AN: Okay, so first off, I just feel the urge to tell you that my brother and I are watching Pippin, and at one point, it goes a little like this:

[someone sticks that stereotypical campaign hat on his head from behind with a button that says "Vote Pippin" on it]
Pippin: [turns to the Lead Player (Ben Vereen!)] I'm a politician.
Ben: [takes hat off his head, sticks an army-esque one on instead] You're a revolutionary! And baby, you are beautiful!

Anyway, I just had to share that with you guys because, y'know, Les Mis, the barricade boys, Enjy, revolution, Les Amis, student revolutionaries...*laughs a little stupidly* YEAH, I KNOW I'M A HUGE DORK! :P

ANYWAY, here's that surprise I mentioned last chapter, which I REALLY hope is going to make you guys fall backwards out of your desk chairs in complete and utter shock, because I for one think that it's just THAT FREAKING BIG.

But then again, I think a lot things.
Some of them are stupid. Others are wrong. Still others are stupid AND wrong. This might fall into one of those categories.

...And then again, maybe it won't. :)

WHICH IS WHY ANYONE WHO DOES FALL BACKWARDS OUT OF THEIR CHAIR IS REQUIRED BY LAW/LAWR/JAVERT TO TELL ME IN THEIR REVIEW OR ELSE.

Thank you very mucho much for your attentionz and have a nice day. :)

-Maggie

PS: Um, okay, so Javert is threatening to throw ME off of a bridge over the Seine if I don't do the disclaimer in the opening AN instead of the closing one, so for the sake of, you know, like, LIVING, I'm just gonna make it short and sweet before he-OKAY, OKAY, I'M DOING IT, KEEP YOUR HAT ON, DAMMIT! I DON'T OWN LES MIS, IT ALL BELONGS TO VICTOR HUGO AND OTHER PEOPLE, NONE OF WHOM ARE ME! THERE, I DID IT, NOW BACK OFF, MUTTONCHOPS, BEFORE I BRING IN MY (only-inside-my-head-because-they're-fictional-characters) BIG BROTHERS AND GET THEM INVOLVED, CUZ I CAN GUARANTEE THAT AIN'T GONNA END UP BEIN' VERY PRETTY FOR YA! *hits him over the head with my trusy giant wooden baseball bat that always seems to just conveniently appear out of absolutely nowhere at all when ever I need it for stuff like this XD*


The front door opened, then slammed with enough force to make some of the nearby paintings rattle slightly on their hooks. Joly glanced up from his book as angry footsteps began heading towards the study where he was reading. "Didn't go well, I take it?" he said a bit distractedly as he gazed at his friend and roommate over the top of the frame of his glasses. The other man laughed. "If that isn't the understatement of the century!" he declared loudly. He sighed as he fell into a chair, leaning his head back to look up a the ceiling.

"I missed her," he said after a few moments. "Missed her by a week. A week, Joly, a God damn week, can you believe it?! If I'd gotten there only seven days sooner, I'd..." He trailed off, clenching his fist as the muscles in his neck tightend visibly. Before Joly had time to register what was happening, his friend had leapt up and pounded his fist against the wall, letting out a wordless shout of frustration that, along with the bang of his fist impacting with the wall, made Joly jump in surprise and almost drop his book. He hastily marked his place and took his glasses off, setting them down with the book on the side table next to the chair he was in before standing up and going to his friend, putting a comforting hand on the back of the other man's shoulder.

Blue eyes met dark ones as an alabaster hand reached into a leather bag, coming back out into the open holding a raven-haired doll with delicate features, eyes a deep shade of emerald, and an amethyst dress with sapphire accents. "His wife brought this out to show me and told me to keep it. She said that it proves even more than the lack of note and the abruptness of it that they must have left in a hurry for some reason, whatever it may have been. She said that Brigitte would never leaver her doll behind if she knew she wasn't going to be sleeping in her own bed for even a single night." Joly looked from the doll to his friend's face, eyebrows going up a few inches. "Brigitte? Is that...?"

For the first time in five years, the smile that graced Enjolras' face was a genuine one. True, it was also a sad one, but the trace of real, honest-to-goodness happiness buried underneath that sadness made Joly breathe a mental sigh of relief. There hadn't been even a trace amount of anything but sorrow in his friend for five whole years, and seeing a genuine smile on his face after so long made it feel as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"I have a daughter, Joly," he said quietly. "'Ponine named her Brigitte, it turns out they've been with the Pontmercys this entire time, can you believe it? And this is her doll. She's spent the past two or three years of her life holding this every night while she slept and bringing it downstairs with her to breakfast every morning and dressing it up and brushing and braiding its hair and...Cosette told me that she named it Danielle. Joly, do you realize that this doll...even before holding it...just looking at it is as close as I've ever come to having any sort of contact whatsoever with my own daughter. Hell, this is the closest I've come to her mother in the past five years. This is...God, it...it's overwhelming."

Joly nodded. "I would imagine so," he said. There was a noisy clatter from somewhere down the hall, followed by a thump and the rustle of papers, then someone swore in French just loudly enough for Joly and Enjolras to hear it. The former sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Enjolras chuckled as he put the doll back into his bag, then put his bag in the chair he'd been sitting in before taking his coat off and tossing it over the arm. "Sounds like Amade's at it again, eh?" he said, quirking an eyebrow. Joly shook his head, eyes turned up to the ceiling.

"What could have possibly made me think it would be a good idea to let my weird, awkward little man-child of a cousin come to live with us, I shall never know," he said wryly. As if on cue, the third and final tenant of Joly's house appeared in the doorway, wire glasse askew on his face, ink-stained fingers fumbling inside a waistcoat pocket while he simultaneously struggled not to drop the armful of books and papers he was carrying. His narrow, angular face was flushed, his hair was a tangled mess, and, just like always, there were ink stains scattered around in random places on the sleeves and shoulders of his shirt.

He stopped short when he saw Joly and Enjolras standing there with nearly identical smirks on their faces, spurred back into motion only when everything slipped out of his arms and onto the floor in front of his feet. He looked from the mess to his two older roommates, then pointed at the former. "I can fix that," he said. This statement having been put out in the open, he dropped to his knees and began working on doing just that. "Um, so, Enjolras," he said, "you're back, I see. How, uh...I mean, what...Did you find your...Y'know, your...your girlfriend, or...?"

Enjolras' face fell. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dirty-blonde mess of curls. "I got there a week late," he said. "She was there, and now she's gone. But I do know now that the child she had was-is a girl. Brigitte. I'm not giving up, though," he added, face hardening into a look of determination. "I'll find her. I'll figure out where it is she's headed off to, I'll go there myself, and I'll find her. I will see her again and I will meet my daughter, even if it's the last thing I ever do, so help me God, and if I don't, then I'll die trying."

"Speaking of dying," Joly said, picking his glasses up from the side table and putting them back on, "how are you feeling today, Apollo? Any trouble breathing, or...?" "I feel fine, M. le Docteur Malade Imaginaire. Seriously, Joly, it was five years ago, I've barely had any trouble with it at all since it happened, you worry about it too damn much, just like you worry too much about your own imaginary health issues and illnesses. I appreciate the concern, my friend, but for God's sake, you need to relax. It gets on my nerves sometimes, and if I haven't died after five years, then I honestly don't think that's going to suddenly change for no reason."

"We are talking about living, breathing, walking around, being you with a lung that was punctured by a bullet and nearly killed you, Enjolras, why shouldn't I worry?"
"I'm still confused about how exactly it didn't kill him," Amade interjected as he stood up with his books and papers clutched tightly against himself so he wouldn't drop them again.

"After Éponine had taken off," his cousin said, "I was going around closing eyes and such, making sure I had everyone accounted for so I could give them all the burial they deserved. While I was closing Gavroche's eyes and trying to get some of the dirt off his face and clean up some of the blood around the edges of his wounds, I heard a groan. After some investigating, I discovered that Enjolras was still breathing and had a pulse. True, he was only barely breathing, and the pulse was very faint, but it was still there, and that was more than enough motivation for me to keep trying to save him. I knew that my studies hadn't taught me enough to be able to help him in his condition, though, so I half-dragged, half-carried him outside, found a cart that was still intact enough for what I needed, put him in it, and went as fast as I could to the nearest convent.

"I left him there while I went back to finish with the bodies, and when I came back, I just caught the doctor the Mother Superior had sent for as he was leaving. He'd managed to succeed where I'd failed and gotten the bullets out. Thankfully, it turned out the puncture in Enjolras' lung wasn't nearly as deep or bad as I'd thought it was, but I was told that he'd probably have trouble breathing throughout the rest of his life and that his respiration should be watched and monitered carefully just in case. So that's exactly what I've been doing ever since."

Enjolras smirked slightly as he sat down on a chaise, chuckling lightly. "I've been fine for the most part," he added. "I have the occasional coughing fit, and sometimes my breathing gets raspy, mostly during the winter months, but other than that, it hasn't really given me any trouble. Certainly nothing life-threatening."
"True," Joly said as he sat back down and picked up his book, "but it's true what they say about being too careful; you never can."

Enjolras sat up straight all of a sudden as something sparked in his blue eyes. "Joly, you've just given me an idea," he said. Joly looked up from his book and frowned. "I have?" he asked. But Enjolras was already halfway through the doorway and had stopped listening as he raced down the hall and into the rear parlor, then came back clutching that morning's paper in his hand as his eyes quickly scanned through headlines. "Ah-ha!" he shouted, making both Amade and Joly jump in surprise. Enjolras yanked the book from the latter's hands, thrusting the paper into his face in practically the exact same instant.

"Look at that," he said, pointing at one of the headlines. "Thénardier. That's Éponine's last name. She told me her father is a crook who only cares about becoming rich. My guess is that she either heard or read about this somewhere and knew that since she's a direct relative, they would crack down on her twice as hard as any of his gang members if they managed to track her down, so she packed it up and took off with Brigitte to find a place where she could lay low for awhile to keep herself and Brigitte safe."

"I have to agree with that theory," Joly said as read over the article with his brow furrowed thoughtfully. When he noticed something in his peripheral vision, he looked up, then frowned when he realized that Enjolras was gone from the room again. "Where did he go?" he asked. Amade merely shrugged in response. In another few minutes, Les Amis' former leader had returned, this time with a carpet bag in his hand and a haversack slung across his body. Joly and Amade watched as he crossed the room in silence, picked Danielle up from the chaise, gazed at her for a moment, the put her in the haversack and closed the flap.

He grabbed his coat from the chair and met Joly's eyes as he put it over his arm. "I'm going after them," he said simply. "I have spent the last five years of my life worrying and wondering and dreaming about seeing her again, longing for the day I can finally know my own child. I swore to myself that I would do whatever it takes to make that happen. I will go to the ends of the earth to find her if I have to, but I am going to do it, and even if I don't, well, then..."

He shrugged. "Like I said earlier; I'll die trying."


AN: Oh, come ON, you guys, did you SERIOUSLY think that I was going to give 'Ponine a child and then throw her out there without the kid's father? DID YOU SERIOUSLY THINK I WOULD PUT HER IN A POSITION THAT COULD POTENTIALLY LAND HER IN THE SAME PLACE AS FANTINE? CUZ IF YOU DID, THEN YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR MOTHER FRACKING MIND.

Anyway, I tried to come up with a logical explanation for how in the name of all that is holy he could have POSSIBLY survived having his lung punctured by a bullet, especially after having him cough up blood and all that, and out of the possibilites I was able to come up with, the one that ended up actually getting used sounded the most realistic to me. So I hope that it didn't come across as being too terribly far-fetched, because I really did try my very best to make it as probable as I could.

Remember, though, guys, I am a sixteen-year-old girl with a disorder that's on the Autism spectrum (complicated, don't ask), and my two weakest points in school as far as the core subjects go are math and science. Most of the time when I write about stuff like this, I have to rely on a combination of Wikipedia, what VERY (and I honestly cannot stress that enough) little I know about these things, and various things that Google pulls up for me when I type this stuff into the search bar. So you have to forgive any inaccuracies, unlikliehoods, etc., etc., because I really do put absolutely everything I am able to into my writing, and I use absolutely every possible resource I can think of and am able to use to make things as accurate and realistic as I possibly can.

*sighs* Okay, I'm done, you get it, I'm passionate about my writing, I'm sure a lot of you guys are, too, so I'll just shut up now.

ANYWAY, ENJY'S NOT DEAD, HURRAY, LET'S ALL CELEBRATE THAT!

*runs off to do exactly that*

-Maggie

PS: I tried to make this chapter longer. I'm not sure if I succeeded very well or not, but...*shrugs* :/