

"I think Cosette was tired of me taking up space on her porch," Grantaire said. "She threatened to make me help look after the horses, and as you've no doubt seen, horses and I do not entirely get along. They make me nervous, they have since I was a boy, and I believe that they can sense it somehow. Not that they could blame me for being nervous, as poor a rider as I am—and every time I look at them, I can't help but think about how hard they must be able to kick." 

“Very hard,” Enjolras said. “Although if a horse kicked you, I’m sure it would be because you deserved it.” 

“Probably!” Grantaire said with a laugh. “It’s not going well, then, I take it?” 

Enjolras blinked at him. “It—what?” 

Grantaire nodded towards the pile of crumpled papers. “The writing. So, what has you up in arms today?” 

Before Enjolras could stop him, Grantaire walked over to the papers and picked one of them up, unfolding it and smoothing out the wrinkles. He was smirking slightly—a familiar expression that made Enjolras steel himself in anticipation of being teased—but the smirk faded as he squinted down at the paper. 

“Is that . . . my name?” Grantaire said. His eyes wide with surprise, he turned to look at Enjolras. “You were writing about me?” 

For a moment, Enjolras could only think of wild excuses before he dismissed them all as ridiculous. Surely, it wasn’t that strange—the truth would suffice. 

“Whenever I find myself unable to stop thinking about a certain subject, I write about it instead. Removing the thoughts from my mind by putting them to paper, so to say,” Enjolras said stiffly. 

The grin immediately returned. “Why, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Are you saying you couldn’t stop thinking about me?” 

“No,” Enjolras lied. 

“And yet!” Grantaire said, holding the paper aloft. “The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks. Let’s have a look, shall we?” 

Enjolras leapt up and snatched at the paper, but Grantaire danced away from him. “‘Grantaire,’” Grantiare read, adopting a dramatic tone, “‘is a uniquely impossible individual’—why, thank you! The rest of the paragraph is horribly smudged, unfortunately, rendering it unreadable.” 

Enjolras made another grab for the paper and this time emerged from the scuffle triumphant, barely managing to snatch it out of Grantaire’s hands. He barely had time to crumple up the paper and shove it into his pocket, however, before Grantaire had picked up another paper from the ground and unfolded it. 

“Alas, marred by smudges again,” he sighed, and Enjolras had a brief moment of hope that this was one of the papers that had been made completely unintelligible. But then Grantaire continued, “A few sentences, however, seem to have escaped the destruction of their fellows!” 

Enjolras lunged for him again; Grantaire laughed and darted away. “‘Why is it,’” he read, and Enjolras had a sinking feeling that he recognized which paper this was, “‘that I cannot purge Grantaire from my thoughts? I chastise myself for it and turn my mind again to our Cause, and yet within the hour I find myself frustrated by thoughts of him. One would . . . drink? Oh—one would think that the mind should be easy to control, and yet . . .’” 

Grantaire’s eyes skipped downwards, obviously passing over a smudged section of the paper. “‘Why does my mind insist on recalling that damnable smirk of his, as if he were here taunting me at this moment? Why must I dwell on the way his eyes look when he laughs? Eponine would tell me to get my—my attraction towards him out of my system through physical means, and although my thoughts do turn to things of that nature, I find myself desiring . . . more . . .’” 

Enjolras seized the paper while Grantaire was still frozen with surprise and quickly ripped it to shreds. Grantaire blinked slowly, as if only just realizing that he no longer held the paper in his hands, and turned to look at Enjolras. 

Enjolras tightened his grip on the torn scraps of paper to keep his hands from shaking. “I’ll thank you,” he whispered, “not to read my private thoughts.” 

“I—” Grantaire shook his head as if he was emerging from a deep body of water. “I apologize. That is—I didn’t expect—” 

Enjolras waited, bracing himself for the moment Grantaire would manage to think of some teasing comment. He had given Grantaire ammunition aplenty, and he was certain to use it. 

“Did you mean it?” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras paused. “Mean what?” 

“That you desire more.” 

His first instinct was to say no. He should deny any such desires, refuse any advances, reject anything that might threaten to turn his attention from the Cause. Grantaire was enough of a distraction as it was—surely, if Enjolras gave in, it would only get worse. It would be best to deny him here and chase him off once and for all. And yet, as he looked at Grantaire, who looked back at him with an expression Enjolras had never seen before on his face, the words that he should have said caught in his throat. 

“Yes,” he said, instead. “I mean every word that I write.” 

That brought the teasing light back to Grantaire’s eyes. “Every word? Well, now I think I have to read the rest of these papers, to see what other illicit things you secretly desire—although, I must admit I would much rather hear them falling from your lips, instead—” 

“Don’t start,” Enjolras sighed. 

He was prepared for further teasing, but Grantaire simply laughed and wrapped an arm around Enjolras’s waist to pull him close. “‘My gentle Puck, come hither,’” he murmured. “And kiss me.” 

And so Enjolras did. 

This kiss was gentler than the last one he had initiated; he had thought of that kiss endlessly, considering what he had done wrong and how he would like to improve it, comparing it to the kiss Grantaire had given him in return. He had worried that he had dwelled too much on the kiss and made it out to be more than it had been, but if anything, it was better than he remembered. The warmth of Grantaire’s body against his, the closeness as they fell back against a tree together, the softness of Grantaire’s lips moving with his—they all combined to send Enjolras’s head spinning. 

Enjolras found himself breathless, and had to pull away for a moment to recover himself. 

“Well?” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras was once again placed in the thrillingly frustrating position of having no idea what Grantaire was talking about. “Well, what?” 

“Have I managed to make you forget all about that business of yours yet?” Grantaire asked, a teasing grin playing across his lips. 

The business with Claquesous couldn’t have been further from his mind, and judging by Grantiare’s smirk, he knew it. But Enjolras wouldn’t let him win so easily. 

“If you intend to turn my head from the Cause, you’ll have to work a little harder than that,” Enjolras challenged. 

“Well then,” Grantaire said, as he leaned in close to Enjolras. “I suppose I’d better get to work.” 

***

Eponine woke up to something tickling her nose. She sneezed, wrinkled up her nose, and sneezed again. 

“Sorry,” Cosette whispered, and moments later the tickling feeling left. 

Eponine opened her eyes to see Cosette adjusting her hair, moving it away from Eponine’s face, the task made rather more difficult by the fact that Eponine had fallen asleep on Cosette’s shoulder and trapped half of Cosette’s hair under her cheek. 

“Hold on, let me—” 

Eponine sat up and brushed Cosette’s hair out of the way. “Oh, don’t move,” Cosette said, too late. She frowned at Eponine. “I liked having you lean on me.” 

Eponine laughed softly and settled back against Cosette’s shoulder. “I’ll get right back to it. How’s Javert?” 

“Still asleep,” Cosette said. “You haven’t missed anything, don’t worry.”

“Sorry for falling asleep on you,” Eponine said. 

“Oh, that’s alright,” Cosette said. “You got me out of helping with dinner preparations.” 

Eponine laughed softly. “You don’t like to cook?” 

“I’m dreadful at it,” Cosette confessed. “I always get distracted. One moment I’ll be cooking, but then my mind starts to wander, and the next thing I know, everything is burnt to a crisp. I’m much better with sewing. At least if I get distracted then, the worst that will happen is I’ll prick myself or have to redo a few stitches. So Papa handles most of the cooking, and I take care of the clothes. Although, I did once accidentally sew the sleeves closed on one of Papa’s shirts. I didn’t even notice until he tried to wear it the next day!” 

Eponine couldn’t help but laugh as Cosette giggled, despite the worries that had been plaguing her all day. There was just something about Cosette that lifted her spirits. 

Their laughter had only just faded when a set of footsteps ascended the stairs. “Cosette,” Mr. Fauchelevent greeted, giving a warm smile to Cosette and then, mystifyingly, giving that same smile to Eponine. “And Eponine. Dinner is ready. Is your . . . patient still asleep?” 

“Yes, Papa,” Cosette said. “We’ll be right down.” 

Mr. Fauchelevent cast an odd look at the door before turning and going back down the stairs. Eponine stood, wincing as her stiff legs complained. She must have been asleep for longer than she had thought, if dinner was already being served. 

Cosette offered her an arm, which Eponine happily took, and together they went down the stairs. Dinner was already served when they arrived, and Gavroche was cheerfully tucking into the meal as if he hadn’t eaten a hearty helping of lunch earlier that day. Not that Mr. Fauchelevent seemed to mind, as he was in the middle of serving Gavroche another spoonful of mashed potatoes. 

“Eponine, why don’t you cook like this?” Gavroche said around a mouthful of meat. 

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Eponine said. “And that’s because our stove barely even counts as a stove.” 

Gavroche swallowed his food and declared, “I’m going to come to dinner at the Fauchelevents’ every day!” 

“ Gavroche ,” Eponine said, ready to scold him, only to stop as Mr. Fauchelevent gave Gavroche an indulgent smile. 

“You’re all welcome any time,” he said. “This big house is quiet with just the two of us. It’s good for Cosette to have company.” 

“Thanks, Mr. F!” Gavroche said, giving the man a wide, toothy grin before tearing into his dinner again. 

Dinner passed quickly, with Gavroche eagerly telling Mr. Fauchelevent all about his various exploits, and before long Eponine was helping Mr. Fauchelevent gather up all the dishes. Cosette had gone upstairs to see if Javert was awake, and Gavroche had escaped outside to avoid the chores. Eponine had no doubt that he would be getting into mischief around the ranch in no time. 

“I’ll take care of these,” Mr. Fauchelevent said. 

“I’ve got it,” Eponine said, dumping the dishes into the wash basin. Someone had helpfully left a bucket of water next to it, which she heaved up and poured into the basin. “It’s the least I can do for indulging Gavroche.” 

“It was no trouble at all,” Mr. Fauchelevent assured her. “He’s a lively boy—he insisted on fetching water for me today.” 

Eponine laughed at that. “Sounds like Gav. Don’t tell me—he asked where your axe was so he could cut your wood for you, too.” 

“He did seem a bit too enthusiastic at the prospect,” Mr. Fauchelevent chuckled. “I showed him how to do it, though, and he managed well enough—” 

A crash from upstairs cut through their conversation; Eponine dropped the plate she had been washing and ran from the kitchen, pulling out her revolver on the way. She bounded up the stairs and burst into the room Javert had been placed in, gun at the ready.

“It’s alright!” Cosette exclaimed. “I’m fine—I was just startled.” 

Eponine took in the scene in front of her. Javert and Cosette were the only two in the room. Cosette had one hand pressed to her chest and the other braced against the nightstand, and a glass of water had fallen to the ground, but she was unharmed. 

Javert’s face was as blank as it ever was, but he gave Cosette a slight nod. “My apologies for startling you, Miss Fauchelevent. I was not aware of my surroundings—I thought myself still—” 

The door burst open again, this time to admit Mr. Fauchelevent, fiercely bearing an axe; Eponine barely managed to get out of the way of his charge in time to avoid being trampled. “Cosette!” he shouted, only to freeze as he locked eyes with Javert. 

Javert’s eyes widened. Mr. Fauchelevent paled. 

Cosette leapt between them and pushed Mr. Fauchelevent towards the door before Eponine could ask what was going on. “I’m fine, Papa! I was just startled. Weren’t you taking care of the dishes?” 

Mr. Fauchelevent let Cosette push him back towards the door, his face still blank with shock, only to stop abruptly as the bed creaked. 

Javert stood, his face creased with pain. “Jean Valjean,” he gasped. “I’ve found you at last.” 

No one moved. 

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Fauchelevent said, at last. “You have the wrong man.” 

He fled, the door slamming shut behind him. Javert stepped towards the door, grimacing at every movement, only for Cosette to block his way. 

“Mr. Javert,” she said firmly. “You aren’t well. You should remain in bed.” 

Javert’s face twisted with anger and pain. “That man,” he said, jabbing a finger towards the door. “Is a notorious criminal! I have hunted him from city to city for years, and I will not let him escape now! I will bring him in, and have him face the law once and for all!” 

“You won’t be bringing in anyone in the state you’re in,” Cosette said. 

“He is a criminal!” Javert repeated, jabbing a finger towards her. 

“He’s my Papa,” Cosette said. “Now, Mr. Javert, I suggest you get back in bed, while I send someone for the doctor so he can have a look at you.” 

“I see,” Javert said. “Aiding and abetting a criminal, hm? And I don’t doubt you know those boys—” 

Eponine pressed the hammer on her revolver, and Javert turned to face her. “Shut the hell up, Javert, before I make you shut up,” she said. 

Javert, wisely, said nothing. 

“Get back in the bed,” Eponine said. 

His expression furious, Javert did. 

“Now you’re going to stay there, and Combeferre is going to look after you, and as soon as he gives you a clean bill of health, you and I are going to have a chat,” Eponine said. “And don’t even think of trying to leave—I’ll be right outside the whole time. Are we clear?” 

“Crystal,” Javert spat. 

Eponine nodded and crossed the room, holding the door open so Cosette could pass in front of her. 

“Does this door have a key?” she asked as she shut it, examining the keyhole for a moment. 

“N-no, Mr. Combeferre—he said he would find it for us, but he hasn’t been able to yet.” 

Cosette’s voice shook. Eponine turned to face her, but Cosette’s back was turned to her. Cautiously, Eponine stepped forward. “Cosette? Are you alright?” 

The moment Eponine touched Cosette’s arm, Cosette whirled around and threw her arms around Eponine. Unsure what else to do, Eponine wrapped her arms around Cosette. She could feel Cosette shaking slightly, but couldn’t think of what to say to make it better—give her something to shoot, and she could do it, but this was something different entirely. 

After a long moment, Cosette pulled away and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I just—”

Cosette stopped in the middle of her sentence, her voice trailing away into nothing. 

“It’s okay,” Eponine said, searching for some way to give Cosette a way out of the conversation if she wanted it. “Javert’s ugly mug would frighten anyone.” 

Cosette laughed, although she sounded as if she was about to cry. “Thank you, Eponine. But I owe you an explanation.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Eponine said firmly. “You tell me if you want to. And if you don’t, well, that’s fine. I’ve got skeletons in my closet I don’t want people digging up, and I’m sure it’s the same for you.” 

Cosette shook her head and pressed Eponine’s hands between hers. “Maybe. I—I wouldn’t want anyone else to find out about this. But you aren’t anyone, Eponine. I’d like to tell you, if you’ll listen.” 

“If you want,” Eponine said. 

Cosette glanced at the door and drew Eponine over to the opposite side of the hallway. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet Eponine had to lean in close and strain her ears to hear her. “What Javert said—he wasn’t mistaken. Papa’s name isn’t really Ultime Fauchelevent, it’s Jean Valjean. He was arrested once, for breaking a window and stealing some bread, and then a few times more for trying to escape and breaking his parole. He’s—he’s a good person, Eponine, really.” 

“I know. I’ve met him,” Eponine said. 

Cosette’s smile was so thankful that it just about broke Eponine’s heart. “Thank you. I thought you would understand, but . . . even I didn’t really understand at first. Papa told me when I was older, after I left school, and for a long time I was furious at him for hiding it from me. I . . . I was frightened that maybe he was a bad person, after all. It took me a long time to understand that just because he’d been in trouble with the law, didn’t mean he was a bad person. Papa never held it against me, but I know that it hurt him.” 

“I know bad people,” Eponine murmured. “Hell, my parents are about as bad as it gets. And I wouldn’t believe for a moment that Mr. Fauchelevent was one of them.” 

Cosette beamed and wrapped her arms around Eponine again, pressing kisses to both of Eponine’s cheeks. “I should have known you would understand. I don’t know why I was so worried! I feel silly about it now,” she said with a laugh. 

Eponine couldn’t help but laugh as well. “At least now I know why you were so fine with me trying to rob you!” 

“I spent the rest of that train ride making up stories about why you might have done it,” Cosette confessed. “I think the closest I got to the truth was a comparison to Robin Hood!” 

“Who’s Robin Hood, me or Enjolras?” Eponine laughed. “And if he’s Robin Hood, what does that make me, his . . . I don’t actually know anything about Robin Hood, actually.” 

“One of the Merry Men!” Cosette said, her eyes sparkling. “Like Little John.” 

“Little John? I think I’d rather be Robin Hood,” Eponine said. 

“I suppose that would make me Maid Marian, then,” Cosette murmured as she leaned in closer to Eponine. 

Eponine closed the remaining gap between them. “I’m going to assume that’s Robin Hood’s lover,” she said, and kissed Cosette. 

They remained pressed against each other even after their kiss ended. “I should go check on Papa and go find Combeferre,” Cosette murmured at last, slowly pulling away.

Eponine reluctantly let her hands drop from Cosette’s waist. “Send Gav to get Combeferre. Once you’ve talked to your father you can come back here and keep me company.” 

Cosette smiled as she left, but she looked preoccupied. Eponine couldn’t blame her; even she didn’t know what they were going to do about Javert. She certainly wasn’t about to let him arrest Cosette’s father. Enjolras would probably have some idea about what to do, if Eponine explained the situation to him—she would have to ask Cosette if that was alright. 

Downstairs, Cosette opened the front door and called out to Gavroche, asking him to go fetch Combeferre. She closed the door and walked off. Eponine tried her best to stop listening, knowing that she probably shouldn’t eavesdrop on the conversation between Cosette and her father. 

But instead of the quiet murmurs of a conversation, she heard footsteps thundering towards her. Cosette raced up the stairs, the torn expression on her face immediately putting Eponine on guard. “Eponine,” Cosette gasped, thrusting a paper out in front of her. 

Eponine took the paper. “My darling Cosette,” she murmured, reading over the paper. “You are my dearest treasure, the one who has given light to my life, which once held so much darkness, and raising you has been my greatest joy in life . . . I cannot bear to bring down my troubles upon your back, and I cannot bring myself to destroy the happiness that you have found . . . I know that you will be fine now that you have friends to stand by your side . . . 

Eponine read the letter again to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. “Your father left ?” 

“I have to go find him,” Cosette said. “I—I don’t want him to leave! I don’t know what we’re going to do about Javert, but there has to be some other solution.” 

“I’d go with you, but . . .” Eponine glanced toward the door, then sighed. “Once Combeferre arrives, I’ll go with you. But—here. You should take something with you, in case you run into someone from Patron-Minette. We did our best, but some of them ran off, and I don’t doubt they’re feeling pretty desperate.” 

She moved to unstrap the holster from her hip, but Cosette grabbed Eponine’s hands to stop her. “Don’t, you might need it for yourself. It came in handy earlier, with Javert. I’ll be fine with just the shotgun.” 

“The . . . shotgun,” Eponine echoed. 

Cosette disappeared into a room Eponine had never entered, likely Mr. Fauchelevent’s bedroom, and emerged with a shotgun slung over her shoulder. She kissed Eponine as she passed and smiled, determination clear in her expression. “I’ll be back soon, Eponine. With my father.” 

Eponine watched her go. As the front door closed, she sank down into a crouch, arms resting on her knees, and stared at the door opposite her. 

“Wow,” she said. “ Damn .” 

***

It was a few hours before Combeferre arrived at the ranch. “No Gavroche?” Eponine said as she let him into the house. 

“I lost him to the lure of the gunshop,” Combeferre said. “My apologies for being late; I was in the middle of tending to a patient. I came as soon as I could.” 

He glanced around as she led him up the stairs. “Did the Fauchelevents go out?” 

Eponine winced. “In a manner of speaking. Turns out Mr. Fauchelevent is that other outlaw Javert was looking for. He ran off, and Cosette went out looking for him. I’m going to join her, now that you’re here. If you don’t mind watching Javert, that is.” 

Combeferre nodded thoughtfully; she didn’t doubt that he was already considering all the implications of this discovery and all the various ways they could deal with it, even if he didn’t share his thoughts with her just yet. “Well, that’s that mystery solved. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on our resident Pinkerton. Not that he’s in any state to be going anywhere—he was lucky, but that wound should still have him laid up in bed for a while.” 

Eponine opened the door to let him into the bedroom. 

The bed was empty. 

“Hm,” Eponine said, glancing around the room. The sheets and blankets had been tied together, fastened to the bedpost, and hung out the window. Eponine looked out the window and then back at Combeferre. “A while, huh?” 

Combeferre joined her at the window. “Well, then,” he said. “It seems Javert is cut from the same cloth as Enjolras: determined against all odds and all common sense.” 

“You can save your admiration for when we find him,” Eponine said, as she grabbed hold of the makeshift rope. 

“I’ll stay behind,” Combeferre said. “Someone should, in case anyone returns here—and in case anyone is injured.” 

“Smart,” Eponine said. She didn’t want to have to run around the forest looking for Combeferre if someone was injured. She gave him a playful salute as she climbed out of the window. “I’ll be back soon.” 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Combeferre said dryly. 

Eponine dropped to the ground and from there followed the tracks leading away from the house. They were easy to follow until she entered the forest, at which point she had to keep a careful eye out for broken bits of undergrowth. She wasn’t the best at tracking, but Javert hadn’t been trying to hide his tracks at all, so she was never stumped for long before she managed to find another hint of where he had gone—at least until she reached a point where the tracks split. 

Frowning, Eponine considered the two paths. Both seemed equally worn, and more than one person had clearly gone in each direction. She couldn’t be sure which path Javert  had taken, even when she knelt down to better observe the ground. She did, however, find a strand of long hair, clearly belonging to Cosette, along one of the two paths. 

“This way it is, then,” Eponine sighed, as she followed the tracks further into the forest. She kept quiet, listening carefully for any hint of her quarry. The forest was quiet, but her heart pounded loudly in her chest. 

A soft murmur drew her attention, and she froze—a man’s voice. Slowly, she crept forwards, careful not to make any noise. Her hand rested against her gun, ready to whip it out at a moment’s notice. At last, Eponine caught sight of a man. She quickly ducked behind a tree to stay out of view, and then leaned forwards to see who it was. 

She saw Mr. Fauchelevent first and then, in his arms, Cosette. A quick glance around revealed no one else. Not sure if she was relieved or not, Eponine stepped out from behind the tree. Cosette and Mr. Fauchelevent both whipped around, Cosette reaching for the shotgun still slung over her shoulder. 

Eponine held up both her hands. “It’s just me.” 

“Eponine,” Cosette said, smiling despite her red and watery eyes. “I found Papa—I told him you and your friends might be able to help us.” 

“We’ll do everything we can,” Eponine promised. “You two should head back to the house. Combeferre is waiting there. I’m going to keep looking for Javert.” 

“Javert? You mean—he isn’t at the house?” 

Eponine shook her head. “He’s somewhere out here. I thought he might’ve followed you, but I guess not. I figure we should avoid you running into him for now if we can, Mr. Fauchelevent. I want to avoid a big confrontation, and I get the feeling that that’s exactly what we’ll get if he runs into you.” 

Cosette and her father exchanged a glance. “I’ll come with you, Eponine,” Cosette said. 

Mr. Fauchelevent frowned. “Cosette . . .” 

“You should go talk to Mr. Combeferre about what he thinks about our situation,” Cosette said, her eyes alight with determination. “I’ll be fine, Papa. I can handle myself—and you know Eponine wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” 

Mr. Fauchelevent didn’t look happy about it, but all he did was press a kiss to her head and say a few quiet words before turning and heading back in the direction of the ranch. 

Cosette watched him go until he had vanished into the trees, and then turned to look at Eponine. “Where to, Eponine?” 

Eponine considered; they could try head directly for where she thought Javert might go, but her guess might be completely off. On other hand, they could backtrack until they found the place where the tracks split, and take the other path. If she was lucky, heading directly for Javert would be faster, but on the other hand it could leave her wandering aimlessly until she stumbled upon him.

“Dammit,” she sighed, as she turned back the way she had come. “This way.” 

She just hoped they found him in time.

***

“Are you certain you aren’t lost? I’m positive you’ve been leading us in circles.” 

“I’m surprised you noticed,” Enjolras said. “Given that you’ve been rambling about literature and philosophy all this time.” 

Grantaire’s hand tugged against his as the other man paused. “Wait—so you have been leading us in circles?” 

“Not in circles precisely, no,” Enjolras said, although he had been taking a rather more circuitous route than strictly necessary, taking the opportunity to pass through a few of his hiding places on the way back to the ranch. If it also provided the opportunity to spend a bit more time with Grantaire without the inevitable teasing from Eponine, well, that was merely an additional benefit. 

Grantaire laughed. “You cheeky sprite—I knew we hadn’t gone that far from the ranch! Are you telling me we’ve been walking around for nothing?” 

“Not for nothing,” Enjolras said. “I’ve surveyed several of my weapons stashes and food stashes. I hadn’t had the opportunity to ensure that they were undisturbed, but none of them seem to have been.” 

“Do you ever stop working?” Grantaire sighed. “Here I am, a pathetic mortal at your whims, lost in the forest, and you lead me around by the hand and yet do nothing else . . .” 

Enjolras snorted at that. “I thought you said you were tired?” 

“And I am! Except now I am tired of walking,” Grantaire said. This time, the tug to Enjolras’s hand was harder, and he allowed himself to be pulled closer to Grantaire. Grantaire grinned at him. “Surely, a break is in order?” 

“I thought you wanted to return to the ranch,” Enjolras said, arching an eyebrow at him. “To escape the . . . what was it? The dirt, the roots, and the bugs?” 

“I could also do with a bath,” Grantaire said, waggling his eyebrows at Enjolras. 

Enjolras released Grantaire’s hand to pat his shoulder firmly. “Then, you’ll understand why we must continue walking. We’re almost there—and I say that honestly, this time.” 

He glanced around, taking a moment to orient himself, before heading in the direction of the ranch. He’d meant to go to one last weapon stash, but that could wait for another day. “This way,” he called over his shoulder. “If you can keep up, that is.” 

“Well,” Grantaire huffed. “I certainly wouldn’t say no to a little fairy magic to speed me across the land, but given that it seems to be in short supply these days, I suppose I’ll have to—gah!” 

Enjolras whirled around, his hand flying to his revolver and aiming it straight ahead of him. His eyes met Grantaire’s first—wide, startled, verging on frightened—and then those of the man who currently had Grantaire firmly gripped in one arm, the other pointing a gun at Grantaire’s head. 

“Claquesous,” Enjolras spat. 

“Drop it,” Claquesous ordered. “Or your friend here gets it.” 

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, then back at Claquesous, and nodded. “Very well,” he said, and then shifted his hand slightly. 

He fired. 

Claquesous’s hand snapped backwards, the gun flying out of his hand. Swearing up a storm, Claquesous shoved Grantaire away and clutched at his hand. “You—you shot my hand!” 

Enjolras kept his revolver trained on Claquesous. “And if you move so much as an inch, I’ll do much worse.” 

“Bastard,” Claquesous snarled. 

“Quiet, or I’ll reconsider my stance on aiming at your head next time,” Enjolras said. “Now, you’re coming with me to the town jail. Keep your hands where I can see them—” 

A branch snapped; on reflex, Enjolras turned to look. Javert stumbled out from behind a tree, one hand pressed to his side, his face creased with pain, his eyes bright with fever. His eyes skimmed the group and stopped on Enjolras and Grantaire.

“You,” he said, stumbling forwards. “The boys from the train!” 

Javert surged forwards. Enjolras cursed and swung his gun around, knowing as he did that Claquesous had surely run away the moment Enjolras took his eyes off him. Enjolras braced himself as Javert raced towards him—

Grantaire stepped in front of Enjolras, stopping Javert in his tracks. Frozen, Enjolras watched as the two grappled. 

“Go, Enjolras!” Grantaire shouted over his shoulder. 

Claquesous . 

Enjolras tore out of the clearing, racing after Claquesous. He hadn’t gotten far—Enjolras could still hear him somewhere ahead, thundering through the forest—

A crack split the air, but the bullet didn’t land anywhere near Enjolras. Blindly firing—Claquesous must have been panicked. Enjolras surged forwards, putting on an extra burst of speed. 

The second and third shots missed, but the fourth drew a hot line of pain across Enjolras’s arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain and kept running. The fifth shot hit a tree, the sound closer than any of the others. Enjolras could see Claquesous now, twisting around for another shot. This one whizzed past Enjolras’s ear, but he didn’t stop.

Claquesous did, windmilling his arms wildly. He looked around wildly, and then turned to face Enjolras as he closed the remaining gap between them. 

He stopped a few feet away from Claquesous, once it became apparent why Claquesous had stopped. A gorge ran through this part of the forest, the river raging beneath it. The fall wouldn’t have killed Claquesous, but the treacherous rocks below would have. 

Enjolras aimed the revolver at him, pointing the gun at his head, as Claquesous did the same. “End of the line,” Enjolras said. “I’ll give you one last chance. Drop your gun and raise your hands where I can see them.” 

Claquesous smirked. “That’s your problem. You’re still soft enough to offer second chances. You’ve been lucky until now,  but that ends here.” 

Claquesous pulled the trigger. 

Nothing happened. 

Frowning, Claquesous pressed the trigger again. Horror crossed over his face as, still, nothing happened. 

“You already fired your six shots, Claquesous,” Enjolras said. “Now it’s my turn. But first—a question for you.” 

Claquesous licked his lips. “And if I tell you, you’ll let me go?” 

Enjolras tilted his head. “The papers you stole from Tholomyes—who were you going to sell them to you, and where did you hide them?” 

“In that bar,” Claquesous said. “The Corinth. The last room upstairs, on the left. Under the floorboards under the dresser.” 

Smart—Enjolras never stepped foot in the Corinth. He didn’t drink, and the only thing the Corinth had going for it was the wine, as the food was liable to poison anyone who ate it. “And the buyer?” 

“Tholomyes,” Claquesous said. 

“You killed Tholomyes,” Enjolras said. 

Claquesous shook his head. “No—he faked it. Something about taking all the company money and running for it, I dunno, I don’t follow the particulars. It was just another bodyguard at that desk, yeah? Just took one that looked enough like Tholomyes and then beat up his face enough to make him unrecognizable. Worked like a charm—he offered me a lot for those papers, I was going to meet him in the city. He’s staying at that place Montparnasse likes, you know the one.” 

Enjolras didn’t, but Eponine would, so he nodded. 

Claquesous nodded as well, licking his lips again. His eyes darted about. “So, I get to leave now, yeah? You and me, we’re square.” 

“I never said that,” Enjolras said, and thumbed the hammer of his revolver. “I recommend that you say your prayers while you have a chance.” 

Claquesous’s eyes went wide. He fumbled at his pockets, hunting for another bullet, before quickly realizing it was futile. He turned, stepping towards the gorge, clearly more eager to take his chances with the rocks than with Enjolras’s bullet. 

Enjolras fired. Blood burst from Claquesous’s head, and Claquesous’s body tumbled over the edge. Enjolras stepped closer, looking down into the river. Claquesous’s body was no longer visible, but the rocks below were splattered with blood, and streams of red ran through the river. If Enjolras’s shot hadn’t killed him, the fall surely had. 

Enjolras stood there and watched until the river ran clear. 

***

Eponine and Cosette came across Grantaire first. He was sitting next to Javert, who was unconscious, his hands tied behind his back by Grantaire’s cravat. As they approached, Grantaire greeted them with a jaunty salute. “Good day, ladies! Out for a stroll?” 

“Out looking for this one,” Eponine said, prodding Javert with her boot. 

Cosette peered at him. “Is he alright?” 

“Oh, he’s fine,” Grantaire said. “Passed out of his own accord! I would have taken him back with me to the ranch, but I’m afraid I don’t know the way. I didn’t want to leave Javert out here to be eaten by mountain lions, so I was waiting for Enjolras to return.” 

Personally, Eponine thought that leaving Javert to be eaten by mountain lions would have solved at least half of their problems. “Where is Enjolras?” she asked. 

The smirk fell away from Grantaire’s face. “He chased after that other man—Claquesous, I believe Enjolras called him.” 

“Shit,” Eponine swore. “I have to get to him. Cosette—can you show Grantaire the way back to the ranch?” 

Cosette nodded. Grantaire got Javert off the ground with Cosette’s help, and the two of them dragged him back the way Cosette and Eponine had come. Eponine took a steadying breath, took out her revolver, and chased after Enjolras. 

He was alone when she finally found him, staring down into a gorge, his revolver hanging from his hand. Eponine stepped up beside him and looked down, but saw nothing. 

After a few moments, she nudged Enjolras with her elbow. “Hey there, cowboy.” 

“Ah. Eponine,” he said, as if only just noticing her presence. He looked at her, and then back down at the river. “Claquesous won’t be a problem anymore.” 

“Good.” She threw an arm around his shoulders and steered him towards the ranch, pulling him away from the river. Enjolras stumbled at first, but soon recovered himself, although he didn’t shake off her arm. 

Enjolras was quiet for most of the walk back, clearly deep in thought. Eponine left him to it, waiting for him to speak first. He only spoke up when they had left the forest and were approaching the ranch house. 

“Eponine,” he murmured. “Which do you think is kinder—the noose, or a bullet to the head?” 

Eponine made a show of considering. “Between you and me, I think I’d rather take the bullet,” she said. “Least then I’d probably avoid a public execution, you know? I mean, damn, I think I’ve made enough of a spectacle of myself while alive, I don’t need someone making one of me when I’m dead.” 

“Ah. The bullet for me, too,” Enjolras said. 

“I’ll keep that in mind for when I bring you in, you wicked outlaw, you,” Eponine said, ruffling his hair. Enjolras scowled at her and shoved her away, but the fire was back in his eyes.

Cosette and Grantaire were waiting on the porch, Cosette nervously pacing back and forth while Grantaire plucked at the loose threads on his sleeves. As soon as she spotted Eponine, Cosette hurled herself off the porch and threw herself into Eponine’s arms. Eponine barely managed to catch her, and the momentum sent them spinning around. 

As they slowed to a stop, Cosette rested her face on Eponine’s shoulder. Behind Cosette, Eponine could see Grantaire stand, but then hesitate on the porch. Enjolras stood at the bottom of the steps for a moment, looking up at him, and then stepped forward to close the gap between them. His hand came up to stroke Grantaire’s cheek, Grantaire’s hands coming to rest on his waist, and Eponine closed her eyes and buried her face in Cosette’s hair to give them some privacy. Cosette held her tight. 

“It’s alright,” Cosette murmured. “It’s over.”

Chapter Text

“So, what are we going to do about Javert?” 

Eponine glanced around the room; no one had wanted to ask the question, so she had, and now it seemed like nobody wanted to answer. Enjolras was still moodily staring out the window, Grantaire casting glances at him from the corner. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been whispering to each other on the couch, while Cosette and Mr. Fauchelevent talked to each other as well. 

“It’s been a few days,” she added. “He’s bound to wake up soon.” 

“Really, it isn’t necessary to do anything,” Mr. Fauchelevent said. “I’ll leave—Javert will follow, and the rest of you will be left in peace.” 

“Papa,” Cosette said, frowning at him. Mr. Fauchelevent sighed and patted her hand. 

“I believe we have found a solution for our Javert problem,” Combeferre said. “It is simple: we will pass off his encounter with Jean Valjean and his subsequent run through the forest as a fever-dream.” 

“That . . .” Eponine frowned, considering. “That could work. But wouldn’t he just figure it out the moment he saw him again?” 

“And that is why Courfeyrac is here,” Combeferre said simply. 

“I,” Courfeyrac declared, “am a master of disguise!” 

Enjolras snorted and turned from the window. “You’re a dandy,” he corrected. 

Courfeyrac waved a hand. “What I am or am not is irrelevant, other than that I am the solution to your problems! Mr. Fauchelevent, if you would allow me, I’ll ensure Javert would never mistake you for an outlaw!” 

Mr. Fauchelevent looked wary, not that Eponine could blame him given Courfeyrac’s exuberance, until Cosette jumped up and wrapped her arms around Courfeyrac. 

“Oh, Courfeyrac, you’re wonderful!” she declared. She released him to smile at her father, who now just looked accepting of whatever fate Courfeyrac would deal him. 

“Right this way,” Courfeyrac said, cheerfully escorting Mr. Fauchelevent up the stairs. 

A door upstairs opened and shut, cutting off Courfeyrac’s cheerful chatter.

“This is an asinine plan,” Enjolras said. “Javert will see through it in an instant.” 

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t underestimate the power of a fever. You mistook Eponine for your mother when you had a fever.” 

Eponine snorted at the reminder. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Enjolras retreated to the corner to sulk beside Grantaire. Before too long, the two of them were engaged in a debate that kept increasing in volume until Combeferre hushed them, and then would inevitably increase in volume again after a few moments. Cosette paced around the room; Eponine, absorbing some of her tension, couldn’t help but strum her fingers against her knee. 

Nearly an hour had passed by the time Courfeyrac stepped into the sitting room, opening the door wide with a flourish. “May I introduce . . . Mr. Ultime Fauchelevent!” 

Eponine almost didn’t recognize the man who stepped into the room; his hair had been neatly cut and smoothed back and his beard shaved off completely. Courfeyrac had somehow procured a suit that fit Mr. Fauchelevent, and he didn’t even look uncomfortable in it. Mr. Fauchelevent had always looked like a kindly, plain old man to Eponine, but the clothes turned him into a kindly, distinguished old man. 

“Oh, Papa!” Cosette said, clasping her hands together. “You look lovely.” 

He smiled at her and shook myself. “I hardly recognize myself.” 

Combeferre nodded. “Courfeyrac did an excellent job. This will likely be enough to throw Javert off the scent—along with one other thing.” 

Courfeyrac, grinning from ear to ear, crossed the room and seized Enjolras’s arm. “And now it’s your turn, Enjolras! Don’t even think of running.” 

“Don’t you dare—Courfeyrac, I will shoot you—” 

Courfeyrac ignored all of Enjolras’s protests as he dragged him from the room. Eponine laughed and looked at Combeferre. “Was this your idea?” 

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Combeferre said. “Although, the words ‘walking disease incubator’ may have been thrown around in one of my recent conversations with our friend Joly.” 

Enjolras was clearly a much less cooperative participant than Mr. Fauchelevent had been; even an hour after Courfeyrac had dragged him away, they still hadn’t returned. The rest of them had nothing to do but wait. Cosette was lost in thought, and Combeferre and Mr. Fauchelevent were quietly talking to each other. Eponine didn’t want to disturb any of them, so that left her with one alternative. 

“Grantaire,” she called. “What were you and Enjolras doing the other day? You were gone for hours.” 

She’d been rather irritated that Enjolras had run off on some business with Grantaire instead of her—since Combeferre had said that it was business, and not just the two of them fooling around—but she’d been back at home with Azelma and Grantaire at the time, and Enjolras had been long gone by the time she had returned. The irritation had faded, though, leaving curiosity behind. 

“Oh, that.” Grantaire waggled his eyebrows at her. “Well, if you really want to know . . .” 

Eponine snorted. “Forget I asked, jeez.” 

Grantaire shrugged and closed the book he had been leafing through. “Not much. He wanted to borrow my photography equipment. He dragged me all around the forest first, of course! I wonder if he gets some sort of strange pleasure out of it,” Grantaire mused. 

“I don’t want to hear about your weird foreplay,” Eponine said.

“Of course,” Grantaire said, winking at her. “I’ll be sure to only discuss normal foreplay from now on.” 

“On that note,” Combeferre said, with a delicate cough, “I think I’ll go check on our patient.” 

Cosette rested her head against Eponine’s shoulder, and Eponine turned her attention to the other girl. “I hope it all works out,” Cosette murmured. “Courfeyrac’s plan . . . it seems too easy to work.” 

“Courfeyrac will make it work. He’s good with people—and so is Enjolras, when he wants to be,” Eponine said. 

Cosette giggled, likely recalling the single day that Enjolras had spent being polite and courteous while he was recovering at the ranch, before he had succumbed to the frustration at being cooped up in bed. “He is lovely when he wants to be,” she said. 

“‘Lovely,’” Eponine laughed. “That’s a new one. Should I be worried?” 

“Oh, Eponine, you’re more than lovely,” Cosette said. 

Eponine’s cheeks warmed. 

“Besides,” Cosette added. “Enjolras is a man, and that rather spoils it for me. Although he certainly is pretty!” 

“Careful, you might get Grantaire started, and then we’ll have no end of Enjolras,” Eponine teased. 

Cosette giggled. “We can’t have that.” 

Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Eponine turned towards the door, grinning, expecting to see a furious Enjolras burst into the room in some horrible outfit Courfeyrac had forced him into. 

“Wait—” Combeferre called. 

The door opened. Javert leaned against the doorframe, breathing heavily, and looked around the room. He dismissed all of them until his eyes landed on Mr. Fauchelevent. 

“You,” he breathed. 

Mr. Fauchelevent looked startled, but not as fearful as Eponine would have thought. “Me,” he said, simply.

Neither of them moved. Combeferre appeared in the doorway, looking harried and slightly out of breath. “Mr. Javert,” he said. “You’ve only just recovered—you wouldn’t want to open your injuries as you did last time. I must insist that you return to bed.” 

Javert ignored him, staring fixedly at Fauchelevent. Eponine, uncertain what either of them would do, glanced between them and wondered if she should reach for her gun just in case. 

Before she could, however, Mr. Fauchelevent stood and walked towards Javert, his hand outstretched. “Welcome,” he said. “You’ve had us all quite worried. I am Ultime Fauchelevent—you’ve met my daughter, Cosette, of course.” 

“Valjean,” Javert breathed. 

Eponine’s heart stopped, but Mr. Fauchelevent just smiled kindly. “Ah, yes, the children explained everything to me. The work you do is quite remarkable, and I wish you all the best in catching these criminals as soon as you are recovered. But please, you must sit, I insist.” 

Javert’s mouth opened and closed silently as Mr. Fauchelevent deftly ushered him into the rocking chair that he had just vacated. “Cosette, my dear, I think some tea would do us all good,” he said. 

“Of course, Papa,” Cosette said, getting up from the couch and retreating to the kitchen, although Eponine noted that she left the door open so that she could hear what was going on. 

Mr. Fauchelevent took a seat in one of the other chairs in the room. “I take it your fever has receded,” he said to Javert. Javert said nothing, but Mr. Fauchelevent continued. “That’s very good—you were quite incoherent for some days. Although I’m certain Mr. Combeferre would have more to say on that subject than I.” 

Combeferre easily broke into the conversation. “I must ask how much you recall, Mr. Javert.” 

Javert’s brow creased. “I remember the Patron-Minette camp—and then nothing until I awoke. Jean Valjean was there, and I chased him . . . and those boys from the train were there as well.” 

Combeferre frowned thoughtfully. “It seems to me your cases have been weighing on you heavily, Mr. Javert. You’ve been in bed for a few days, now—there haven’t been any outlaws here at all, and even if there were, you have been in no shape to chase them. Tell me, how are your stress levels? Would you say they are higher than usual recently?” 

“My—stress levels?” Javert said, sounding rather incredulous. 

“Are you under some pressure from your superiors to close the case, perhaps?” Combeferre said, sympathetically. Javert nodded automatically, still looking rather stunned by the turn of the conversation. “I understand completely, of course, but such stress is far from healthy for both the mind and the body. Why, I recently read an article . . .” 

With that, Combeferre was off and running. Eponine tuned out quickly, knowing how this would soon descend into medical babble, but the others seemed to be trying to pay attention and were turning more glassy-eyed with every word. 

Cosette returned with tea, giving Eponine a private smile as she poured a cup of tea for everyone. Javert took a sip automatically and winced at the heat. It seemed to have broken him out of his stupor, however, for he quickly set it down with a loud clink and stood from the chair.

“See here,” he said, pointing a finger harshly at Fauchelevent. “That man is Jean Valjean, a notorious outlaw, and I will have him brought—” 

But they never did find out where Javert would have him brought, because a knock on the front door resounded through the room. Frowning, Cosette stood. “Who could that be?” she murmured, heading to the door. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed moments later. She didn’t sound upset, at least, so Eponine remained in her seat. Cosette returned quickly, her eyes sparkling with mirth, and held open the door. “You have a guest, Mr. Javert.” 

Enjolras stepped into view, and Eponine’s eyes went wide. 

Enjolras had always been beautiful, in the way that a wild horse left to run free was beautiful. Eponine wouldn’t say that he was more beautiful now, but he was beautiful in a different way. His hair had been trimmed and neatly pulled back into a ponytail, and he was completely free of any trace of dirt. His clothing wasn’t as ostentatious as Courfeyrac’s dandyish garb, but he was wearing a fashionable suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of those fancy cities back East. His shoes, polished to a smooth black, clicked against the floor. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Eponine saw Grantaire sink down into his chair, wide-eyed, and take a gulp from his flask. 

“Mr. Javert,” Enjolras said, smoothly holding out his left hand. Javert held out his right automatically, paused, and switched to his left as well. Enjolras shook it firmly. “A pleasure to meet you at last. My associate, Courfeyrac, has filled me in on the details of your stay in town.” 

Javert cleared his throat. “And . . . you are?” 

Enjolras smiled politely. “My apologies. I am Enjolras, the sheriff of this town.”  

“The—sheriff?” Javert looked towards Combeferre. 

“A common misconception,” Enjolras said. “Combeferre is one of my deputies. He simply took up my duties while I was away on business. He performs the duties of the office admirably, but I was elected sheriff by the people, and thus I must fulfil their wishes.” 

“Business?” Javert said, suspiciously. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “Tholomyes’s murderer has been dealt with.” 

“You—what?” 

With that, Enjolras reached into his pocket and unfolded a set of papers, handing them to Javert. Javert flipped through them, his expression growing more and more shocked as he read them. “But—these are—” 

“Tholomyes’s papers,” Enjolras said, with a nod. “I was informed of their location by the murderer before he died.” 

“Died,” Javert repeated. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “Died.” 

Javert rifled through the papers once more. “I will . . . I must report this to my superiors,” he murmured. “But the matter of Jean Valjean—” 

“Ah, yes,” Enjolras said. “I had heard that he might be with the Patron-Minette gang. We have arrested most of them. Your man may be in the local jail, although he may have run into the woods with the rest of them. You’re welcome to search for him.” 

“But—” Javert’s gaze flew to Fauchelevent. 

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “What, you can’t mean to imply you suspect Ultime? I can vouch for him personally—he is an old friend of the family. I invited him here myself. I could only wish that I had been here to welcome him upon his arrival. I apologize for my rudeness, sir.” 

He gave Mr. Fauchelevent a polite nod, which Mr. Fauchelevent easily waved off. “Not to worry, my boy,” he said indulgently, a smile spreading across his face. Eponine got the feeling that he was starting to enjoy this little play of theirs. “Your friends were more than enough of a welcoming committee.” 

“I—” Javert wavered, bracing himself against the rocking chair. Combeferre took the opportunity to intercede, taking Javert’s arm and leading him away. 

“That’s enough, I won’t have you all straining my patient,” he said firmly. “You can discuss Pinkerton business as much as you want once you’re fully recovered.” 

The door shut behind him, but they remained silent until Combeferre returned, several minutes later. 

“Javert is asleep,” he announced. 

The tension escaped from the room, each one of them relaxing. Courfeyrac bounded into the room and wrapped an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “That was marvelously done!” he crowed. “An old family friend—brilliant thinking!” 

“He won’t question your family about it? He is a Pinkerton,” Eponine said. 

Enjolras shrugged, removing his jacket in the same motion. “Even if he does, my family has so many friends that they will likely agree without even thinking about it. My mother will probably assume them to be acquaintances of mine, and my father won’t even care to assume whose acquaintances they are.” 

“As brilliant as that addition was,” Combeferre said. “Please, tell me you didn’t actually hand over Tholomyes’s papers to the Pinkertons.” 

“Of course not,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire, if you would?” 

Grinning from ear to ear, Grantaire reached into his pocket and pulled out several photographs. Courfeyrac darted across the room to grab them and gasped in delighted shock. “They’re all here! Grantaire, I could kiss you!” 

“Don’t you dare,” Enjolras said. 

Combeferre went to Courfeyrac’s side and looked through the photographs as well. “Excellently done,” he murmured. “Each one perfectly readable.” 

“You have no idea how long it told me to get the lighting and placement perfect,” Grantaire sighed. “All my glass plates, lost!” 

“You’ll be appropriately compensated,” Combeferre assured him. “We have funds set aside for this sort of thing—we should see if Jehan is able to print these in the paper directly, alongside the article.” 

“Courfeyrac, you take care of that. Combeferre, start the article,” Enjolras said. “Eponine—you’ll help me track down Tholomyes. We have an interview to conduct.” 

“Wait—wait, he’s alive?” Eponine exclaimed. 

“Yes. Didn’t I say? He faked it. He intended to buy these back from Claquesous—I assume some sort of double-cross was intended,” Enjolras said. “Claquesous informed me that we could find him at a saloon Montparnasse is fond of.” 

“What, that big ugly place? Should’ve known a guy like Tholomyes would go for a place like that,” Eponine snorted. “Whatever. Yeah, I’m in. He deserves a punch in the face at least for putting us through all this and bringing the Pinkertons down on our heads.” 

Cosette frowned towards the stairs. “I feel a bit bad for Mr. Javert—he looked as though the world had been turned upside down! I’ll bring him some tea later.” 

“You do realize that this is the same guy who was trying to arrest three people in this room,” Eponine said. 

“Well, yes,” Cosette said. “But that’s behind us now, and I wouldn’t like him to tear himself up over it.” 

Cosette, Eponine thought, was too nice for her own good. Personally, she thought that Javert could do with a punch in the face more than a cup of tea, but she wouldn’t say anything. 

Mr. Fauchelevent stood from his chair. “Well, this has been an exciting day. All of you must stay for dinner, I insist—it’s the least I can do after what you’ve done for us.” 

“Think nothing of it,” Enjolras said, with a small smile. “You are an old family friend, after all.” 

Mr. Fauchelevent chuckled and patted Enjolras’s shoulder. “Regardless, you should stay. I must admit, I’ve grown fond of cooking for such large groups.” 

“I’ll help, Papa,” Cosette offered, but Mr. Fauchelevent waved her off. 

“Entertain your friends,” he said. “Supper is still a long ways off.” 

Mr. Fauchelevent left, and the rest of them stayed where they were, considering how exactly they were meant to entertain themselves. Eponine suspected that Enjolras was on the verge of refusing the offer of dinner and going after Tholomyes when Grantaire stood, strolled over to Enjolras, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“So,” he said, grinning cheekily. “How about those riding lessons, cowboy?” 

Eponine took one look at Enjolras’s expression and burst out laughing. Beside her, Cosette shook with barely-restrained giggles, hiding her face in Eponine’s shoulder to try to muffle the sound, while Courfeyrac had joined Grantaire in outright laughter. Even Combeferre seemed to be holding back chuckles. 

Enjolras looked a mixture of amused and resigned. Their eyes met, and Eponine grinned at him until he offered her a small smile in return. 

She had never been so glad that she had come to Les Amis.