Chapter Text
~
December
~
Hi, you’ve reached the Gillenormand residence. Please leave a message after the beep.
…
(a beep)
…
(a cough)
Hi. It’s Marius. Um, I was just calling, to, um, to see if it will be all right if I dropped by sometime over winter break? Exams are almost done, and I…this girl and I – Cosette – we’ve been going out for a while – since Juneish, I guess – and I wanted to bring her over. Meet the family. That sort of thing.
(a clatter)
Sorry, I dropped the phone – uh, anyway, I kind of…I kind of just want this be done, you know? Like, I’m still mad, but this is important to me, so if you could just…anyway. Call me back. Or, uh, write me a letter? Aunt Gilly did. Tell her I’ll fix the computer when – if. Yeah. Just, uh. Anyway.
…
(a hesitation)
Love you.
Bye.
~
“Éponine!”
Éponine groaned into her pillow.
“Éponine, get up!” Musichetta rapped on her door.
She glanced at the alarm clock by her nose and groaned again, tumbling blindly out of bed. She’d overslept, she had to be at Jondrette’s in twenty minutes, and she’d wanted to get a head start on that paper, dammit.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called as Musichetta knocked again, an insistent staccato that took Éponine's nerves and sent them through a blender. "I'm coming!"
“Uh, yeah, you better hurry,” her friend said apologetically. Éponine, in the process of tugging on the jeans she’d left on the floor last night and so were reasonably clean, rammed her knee into her little chest of drawers. Swearing, she snatched at a white button down and slipped her feet into her shoes.
“Why? Other than the fact that I am going to be fantastically late, yeah, thanks, guys, thanks for not waking me up earlier – ”
"Are you decent?"
"Yeah, I guess - "
Musichetta swung open the door. Under her arm were Thierry and Alain. Éponine stared.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked after a moment, half her buttons undone and shoes on the wrong feet. “Are you kidding me?” she repeated in an increasingly dangerous voice, and one of the twins rubbed his nose.
“Dad kicked us out,” he explained, supremely unconcerned in a manner only six-year-olds can truly achieve. “He said we were getting in the way.”
“Monty said we could stay with you,” Alain added, or maybe he was Thierry, Éponine had slept in her contacts. She bit her tongue, hard, focusing on that instead of the way her hands itched to encircle a certain elegant throat and throttle it until he swallowed the damn toothpick, choked on it, and died, damn him.
“Monty said you could stay with…” Bundling her hair up into a bun, Éponine shook her head, jaw clenched. “Where’s Azelma?"
“With Mom. They’re dress shopping for a thingy,” Thierry-or-Alain-God-she-was-a-terrible-sister piped up.
With money we don’t have, Éponine thought grimly. Oh, well. At least Mom’s out of bed.
“Here’s the thing, guys,” she said aloud, fumbling to button her shirt properly. “I have work today until noon, and you know how my boss is. Especially after that stunt you pulled last time.” She glared at the two; neither even pretended to appear ashamed. Éponine glanced at her clock, biting her lip. “There's no one to watch you - Bahorel and Grantaire are off on their punching date, Musichetta’s got to work, too, and you are absolutely not staying here alone with - "
“DID SOMEONE SAY BABYSITTING?”
Éponine winced. Joly and Bossuet, wearing identical expressions of this-will-definitely-not-end-as-badly-as-it-did-last-time, popped their heads around the door.
"No," Musichetta said fondly, if tiredly, "no one said, 'babysitting.'"
"I'm six," Alain - definitely Alain, yes - pointed out. "I don't need a babysitter."
"We've got this," Bossuet assured Éponine. Joly flashed her a grin and a thumbs-up.
"Visions of water balloons are dancing in my head," Éponine deadpanned, but even if she left now, she was still going to be at least five minutes late, and at this point, she really didn't have a choice, thanks, Dad, and, oh, hell, if they were offering, who was she to refuse?
Musichetta raised her eyebrows at Éponine as if to say, We all know how this ends, and Éponine sighed.
“Behave,” she ordered, glowering ferociously at her brothers. Thierry and Alain rolled their eyes in tandem. “I mean it.” She hooked her arm around a twin each and kissed them both on the crowns of their heads while they squirmed. “Should Joly and Bossuet be expecting Gavroche to drop in, too?"
"Oh, he's helping," Thierry said with marked bitterness. "Monty says he's small enough to squeeze in places even though we're smaller." Éponine stiffened, arms still locked around her brothers.
“He’s what?” she asked quite calmly and below her chin, Alain and Thierry exchanged a quick, nonverbal oh, shit.
“You should probably go,” Alain urged suddenly, quite literally shoving her out the door.
“Your boss gets all red when she’s mad,” Thierry added, forgoing pushing in favor of just butting his head into her stomach until she stumbled out into the tiny hallway.
“All right, all right,” she snapped, ignoring the knowing looks pinging back and forth between Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. “Call me if there’s any trouble.”
“I can stay until eleven, so they’re outnumbered for at least half the day,” Musichetta mentioned, eyeing her warily. Éponine nodded, mouth tight, and, purse slung firmly on her shoulder, she set off, phone already in hand.
“Thanks, guys!” she called over her shoulder.
"No prob!" she heard Joly cry jovially, adding in his summer-camp-counselor's voice, "All riiiiight! What do you guys wanna do?"
Oh, they're screwed, Éponine thought with just a touch of familial pride under the burning rage pounding in her veins. As small as Thierry and Alain were, underestimating them was a grave mistake; their waifish charm masked an instinctual and vicious ability to fuck shit up, as Joly and Bossuet had already experienced firsthand. It was a Thénardier thing, Éponine supposed. House Thénardier: We Fuck Shit Up. Which could come in handy, yes, especially given the crowd they ran with, but Gavroche was twelve, he was twelve, and Éponine refused to take this lying down.
He picked up on the third ring of the third call with a lazy, “Hey, Wolf Girl.”
“Montparnasse,” she snarled into the phone.
"Listen, darlin’, I’m a little busy right now - “
“Is Gav there?” Éponine cut in.
“Why do you ask?”
Éponine’s hands clenched on the steering wheel.
“You little shit,” she breathed. “Put him on the phone.”
“Hey, now - “
“Put him on the phone.”
“’Fraid I can’t do that,” Montparnasse replied in a voice as smooth as an oil slick. “He’s a little busy, too, as it happens. He‘s got a knack for this, really, he‘s wasted hanging around those friends of yours.” Éponine swore.
“He’s twelve!” she cried. “You tell my father to keep Gav - or the twins, or Azelma, for that matter - out of whatever mess he’s gotten himself into, or so help me, I will - “
“Why’d you dash so early?” Montparnasse interrupted. “I woke up and you were gone.”
“Put Gav on the phone,” Éponine demanded over him, but he continued as blithely as if she had not spoken.
“I thought what we had was special, Wolf Girl, you’re breaking my poor heart - is that all I am to you, just a quick - “
“You are stalling,” Éponine informed him, trying to ignore the way her chest was starting to seize up. “And if you don’t put Gav on the phone right now, I will key all of your damn bikes. All of them.”
“Leave the bikes out of this, they didn’t do anything to you.” She could hear the grin in his voice and it set her teeth on edge. She was less than five minutes away from Jondrette’s, but if she turned left at the intersection coming up, it would take her to Monty’s garage.
“Put him on the phone,” she warned him. “Put him the fuck on the fucking phone, you motherfucking - “
“Hi,” said Gav’s voice breathlessly, Montparnasse’s bark of laughter muffled in the background.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Éponine exploded.
“Aw, it was fine, all I had to do was shimmy up a drainpipe, it wasn’t a big deal - “
“See?” Montparnasse cut in, voice crystal clear again; he’d taken the phone back from Gavroche. “He’s fine. Now, my part’s coming up, so you gotta make this quick - “
“Put him back on the phone!” Éponine shrieked, slamming on the brakes at the intersection as the light went yellow. The person behind her leaned on his horn, and somewhere behind her left eye, a little needle of pain decided it had aspirations towards becoming a migraine. “PUT HIM BACK ON THE PHONE, OR I SWEAR TO GOD - “
“Easy, Wolf Girl, deep breaths,” Montparnasse shushed her. “We’ve got one more job, so Gav’ll tag along for that, and then – ” He waited until her dam-burst of obscenities had subsided enough to talk over her. “I was younger than Gav when I started, and you were even younger than me. I’ll keep an eye out for him, okay?” The light turned green. Éponine gritted her teeth. Then turned right.
“You will,” she agreed in a snarl. Montparnasse only chuckled. “As for Thierry and Alain - ”
“They got there fine, didn’t they?”
“Just keep them out of this,” she snapped.
“I thought that’s what I did.” She could hear him grinning again. Bastard.
“You call me,” she hissed. “Preferably before you put two six-year-olds on a bus alone.”
“Again: they made it, didn‘t they?”
"Fuck you."
"Are you offering?"
"If you call me before putting my six-year-old brothers on the bus alone and leave Gav out of my father‘s stupid fucking jobs," she retorted without skipping a beat and Montparnasse laughed.
"I've missed you, Wolf Girl. You bring the sunshine back in my life." Éponine nodded, because of course, yeah, whatever, and turned into the little parking lot of Jondrette‘s. "You know what? I'll give you a bit of advice. Free advice. Free as the air you breathe." Éponine snorted.
"Nothing's free. Especially not with you."
"No interrupting, darlin’, that’s rude and I don’t have a lot of time.” Éponine shut off the car.
"How about I give you some advice, darlin'?” she offered with enough venom to down a bear. “Keep Gav out of this. Keep Alain and Thierry out of this. Keep Azelma out of this. Give me a heads-up when my shithead of a father decides to be a shithead. Or I will key. The goddamn. Bikes."
"Have some advice, anyway," Montparnasse remarked coolly, and something two parts irritation and one part warning snuck into his voice. "Don't think about your dad. He's keeping them out of it in his own way."
"His way's not good enough. Case in point: Gavroche."
"You said you didn't want anything to do with him anymore," Montparnasse pointed out, sounding amused. "You can't expect him to keep you updated."
"But you can," Éponine reminded him through clenched teeth.
"I'll do my best."
"You better." He laughed.
"Cross my heart and hope to die,” he cooed. “Got to go, darlin' - don't be a stranger, now."
"I mean it, Montparnasse," she warned him, but he'd already hung up.
She sat there for a moment, ears ringing. She was ten minutes late. She put her phone back into her purse, took the keys out of the ignition, and exhaled.
“Fuck,” she announced to no one in particular, and got out of the car.
~
It had all been just fine.
More than fine, actually. It had been as close to a Hallmark card as Joly thought it could get. The twins piled all over her on the couch in the main room, and they all watched the Discovery channel for a solid hour and a half. Bossuet and Joly bracketed them, taking turns putting their feet up on the little coffee table and having Musichetta fuss at them for putting their feet up on the little coffee table. It was domestic, Joly thought. It was sweet.
Then Musichetta left for work. And all hell broke loose.
“Thierry, let’s not do that, let’s not – ”
“Where’s Alain?”
“Hold on – Thierry, seriously, buddy, come down from there, this is no longer funny – ”
“Bossuet, I’m starting to freak out.”
“Don’t freak out, just – just, I don’t know, I’ve got my hands full with Tarzan, here, so, uh – no, do not jump, don’t you dare jump, Thierry – NOOOOOOO – ”
Joly skidded in just in time to see Bossuet go down, falling back onto the couch with his ankles over his head and a tiny Thénardier on top of him.
“We’re good,” Bossuet said weakly, muffled underneath Thierry, who popped up and went for the stairs. “Oh, no you don’t, come back here, you little menace – ”
“Alain?” Joly called tentatively. This was a relatively small house; there were only so many places a six-year-old could potentially hide, right? “Alain, come on.” He poked his head in Éponine’s room, then Bahorel’s. A little giggle froze him in his tracks. “Oh, no, oh, no, Alain, you did not – ”
He tore out of Bahorel’s room and into Grantaire’s. Horrified, he could only stand in the doorway and stare.
“Bossuet,” he called, voice curling up at the end in panic. “Bossuet.”
Bossuet puffed down the hallway, a six-year-old clutched underneath his arm like a very wiggly purse.
“What?”
Joly pointed. Bossuet blanched.
“Oh, God,” he breathed. “Grantaire’s going to kill us.”
Spilled out onto the floor were all of Grantaire’s paints, his oil pastels, his ink, even the watercolors he claimed to despise but still dragged out to the park every so often – normally after a bad night, or, as it usually was with Grantaire, a bad week – clumped in the carpet in puddles of Jonquil and Alizarin crimson and Chartreuse, exotic hues that Joly had once joked sounded more like the names of pills than colors.
“Some days, they might as well be,” Grantaire had shrugged in that uncomfortably honest way he had, and now Alain sat grinning in the middle of those precious paints, looking like a spastic little rainbow demon. Bossuet gulped.
“Oh, shit.”
“Language,” Joly said reflexively. Both twins swiveled their heads to give him rather condescending looks. It was remarkable how much they resembled Éponine.
“It’s a mural,” Alain explained, as if that cleared it all up. He gestured toward the wall, and both Joly and Bossuet groaned.
Grantaire’s wall matched the carpet, in that random splatters of color covered the entire space from ceiling to floor. A vivid line of green dripped slowly down to the baseboard. In the psychedelic swirls of paint, Joly could make out what looked like trees and animals and maybe people, but to be quite honest, he was very preoccupied with internally screaming, and so it was very likely the majority of Alain’s aesthetics were lost on him. The little devil had even signed it: neon blue paint proclaimed Alain Thénardier in the painstaking script of a six-year-old. The hand print next to it felt like a more authentic signature, a mark that translated roughly into English as “Thénardier children are the most effective birth control in the world.” Joly briefly flirted with the idea of bursting into tears.
“Little dude,” Bossuet growled next to him, “you are in some seriously hot water.” He passed off Thierry to Joly and scooped Alain up, paint and all. “I am going to go give this one a bath,” he told Joly, ignoring Alain’s squawk of horror and subsequent struggling. “Can you handle Thing 2 on your own?”
“I can try,” Joly replied grimly.
“‘A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship,’” Bossuet called over his shoulder as he marched to the bathroom, Alain kicking and screaming under his arm.
“‘But it is not this day,’” Joly finished with a firm nod. “Do you know what marigolds are, Thierry?”
Thierry shook his head, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Well, you’re about to find out,” Joly apprised him, and he led the way to the cleaning supplies.