Chapter Text
Éponine had spent half her life working towards that day; she smiled absently as she gazed around her (her!) sparse office, her furniture worn and aching, footsteps stretching into years past pressed into her carpet.
The room faced onto a shaded alley, the door didn’t always lock right and she was certain she’d seen needles littered on the ground outside, but she paid for the room upfront and it was hers, for as long as she wanted it. Which would probably be forever.
Her vague smile stretched for a moment into a genuine, happy grin as she finished painting the sign she planned to rest on the wall facing the street. Hopefully her rates, at least, were going to attract clients before she could gain another reputation for good work.
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Her optimism paid off in surprising ways.
A few days after she’d set up, their was a sudden knock on her door. Éponine quickly glanced around, making sure nothing of value was visible.
“Come in!”
The door opened slowly, and what Éponine hoped was her first client stepped in. The woman was gorgeous, blonde hair curled into a tight bun at the back of her head and green eyes set in a clear, kind face. Éponine used to dream of women like this.
She leaned forward behind her desk. “So, do you need anything? I gotta warn you, the bathroom’s not a nice place for a lady like you.” She grinned, hoping it looked rakish and not like she was struggling to keep from kissing her newest client senseless.
The woman laughed. “No, I was actually here to see the detective - I assume that’s you?” She sat on the chair opposite Éponine, giving no reaction to the prolonged groan it made at having to bear weight. “I do have a problem actually - my father’s gone.”
Éponine raised her eyebrows. “Not that I want to drive you away, but shouldn’t you go to the police for that?”
“No, it’s a bit complicated for that, I’m afraid.” She looked up at Éponine, her eyelashes seeming impossibly long. “My father is, well, he wasn’t really meant to look after me - I never got the full story, but I do remember living with a different family when I was a lot younger.”
“Good enough reason to come see me, I s’pose. Oh, for the record - what’s the magic disappearing man’s name?” She smiled again. It wasn’t often she got to talk to anyone, let alone someone as genuinely good as this woman seemed to be.
“Oh!” The woman blushed slightly. “I completely forgot, I’m sorry. My father’s name is- well, he went by Ultime, but I’ve found out his real name is Jean Valjean. I’m Cosette.”
“Well, Mademoiselle,” said Éponine, already thinking of which favours to call in. “I think we can manage that.”
Cosette smiled, then leant in and swiftly kissed Éponine’s cheek. “Thank you so much!” She sobered a little. “Although I must warn you - my father had enemies, I believe. There was one man who followed us for months.”
“Don't worry,” said Éponine with a sly grin. Her own parents hadn't been short of those. “I'm used to enemies.”
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Éponine was still in a daze at receiving Cosette’s phone number - for strictly professional purposes, of course, but still - when her second client ambles into her life.
It’s almost unfair to other people, really, how many attractive people she’s keeping from the city’s more legal detective agencies.
Marius Pontmercy knocked timidly on the door to her office half an hour after Cosette drifted out, having stayed for instant coffee and a biscuit when offered. He clearly didn't want to be there – Éponine was no Holmes, but his slow, uneasy walk through the door told her everything she needed to know.
“Look,” he said, scuffing one foot back and forth on the carpet, “I'd like to find out about- about my father, but I didn't plan on coming here, I was just walking past and-”
Éponine silenced him with a finger to her lips. “I understand, Monsieur, you don't need to explain any further. Your name and your phone number are all I'll need, if you decide to engage my services.” She winked at him, hoping he picked up the double entendre. His blush seemed to indicate he did. “oh, and your father's details, of course. Anything you think would assist in finding him.”
God, thought Éponine, why is it always the innocent ones I have to fall for?
“I've forgotten my manners, I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle. I'm Marius Pontmercy,” he said, offering a hand to shake.
“Pontmercy, huh? Aren't you Gillenormande's grandson?” She vaguely remembered seeing a boy with the same bashful face in an article a few years ago. The mayor of the city was fairly popular, but Éponine had her doubts. Hopefully his grandson would be as good inside as he was good looking on the outside.
Marius remained scarlet. “Um, yes, but we don't really speak anymore... I think I disappointed him when I went for social science instead of law- oh, you don't want to hear this.” He straightened up, and she noticed just how tall he was. The day was going unfairly well, really.
He scribbled what she assumed was his phone number on the notepad sat on her desk, gave her a polite but hurried goodbye and ran out of the door.
Éponine sighed. He really was very sweet.
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She started the investigation the very next day, deciding to walk to the library a few streets away. The variety of books was terrible but they did have the newspaper library to look through, and hopefully Ursule Fauchelevant, né Jean Valjean, would be in one of them.
A hand reached out from the mouth of an alleyway, but before it could take her purse Eponine turned around sharply and held a switchblade to the offending wrist.
“Montparnasse, I know it’s you. Come out where I can see you, or you’ll bleed to death without ever seeing an honest day in your life.” She said flatly, pressing the blade closer, coaxing beads of red from his neck. It was a familiar dance.
Montparnasse slid out, smiling (mouth-only), and blew her a kiss from cherry red lips. Eponine caught it between the fingers of her free hand, then crushed it in a fist. “What’re you even doin’ round here, ‘Ponine, there’s bad people about - worse’n me, even.”
She folded her arms across her chest, the switchblade disappearing as quickly as it had threatened. “I need info - and you owe me a favour, pretty boy.” She smiled too, the corners of her mouth pulling a little too far back, like a shark that smells blood in the water. “What do you know about a little man named Jean Valjean?”