Impossible Things Meme: hitting on chicks. and getting laiiiiid
(challenge here)
He was a young looking boy; blond and perhaps a little serious, but with a strength to him and a distinct lack of the typical student bravado and frivolity, both attributes Jean approved of. He was polite to an old, doting father, respectful. He seemed well-off, which, while not a necessity, was reassuring. If they did not speak of each other's politics, it simply never seemed to be the matter at hand. For the most part, they let Cosette steer the conversation, and often it became one of books. Young Enjolras might have been forceful in his opinions, but with careful prodding he debated well. Cosette's interest in literate thrived and grew because of it, and Valjean could not fault the boy for his intrusion into their walks. Not when his daughter was so happy, so driven to stump the boy or delight him with some unforeseen knowledge she'd picked up. And there was something about him that made Valjean, paranoid though he could be at times, trust the student, and want to do so.
He saw no harm in the pair walking together apart from him, as long as they were in sight. He sometimes found their endless, youthful enthusiasm difficult to keep up with anyway, rejuvenating though it might have been in small doses.
What they spoke of together, heads close as they sat on a bench, he did not know. Cosette glowed, and that was enough for him in the face of such trustworthiness. If she grew more secretive, it did ache, but was attributed to her coming of age and slowly growing past her need of him. His daughter was happy, and she was becoming stronger in herself daily. There was nothing more that he could wish for.
Certainly nothing more when the other, darker boy stopped skulking about. While Jean was old, he was in no way senile, and he realized perfectly well that there had likely been a confrontation between Enjolras and the other. It was plain in the set of the boy's mouth when he set eyes on Cosette's shadow, and in the fact that that shadow did not darken their path again. He did not enquire into the matter, not wanting to embarrass or make awkward the quiet boy well on his way to winning Cosette's heart. Instead, he was quietly grateful, thankful that such a young man, one as protective of her as her own father, was the one whom she watched.
Lemarque's death was not a surprise to anyone, though it was a blow to many. When he heard the news, Valjean's instincts told him to hole up, and he listened. It was already too dangerous to leave the city, and while Cosette declared her heart would break if she did not visit the gardens, he knew her reaction to any suggestion of fleeing would be much worse. He locked the doors and refused to let her out, or leave himself, for the rest of the week. He could only pray that Enjolras would be safe, not somehow accidentally mixed up in the powder keg threatening to explode in Paris' heart.
-----
The next morning Cosette was gone, and her father's heart clenched, nearly stopped in fear. When he found the letter - and the muddy little footprints of her apparent messenger, he felt more terror than he had in years, perhaps more than ever even while on the run.
How could Enjolras ask Cosette to join him on the barricade? How could Valjean forgive himself if something happened to her? What could he do to save his little girl? Make her safe and happy again?
-----
From that point on, events were a blur. He found a uniform, made his way to and behind the barricade. He was not too late. He received a joyful, excited "Papa!" from Cosette, and a tight hug. Before he knew it he was sheltering behind a mattress, listening and watching in disbelief and near shock as Cosette babbled away, loading her musket with attentive, careful, unpracticed skill. She apologized, begged forgiveness for not telling him of the revolution, explaining how Enjolras made her promise. She told him with quiet, fierce devotion, pride, and awe how Enjolras killed a murderer, what that meant, why he had to, and how horrible it was that they were all brought to this. What a strong, wonderful man Enjolras was for forcing himself to take these steps.
Then she turned, stood to fire, and was shot down before she could level her weapon. His Cosette fell dead before him, and a large part of Valjean died with her.
Eventually, far too soon, a bespectacled, grim-faced student pulled him off, away from her. He said that he was Combeferre, a friend of Enjolras, and asked if he was Cosette's father.
Jean could only nod and, when the young man tried to lift his daughter, carefully lift her in his own arms and follow into the Café Musain, past the sleeping drunkard, into the cellar where Enjolras stood guard over a firmly tied Inspecteur Javert.
Valjean didn't have it left in him to be surprised.
He laid his daughter on an empty table that had been hastily pulled up alongside one already bearing an old, equally dead man. He watched as Enjolras knelt beside her and shed his own brief, silent tears.
In the distance there was a cry of defiance, and then shots. Valjean watched as the boy he'd thought he knew closed off completely, hidden behind a cold purposefulness.
Enjolras stood, turned to Javert, angry, furious, disregarded tears already drying on his face. "Your comrades have killed you," is all he says.
Valjean surprises himself when he interrupts. "I know this man. We have a past that I would now see settled." His voice is steady, strong; he feels anything but. "Allow me to take care of him."
Part Two
He was a young looking boy; blond and perhaps a little serious, but with a strength to him and a distinct lack of the typical student bravado and frivolity, both attributes Jean approved of. He was polite to an old, doting father, respectful. He seemed well-off, which, while not a necessity, was reassuring. If they did not speak of each other's politics, it simply never seemed to be the matter at hand. For the most part, they let Cosette steer the conversation, and often it became one of books. Young Enjolras might have been forceful in his opinions, but with careful prodding he debated well. Cosette's interest in literate thrived and grew because of it, and Valjean could not fault the boy for his intrusion into their walks. Not when his daughter was so happy, so driven to stump the boy or delight him with some unforeseen knowledge she'd picked up. And there was something about him that made Valjean, paranoid though he could be at times, trust the student, and want to do so.
He saw no harm in the pair walking together apart from him, as long as they were in sight. He sometimes found their endless, youthful enthusiasm difficult to keep up with anyway, rejuvenating though it might have been in small doses.
What they spoke of together, heads close as they sat on a bench, he did not know. Cosette glowed, and that was enough for him in the face of such trustworthiness. If she grew more secretive, it did ache, but was attributed to her coming of age and slowly growing past her need of him. His daughter was happy, and she was becoming stronger in herself daily. There was nothing more that he could wish for.
Certainly nothing more when the other, darker boy stopped skulking about. While Jean was old, he was in no way senile, and he realized perfectly well that there had likely been a confrontation between Enjolras and the other. It was plain in the set of the boy's mouth when he set eyes on Cosette's shadow, and in the fact that that shadow did not darken their path again. He did not enquire into the matter, not wanting to embarrass or make awkward the quiet boy well on his way to winning Cosette's heart. Instead, he was quietly grateful, thankful that such a young man, one as protective of her as her own father, was the one whom she watched.
Lemarque's death was not a surprise to anyone, though it was a blow to many. When he heard the news, Valjean's instincts told him to hole up, and he listened. It was already too dangerous to leave the city, and while Cosette declared her heart would break if she did not visit the gardens, he knew her reaction to any suggestion of fleeing would be much worse. He locked the doors and refused to let her out, or leave himself, for the rest of the week. He could only pray that Enjolras would be safe, not somehow accidentally mixed up in the powder keg threatening to explode in Paris' heart.
-----
The next morning Cosette was gone, and her father's heart clenched, nearly stopped in fear. When he found the letter - and the muddy little footprints of her apparent messenger, he felt more terror than he had in years, perhaps more than ever even while on the run.
How could Enjolras ask Cosette to join him on the barricade? How could Valjean forgive himself if something happened to her? What could he do to save his little girl? Make her safe and happy again?
-----
From that point on, events were a blur. He found a uniform, made his way to and behind the barricade. He was not too late. He received a joyful, excited "Papa!" from Cosette, and a tight hug. Before he knew it he was sheltering behind a mattress, listening and watching in disbelief and near shock as Cosette babbled away, loading her musket with attentive, careful, unpracticed skill. She apologized, begged forgiveness for not telling him of the revolution, explaining how Enjolras made her promise. She told him with quiet, fierce devotion, pride, and awe how Enjolras killed a murderer, what that meant, why he had to, and how horrible it was that they were all brought to this. What a strong, wonderful man Enjolras was for forcing himself to take these steps.
Then she turned, stood to fire, and was shot down before she could level her weapon. His Cosette fell dead before him, and a large part of Valjean died with her.
Eventually, far too soon, a bespectacled, grim-faced student pulled him off, away from her. He said that he was Combeferre, a friend of Enjolras, and asked if he was Cosette's father.
Jean could only nod and, when the young man tried to lift his daughter, carefully lift her in his own arms and follow into the Café Musain, past the sleeping drunkard, into the cellar where Enjolras stood guard over a firmly tied Inspecteur Javert.
Valjean didn't have it left in him to be surprised.
He laid his daughter on an empty table that had been hastily pulled up alongside one already bearing an old, equally dead man. He watched as Enjolras knelt beside her and shed his own brief, silent tears.
In the distance there was a cry of defiance, and then shots. Valjean watched as the boy he'd thought he knew closed off completely, hidden behind a cold purposefulness.
Enjolras stood, turned to Javert, angry, furious, disregarded tears already drying on his face. "Your comrades have killed you," is all he says.
Valjean surprises himself when he interrupts. "I know this man. We have a past that I would now see settled." His voice is steady, strong; he feels anything but. "Allow me to take care of him."
Part Two