Fic, "Eclipse", Javert/Eponine, PG13.

Title Eclipse
Author: Sionnain
Fandom: Les Miserables (Musical)
Pairing: Javert/Eponine, but only just. Unrequited Eponine/Marius, Montparnasse/Eponine.
Summary: Light breaks where no sun shines. -Dylan Thomas.
Rating: PG13 I'd say
Word count: 4385
Warnings: Tiny, tiny bit of breathplay but it's very, very slight. This fic is HEAVY on the angst, and includes a canonical Character Death.

AN: My thanks to jazzypom for the beta. This fic is for ion_bond, who encouraged me to write it. It's my first Les Miserables fanfiction, though I've been a fan of the musical, the book, and even the movie for ages.



Soon as midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence. --John Milton, Paradise Lost.


He's the only one of them that has ever truly frightened her.

She's quick like a fox, trained to be nimble and agile. Beneath the grime and the rags she's sharp and smart in a way you don't learn from books. Eponine Thenardier has her father's deviousness and her mother's cunning, and the self-preservation that is part and parcel of the Thenardier name.

She's missing the meanness, that spark of cruelty that the years have yet to build. She'd rather be dead than end up like her mother; hard eyes, malicious smile, fawning voice. Or her father, for that matter, with his jovial hearty laugh that never quite disguises the greed and the willingness to do anything for more.

He made it sound like such an honor, when he first brought her out on the streets. “You're one of us now, m'girl,” he'd boomed, patting her on the back with a rough gesture that bespoke discipline more than affection. This she was used to, and always had been. She was enough her mother's daughter to smile and look pleased, and avoid 'Parnasse's lustful gaze, and pretend that this was all she had ever wanted, a life of crime and deceit. She'd best get used to it—this was all she was ever going to have.

She's adept at stealing, and fair decent with a con, and the only one of those inspecteurs that give her any trouble is that tall one with the burning eyes, the one they call Javert. He's trouble, that one, and all the thieves in Paris know it. Not because he'll haul you in soon as look at you—all of them do that, even the ones who you can bribe with a flash of skin or a kiss or a sous—but because he doesn't like to let you go.

You be careful of that one, 'Ponine,” her mother hissed at her the first time they'd seen him, grabbing at her arm and hauling her out of the inspector's line of vision. “He's got the fire of conviction, that one, and ain't no one gonna get out if he don't say so. Can't even bribe the man.”

In Madame Thenardier's opinion, anyone who couldn't be bribed was the enemy. The righteous were to be robbed or avoided. Eponine would have been fine with this—she'd learned to avoid 'Parnasse and his lingering hands, her father's guests at the inn when she was a child, the little girl with the blond hair who'd done all the serving work—and she did her best to stay out of his way and not try and steal on his watch.

She saw him on occasion, standing amidst the rabble of Paris like some shining example of goodness and morality. Sometimes their eyes would meet, drawn to each other like sinners to church on Sunday. Eponine figured it was because she was as hell-bent on crime as he was on punishment, and she sometimes swore she could see all the truth that had been siphoned out of her by the streets of Paris shining in his dark eyes.

No amount of stealing going to get that back.

The first time he'd dragged her in for picking pockets on the street, she'd tried to offer him part of that day's take to let her go. “Only just wanted to eat,” she'd whined, pitching her voice low, making all the words rough like she'd been taught to do—sounding stupid, uneducated, brainless.

“I'm afraid I've no interest in your ill-gotten gains,” he'd replied darkly, eyes narrowed, voice clipped. “A night in a cold cell might teach you to keep your hands to yourself.”

She'd spent that night in the cell, huddled on the dirt floor, freezing and kicking out at the rats when they ventured too close to her. In the morning he'd come to fetch her, and she geared herself for a lecture on her behavior and hoped she wasn't to be whipped when she got home for being caught. Papa wouldn't be pleased that she'd lost a whole day’s wages and made a name for herself with Inspector Javert besides.

He'd not lectured her, though. He'd reached out and caught her chin between long fingers, which were cold like ice on her grimy skin. “There now,” he'd said, a small smile curving the hard lines of his mouth. “You may thank me for my benevolence and charity and be on your way.”

“What...?” She'd been captivated by the look on his face; reverent, as if he were a priest administering some type of benediction.

“For giving you a night of cleansing punishment,” he explained, sighing. “Now you are cleansed of your wrong-doing, as God intends for punishment to do.” His fingers tightened painfully. “Are you not grateful, you wretch, for both His mercy and mine?”

For one shining moment, Eponine thought that perhaps everything he'd said was true. Despite the layers of filth added to her skin and clothes from her night on the floor of the cell, she did feel...cleansed, somehow.

“Yes,” she whispered, and she meant it, just a little. She was still savvy enough to have said anything he wanted so that she could get home to a bath and perhaps some food, before her father demanded his own form of punishment for her failure.

“Good,” Javert said, as he released her. “Now go and find honest work, girl, else you meet me again. I'm only merciful once, and rarely even then.”

She'd believed him. On her way home, she'd passed a flower cart and looked at the girl in her dowdy but respectable clothes, which despite being unfashionable were clean and neat. She'd not spent the night in a jail, sleeping on dirt, kicking out at rats. She might have woken up in a little room with a dresser and a cracked mirror, but slept untroubled by all the horrible things she's done just to survive.

Maybe Eponine could do that, too. Have a proper job, and a little room, and never have to see the hard-eyed inspector with the cruel eyes and the cold hands again.

Unfortunately, when she got home, her father whipped her for being caught and refused to allow her to eat until she stole twice what the inspector had retrieved from her yesterday.

“You know he kept it, the bloody son of whore. Probably drinkin' some wine and toastin' you, gel, for givin' him a bit extra,” he'd snapped, shoving her towards the door, her back stinging from the belt.

Eponine hadn't said a word, because her lip still hurt where he'd smacked her and was swollen and bloody. In her head though, she knew her father was wrong. She pictured the inspector kneeling in an empty church, his head bowed reverently, promising to wield the rod on behalf of the Lord.

She'd picked a few pockets and gone for a drink at the ABC Cafe, and it was there she'd met Marius.

He made her wish she was a flower girl again, but this time it wasn't because of redemption. She didn't want to just be a thief anymore, but as much as he seemed to like her, she was almost certain that was all she'd ever be.

* * * *

Eponine knows very well her infatuation with the young Marius will end in nothing but heartache. She can't help herself for wanting him, though. He's so clean, the type of clean that you don't achieve by scrubbing in the tub but by never living on the streets and never being dirty.

She's a thief because she has to be; he's a revolutionary because he wants to be. One night when he's into his cups he throws his arm around her and hugs her to him, toasting something Enjolras is saying while standing on one of the wooden tables. “One day, you will be able to be a princess if you want, 'Ponine,” he promises her with a drunken smile, and she smiles sadly at his enthusiasm but he doesn't see the sadness, because he never does.

No, Marius. There's only one life for girls like me. Still, it's nice to pretend. He smells nice and he buys her a baguette, and she toasts Enjolras and pretends that it will change anything, all their rhetoric and their big words and their fancy dreams.

They don't have a clue what it's like, these boys. They drink in a tavern and associate with urchins like her and think they know what it's like. But they don't. They can go home and wash the dirt from the wooden barstools off their fine brocades and soft linens; they can send their fur-lined coats to be laundered when the stink of Paris clings too heavily like a fog to their clothes.

They pay for their drinks with their parents’ money, golden sous that glitter in the dim light of the tavern, ignoring sullen looks from disgruntled patrons that envy them their youth and their wealth. They see the ABC Cafe as something it isn't—they see something proud beneath the dust on the floor, in the cracked glasses, that Eponine is fairly certain isn't there.

Maybe it's because they've never had to work for anything- that they see promise where she sees only tired, broken men and desperate, exhausted women. She lets Marius buy her drinks when he offers, because her parents will be furious if she comes home without enough to contribute. They remind her often that she's a burden on them, that she needs to pay her share.

These men talk of revolution, of freedom, and she wonders if they ever notice how she steals the money from the tables before she leaves. If they do, they never say anything, and she feels guilty but she does it anyway.

* * * *

When Marius meets Cosette, she sees the mad longing in his eyes and knows a pretend princess will never be good enough for him, not after she floated by in her cloud of goodness and sweetness.

She's there the night he extols Cosette's virtues in the ABC Cafe, the night that General died and set them on their plan, some insanity with guns and barricades and overtaking the National Guard.

She's just come in, cold from the vicious whipping of the wind against her slight form, fighting to keep a grip on her hat as it threatened to blow away. She hears Marius praising Cosette's beauty, and she shakes her head sadly because Marius might think she, Eponine, could be a princess one day, but he's given his heart to a woman who by the sound of it already is.

It's suddenly colder in the tavern than it was outside; or maybe that's just her blood, running like ice in her veins. She thinks about the extra sou in her pocket she intended to use for a drink, proud that she'd stolen enough to pay for her own (not as good as a flower girl with her own cart, but it's all I can do), but she doesn't stay.

”Is Marius in love at last?” she hears, and she turns blindly towards the door, tears shimmering in her eyes. The cold air is a relief when it hits her and she runs, not caring where she's going, darting in and out of the crowd of people.

A thief is all you'll ever be, Eponine. You'll only ever be a princess in your dreams.

She finds herself standing in front of the church, her hand wrapped around that extra coin as if it is all she has in the world, and maybe it is. She looks up at the heavy wooden doors and before she knows why, she's pushing her way inside. It's cool but a welcome respite from the wind, and warmer than the streets.

“None of you allowed in here unless you got reason,” a voice snarls, and she jumps at the unwelcoming tone of a man half-hidden in shadows, looking as dirty as her. What right does he have, with his guttural French and his torn coat, to treat her that way?

Eponine flashes him the sou caught between her fingers. “Going to light a candle for my poor, sick mum,” she sniffs, raising her nose in the air, like she's one of those proper girls she sees on the street that walk around puddles and have frilly parasols to protect them from the sun.

Like you're the kind of girl that stole Marius' heart, just by walking down the street, dressed in finery that doesn't drag on the dirt of the streets and cling to your clothes.

“Right then. See that you pay, girl. God ain't got time for no poor street trash.” He steps out of her way and Eponine glares at him, hating him for saying that. Though he's probably right; she's a thief, isn't she? More likely to steal from the collection plate than add to it, isn't that right?

The church has high soaring ceilings that seem to stretch up into forever, because of how dark it is. She can barely see the white marble on the altar past the sacristy, and the air is thick with the smell of incense, the heavy drugged scent clings to her clothes and hair. There are a few people in the pews, widows draped in black and clutching rosaries in gnarled fingers, a nun murmuring quietly with her eyes closed and face tilted upwards. Eponine feels small, alone, as she walks up the center aisle and veers off towards the smaller side chapel, next to the ornate wood of the confessionals.

She ends up standing in front of the little shrine of the blessed Virgin, candles shimmering in the hushed darkness of the church. The shrine is placed far enough from the door that the wind won't extinguish the candles, but when someone enters the church after her she watches the way the flames dance in the wind, watches the way they fight to stay lit, and finds herself fascinated.

So fierce and proud, those little flames, refusing to burn out. Eponine drops her coin into the box and takes a match; she lights it carefully and touches it to one of the votives, feeling a curious sense of calm as the wick lights and the candle flares to life.

She can think of nothing to say to the Virgin, though she knows she should. She stares up at the cold face of the marble statue, looks into the vacant eyes, and thinks only I'm sorry. There seems to be no compassion in the face that stares down at her.

“You would do well to ask her forgiveness,” a voice says sternly behind her.

Eponine tastes her heart in her throat for a moment and looks up from where she's kneeling on the prie- dieu, looks up right into Inspector Javert's unfriendly dark eyes. She sees the flames from the candles reflected in his gaze and she can't look away, even though she wants to.

“I said I was sorry,” she says without thinking. “I paid for my candle,” she adds hurriedly, lest he haul her off to jail for stealing the Virgin's forgiveness.

“One does not pay for forgiveness with money, child,” he informs her. His uniform is all pressed and starched perfection—the silver on his buttons gleam, the black is utterly without lint, and the white shines as smooth and clean as the face of the Virgin before her. “One must earn it.”

Eponine doesn't know what to say to that. She was baptized right and proper in the church seeing as how her parents were legally married, but she doesn't go to Mass, hasn't been since she was a child. She knows of confession but she's never done it because she'd just go out and sin again, wouldn't she? “How?” she asks softly, and the spill of her breath plays over the candles and makes the flames lilt sharply. She feels bad about that, as if she'd be stealing someone else's prayers if their candle went out on account of her.

He is still staring at her, eyes just as remote as any Saint's statue, posture as perfectly straight as the crucifix upon which the Lord Jesus hangs. “You must earn it,” he answers her, and his hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Eponine resists the urge to bow her head beneath the pressure of his hand, wrapped in black leather, curved around her shoulder.

“Tell me, girl, did you attempt to earn the Virgin's forgiveness for your sins with a stolen sou or two, perhaps?” He tightens his hand on her shoulder and the pain is small but sudden and it makes her gasp.

She wants to lie to him, but she finds she cannot. She, Eponine, who would steal from anyone even in the sanctified presence of God in this church, cannot lie to the inspector who's staring down at her like he's been sent from Heaven to judge her soul.

She bows her head in shame instead. Her lies and her pleas catch in her throat; they escape as muffled sobs but the words are unrecognizable.

“As I thought. Thieves are all the same. You would--” he stops speaking as she turns her face up to him, tears forming streaks in the grime on her face. Something she does not understand flashes across his face as he beholds her there, a wretched dirty creature beset by tears and kneeling before the Mother of all compassion.

He takes something from his pocket—chains, to haul her off to jail?—and it takes her a moment to see what it is he's holding out to her. A square of white linen, stark against the black of his gloves. “Here,” he says stiffly. “Clean your face. You are an insult to the Lord as bedraggled as you are. Cleanliness is next to godliness, or have your parents taught you nothing?”

Eponine reaches forth and takes the handkerchief, fingers quick and light with her thief's touch. She presses the starched fabric to her face and cleans it as best she is able. When she hands it back to him, she tries not to see the dirt staining the pristine linen. She doesn't think he would appreciate hearing what her parents have taught her.

His lips quirk up as he retrieves the handkerchief and folds it, placing it back in his pocket. “Perhaps you are Mary Magdalene then.”

She doesn't understand his reference, of course, to Magdalene. Wasn't she the prostitute? She might be a thief but she's no whore—at least, not yet. “My name is--”

He holds his hand up. “I do not wish to know your name, girl. Stand up.”

Eponine blinks, confused, and slowly rises to her feet. His eyes travel down her body and he reaches out to pull off her hat, the brown cap that she stole from a dead man in an alleyway last winter (not as if he needed it anymore, was it?) to free the tangled mass of her hair. She's washed it just yesterday, in hopes of seeing Marius, and it tumbles around her shoulders, relatively clean compared to the rest of her.

He gives a brisk nod and reaches out to catch at her overcoat, once tan and now a dirtied brown. “Take this filthy garment off.”

She shrugs out of the coat without asking him why, and she's dressed in a pair of men's trousers and a shirt she lifted off 'Parnasse that was once white and has now yellowed with age. “These are not appropriate garments for a woman,” Javert tells her. “Women should not dress as men.”

“I have no money for pretty dresses,” she says, voice low and angry. She thinks of Marius again, and the woman he's so suddenly enamored of. Eponine imagines her in soft dresses of white that float around her like spun clouds, not in ill-fitting trousers and a man's shirt, and a hat lifted off a dead drunk.

“You must be satisfied with what the Lord provides,” Javert lectures her, and she gestures towards her clothes.

“This is what I have,” she says simply. So maybe you ought to be satisfied with it, too.

“I suppose it will have to do. Now, you will kneel and ask the Virgin to forgive you for showing up with the taint of sin upon you, dirty and wretched, using stolen money to ask her precious pardon.” As he speaks he moves around her to place his hands on her shoulders again. He presses down and she sinks to her knees once more, the wood of the prie-dieu hard beneath her knees.

His hand slides into the thick mass of her hair; she can feel the smooth leather glide slickly against her neck and it makes her shiver a little with something she doesn't understand. “Bow your head,” he whispers, and urges her to do so with the slight increase of pressure of his fingers on her neck.

Eponine does so, her hair falling forward to veil her face in a soft dark cloud, body becoming limp and boneless. It's cold and she's scared and uncomfortable, hungry and parched with lips chapped from the wind, but suddenly none of that seems to matter.

“Good,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds soft and silky and menacing all at once. “Now ask her nicely, so that I may hear it and know that you understand.”

Eponine drags in a breath, and in a quiet voice, she obeys. As she is speaking she can feel him behind her; his body solid and warm, his scent clean and crisp. He is standing far closer than she allows anyone—even 'Parnasse, who fancies himself her beau—and it makes her feel safe, somehow, as she prays, as she confesses to sins she barely remembers committing. The words pour forth in a torrent, dredged from a soul as dirtied and tattered as her garments, while he stands there behind her, silent like a sentinel, hands wrapped around her throat.

When she is finished the flames blur before her as the tears pour down her face; it is hard to breathe because he is almost choking her, and his hand on her shoulder will leave bruises in the morning. The pain is sweet, though, not like the punishments her father visits upon her for failure or her mother when she's in a rage and needs an outlet for her fury.

“There,” he says softly, and he releases his grip and brushes her hair back from her face. She presses her cheek into the leather of his gloves and goes limp, feeling deliciously empty and quiet.

How long this moment lasts, she does not know. When she opens her eyes, she is staring up at the Virgin and shivering in the cold of the cathedral, and he is gone. Her coat and her hat are on the floor next to her, and she's holding something tightly in her hand that she doesn't remember taking from him.

When she unfolds her hands she finds a single sou clutched in her palm. Eponine stares at it for a long time before she looks back up at the Virgin Mary, noticing that the eyes no longer look so vacant, and the smile seems much more comforting.

* * *

When she lies dying in Marius' arms, shot as she attempted to bring him a message from his beloved Cosette over the barricade, she remembers that moment in the cathedral. The noise of the shouting and the chaos fades slowly into stillness, and all she knows in that moment is him—his voice, the feel of his arms, his breath warm on her face as her skin begins to chill.

Marius' words are tender and sweet, and it doesn't matter that they are empty phrases of love because it is the feel of his arms around her that comfort her as she lies dying. She remembers Javert standing behind her as she prayed, remembers the press of his body beneath her and the feel of his hands on her neck urging her to bow.

She remembers the comfort when it was over, and the emptiness that made her feel, for one moment, like something more than a wretched street urchin, a filthy thief. With a small sigh she surrenders to the blackness that rises to claim her and spills over her vision, and she remembers the softly smiling face of the Virgin Mary. In her pocket is the sou she'd been given, and it was probably Javert but she likes to think it was her.

She hopes they bury her with it, so she can hand it to the Virgin herself when she sees her, and say thank you.

~