.

February 1829

.

"She will be of eligible age to marry soon, will she not?"

Jean Valjean feels a shiver run down his spine at the very thought, keeping his face carefully blank.

This man (one of those learned men that have come to trek back and forth throughout his household in increasing degrees of frequency) stares at him, bright eyes housed within a lined and educated face.

"Cosette is fourteen," he stresses, refusing to allow his eyes to flick back towards the doorway behind which Cosette resides.

He had imagined much on the run, had pictured a life living from one meal to the next, had dreamed and prayed for the chance to carve out as successful a life as he had boasted while under the alias of Monsieur Madeleine.

He had never thought, for even a moment, it would be Cosette that would bring them such fortune.

When he had picked her up that Christmas day, when she had looked upon him with such knowing eyes, part of him had wondered. When the girl proved a quick study, amazing the nuns and holy men with whom they stayed, he had been a tad startled. After all, from what little of her life he had witnessed, he wouldn't have believed her capable of reading and writing. She took lessons from the learned men of the convent and she breezed through them with an ease that startled them all.

Soon enough, aged nine, she was submitting papers to Collège de Sorbonne, Paris' University, under the penname of 'C. Fauchelevent'.

Things did not come to head until Cosette turned eleven and the University's head of the science faculty turned up on the doorsteps of the convent, his arms loaded with papers and determined to find the 'gem of a young man' the holy building held.

To say that the man dismissed Cosette as the origin of the papers would be an understatement; had gone so far as to threaten to bring the law down upon their heads for false truths.

Valjean had been struck motionless, frozen with fear, but Cosette had simply spoken, expanded upon the pages and pages of papers within the man's arms. Of her thoughts on human behaviour, on philosophy and the purpose of mankind, of electricity and her prototype steam turbine to generate such power, of her behaviour-conditioning experiments with the mutt she had convinced the priest to allow into their halls. It explained why she had always been ringing a bell and why Pavlov had taken to salivating at the noise the action produced.

It shamed him, quite frankly. For while he had always understood that there had been an uncanny intelligence behind the deep blue of Cosette's eyes, intellect growing so strong and steady that it'd refused to wilt even throughout her less than desirable childhood, even knowing that, he still had not comprehended the weight of it. But watching her impress a man who still regarded her as less simply due to her gender, watching her force a man to look past his misconceptions and impressions of her status as female to see the very potential she houses beneath was astounding.

The sheer amount of ideas that poured from the girl's mouth, the way her hands gesture passionately as she explained concepts one after another, it was as unbelievable as it was astounding.

The professor stumbled away that day, having spent the better part of the morning and the entirety of the night listening to Cosette, Cosette who became so excited and enthralled within her discussion that she too failed to acknowledge the time and near dropped into a state of slumber with her porridge as her pillow, sat up to the breakfast table.

Once that night was over, foolishly, Valjean had believed that the end of it all.

But no. After that first man came another, then another, and another and another until they were suddenly being brought onto university grounds, his dear little Cosette enticed to lecture after lecture. Genius, they would whisper as she sprouts idea after idea to the masses of learned men, who gather as if the knowledge of the universe flows from her lips.

Valjean does not understand a quarter of what Cosette speaks of when she begins talking with those learned men, but he does know they all but worship her brain. He can see it in their eyes, can see how they look upon her, how swiftly they work to scribble down her words.

Should have been born a man, some of them whisper. Think of how much progress France would have made had she been born male.

Valjean does not see it though, cannot even began to fathom how a change in Cosette's gender would change her intellect. But he keeps his silence on that, unwilling to break the tentative peace Cosette has managed to create with these men of the mind.

"Fourteen for now," the man (whose name Valjean cannot, for the life of him, recall) mutters, forcibly returning his mind to the present.

"We shall not be considering marriage for at least another two years." That is Cosette's wish, after all. Determined to continue expanding her horizons; the money is already flooding in from the inventions she is churning out. She wishes to keep doing what she loves and who is Valjean to stop her?

.

It takes far too long, but he eventually manages to evict the latest lecturer, doctor, professor... whatever that man had been. His official capacity does not matter, not to Valjean. Cosette had agreed to speak with him of her latest project and that is all he cares for.

Knocking gently upon the door, Valjean pushes the painted wood open, slipping calmly inside.

She is a curious thing, this little bird he had taken under his wing. Too intelligent by far, too delicate looking for all of the metal and heavy machinery she has begun producing. They source the components from several different blacksmiths, determined to see no design stolen. And when the pieces arrive, Cosette puts them together herself, with only Valjean to aid her in any heavy lifting. Not that she hasn't developed tools and levers and pulleys to do all of that for her. Still, the point stands that he would much rather risk his own neck beneath the heavier equipment then see it crash down on her fragile head.

"Papa. How can I help you?"

Hooking his foot beneath the slab of wood upon on the floor, Valjean gives a quick jerk of his leg and the little trolley rolls out, drawing his darling daughter out from whatever it is she's working on. Her face, so fair and pale, is stained with the canola oil she has him purchase in bulk, fingers coated with ink.

"What are you working on, Cosette?"

"An automobile. I'm improving Isaac de Rivaz's original design. Exceptionally clever man, that one. A shame he passed last year, I'd liked to have met him..." she trails off, working her lip into her mouth, teeth scraping across her lower lip before she seems to finally accept he will be allowing her to whittle away no more of her day within the workshop.

Peeling off the hard-textile gloves she wears, Cosette brushes the few loose hairs back from her face, adjusting the waistband of her borrowed trousers.

Valjean had been rather against her loaning his old clothes, right up until Cosette has showcased exactly what would happen if the loose material of her dress were to be caught in the mechanics of whatever project it'd been at the time. A demonstration she had produced with a dead pig dressed in her old 'finery'.

To say the least, the end result had not been pretty.

The little mademoiselle had certainly gotten her way after that brutally effective show, just under the promise that she would not attempt to traverse around outside in her 'engineering clothes', as she did so call them.

"Regardless," she continues, snatching up a roll of parchment and unveiling it before his eyes, "I'm working on a far more efficient variation. It'll run on gasoline, most effective substance I can get my hands on right now, and soon enough France'll be able to produce these babies for the masses."

She taps lovingly against the metal framework, ignoring the slight shudder it gives, near displacing her 'soldering iron'. By the grace of God does Valjean wish she'd never invented that. Effective or not, he does not trust it. 'Powered' by the steam generator she had created a year ago, the thing spits fire that she feeds 'soldering' into, allowing her to join metal together. It's something he'd never have believed a man capable of, not what his little Cosette manages.

He hadn't expected this outcome when telling her tales of his past exploits as mayor. Hadn't expected her to take her inventions (from the turnable 'washing machine', to the new stove that worked with the steam generator she'd made and all the others) and use them as an economy boosting tool. Pushing him into purchasing large buildings and training up those of the lower class looking for a job (man or woman) on how to produce her design to be then sold on to the middle and upper class.

And not just the French either.

They'd had a German visitor to the university a scant few weeks ago, one whom had been very interesting in Cosette's now patented designs.

Never had he expected that poor little girl sweeping the floors to be capable of single-handedly changing the French market as she has.

"Well I am sure that your... babies," Valjean grits it out, because despite the awful phrasing, it is by far a better 'baby' than another Cosette could get into her brain about creating, "will be there in the morning. You must sleep, Cosette."

"Yes, of course. I'll turn everything off first. Good night, Papa."

.

.

As an engineer in the life before this one, the woman now known as Cosette had spent but a mere week trying to determine if she should hide her intelligence when Valjean plucked her up from that awful household. If such a place could hold the title of 'house', nevermind 'home'. The parenting skills of that couple had been truly foul and she's glad to see the back of them.

When it comes down to it, in better circumstances it'd been impossible for her to not thrive, to not strive for the very best because that had been what her studies had been for in a previous life. Everything was just so... behind here, so terribly simple compared to her own 'past', and it would be until the day she died.

But that doesn't mean she cannot keep striving forwards, cannot drag France into an Industrial Revolution, even if it does come kicking and screaming because she is, heaven forbid, a woman with ideas.

While she might not be there to see it, these 'advancements' her 'genius brain' has come up with will mean that when it finally swings around to 2017, the year she had died, then things should be more technologically advanced.

It's just a shame she hadn't been a history buff, then she might have been able to be of some use to actually good causes.

As things stand, Cosette finds herself pushing her Papa into funding exactly what her 21st century mindset dictates to be a good idea.

If that happens to be dragging Paris towards progress and enlightenment, then so be it.

.

May 1829

.

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

Enjolras startles slightly, drawing back from his conversation with Combeferre to find the source of the voice.

A young lady, barely more than a girl really, is standing with her arms wrapped around a bunch of rolled up papers and a frown on her face. She's also looking directly at him, an all too clear indication that it is he who she addresses. There's a set to her lips, proud and challenging and it has Enjolras' back straightening, body twisting until he's facing her fully.

"My pardon, Mademoiselle?"

"Don't play coy. You were just saying how you think the working class is suppressed, something I completely agree with you upon, and that something needs to change. But how? How are you going to ensure change? We've been in a constant flux of change for the past few decades that it seems as if we'll never have a steady leadership nor a steady economy. I promise you, Monsieur, it is the latter the little people are far more concerned about."

"So what do you suggest? That we just sit back, allow things to continue as they are with a head of state so corrupt France withers and dies like so many freshly cut roses beneath a summer sun?" Enjolras scoffs, shoulders broad as he stares down at the little lady.

She matches him, burning glare for burning glare, stubborn frown for stubborn frown. She's even adopted the same offensively defensive posture as he.

"Of course not, but rash actions with little thought of the consequences towards the lives of the ones you claim need our aid is not the answer."

"And you believe what? That small inconsequential acts of goodness will suddenly spread? That everyone will open their eyes without true prompting and look upon the poverty that permits not just Paris but France itself? Those eyes are going to need prying open because right now, I can assure you that Paris' royalist upper class are purposefully turning a blind eye."

"And you think inciting a revolution in this climate will be better? We might be years away from the right mindset for such a thing and lighting that powder keg too early would only result in further oppression of the lower class. Not to mention the small-scale explosion that'd swallow those few daring revolutionaries whole," says the woman, a firm set to her shoulders, head cocked ever so slightly to a side as she challenges him to finish that return fire, to keep the argument going. Enjolras will gladly oblige.

"What do you suggest them, Mademoiselle? That we try to educate the upper class upon issues they are nothing but deaf to? They have never cared to hear such an thing before."

"Then you're contradicting your own concept of change. You're dealing with the symptoms and not the cause. Say you roll out your revolution successfully and improve life for the lower class. Then what? Sooner or later, those with the actual power, the monetary and intellectual wealth will figured out another way to suppress them and it'll be right back where we started. You'd need to devise a system to ensure change remains and that's not going to come about if you go charging in head-first!"

Enjolras has no idea which of them took a step closer, if it was she who approached him or he who approached her as they argued, but what remains is that they are suddenly so much closer than before. He could extend his arm before himself and his elbow would come to rest upon the crown of the little lady's head.

They're close enough he can see those dark eyes are blue and blaze, a winter's fire with its sudden, scorching heat. The determination there, it crashes against his thoughts, leaves him twisted and turning in the wake of an information over-wash.

Because she's right.

He's seen the issues that linger within Paris (and undoubtedly, his country), and he'd recognised that disease. Knew it needed dealing with.

But once the infection is cleansed, how could he possibly stop a second onset, one perhaps even worse than which came before it? He has no plan, no concept of aftercare, just a determination to bring about a cleansing of society's thoughts and misconceptions.

Would he even be treating the infection; would even be healing the wound? Or would he just be slapping a pretty bandage over the top and praying it didn't fall free?

"You're right," Enjolras agrees, wondering if his expression is as dazed as he feels inside. If this sensation of stupefied wonder is perhaps visible upon his feature. "I've been thinking far too small. It is not enough to have a plan of action, there has to be some form of long term change, an assurance that Parisians will not fall back upon the way things once were."

Minuscule. His thoughts have been minuscule in the long run.

Unacceptable.

He cannot carry on like this. Paris, no, France deserves the very best from him and by god, will Enjolras ensure his country receives such a thing.

"There's so much more to be done. You're right," he repeats and the girl stares at him.

Her eyes are the darkest blue, wide and utterly focused.

Enjolras' chest is working hard, rising and falling to draw breath after their rapid-fire argument and his sudden enlightenment.

She's still looking at him, but it's only now that she's actually taking his face, taking his features in.

It's not the same eyes other women look upon him with.

She smiles, pale lips twisting up and she just keeps staring.

"You're amazing," she breathes and Enjolras jolts.

What? What does that mean?

.

.

Combeferre stares, well aware his mouth is wide open, but quite unable to help himself.

The localised summer storm in the form of a mademoiselle bows her head to them before retreating back to her companion, an elder male whom must be acting as her escort, one who seems quite unimpressed by Enjolras' very existence.

Enjolras who's more riled up than Combeferre has seen him all month. Never before has Combeferre seen such a reaction from someone overhearing one of Enjolras' little speeches; neither slow nods of agreement or blatant dismissal. He's never seen someone agree and then come up with counterarguments, or just instigate a critical discussion with his revolutionary inclined friend.

He's never seen Enjolras concede to someone else's words as has just happened.

"Amazing? What does that even mean?" Grantaire grumbles, eyeing the woman as she disappears from sight. It's clear that the word isn't the problem for their ever-tipsy friend, just the context within which it is used.

Enjolras finally seems to pull himself together somewhat, thoughts reassembling behind his brilliant blue eyes. It is as if the little lady has left part of her storm within their friend; there is a force gathering around Enjolras, empowering that purpose he is forever bleeding.

"Was that Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, Monsieur?"

Their quartet turns at the sudden address, tearing Combeferre's eyes from Enjolras to instead find himself looking upon Sebastian Lierau, head of the university's science department.

He's staring after the young woman that just swept into their lives, a winter's flash-flood personified.

"We were never graced with a name-"

"She is a little abrasive but one supposes that comes with such genius. Much like a ghost, that one. However, if she's deigned to show herself, I don't doubt she'll be throwing the whole department into another storm for the day. Excuse me, gentlemen."

He hurries off, leaving the four of them on their own and Combeferre notices Marius appears to have had little to say, seems to have gone unusually quiet in these last few minutes, ever since the utter oddity that is apparently Mademoiselle Fauchelevent had blown in out of nowhere.

The besotted expression answers the question of exactly why Marius has fallen so silent.

"Wasn't she beautiful?"

"Marius? What are you talking about?"

"That girl…"

"You mean the one that was just arguing with Enjolras?" Grantaire splutters ludicrously, stressing upon Enjolras' name because there are so very, very few people who could go toe to toe with their blond friend like that.

The way in which Grantaire considers Marius is exactly how Combeferre finds himself feeling; wondering if the young law student has witnessed the same interaction that they were just present for.

But Marius' expression shows he is far, far away.

"She was captivating."

"Captivating indeed," Enjolras agrees thoughtfully, having retrieved a small notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket and a slender stick of charcoal, "she made some excellent points that I'll have to consider further."

There is a moment where Combeferre meets Grantaire's eyes, bloodshot brown and sun-dappled green, and they silently come to the conclusion the two fools have both seen only two sides of that confrontation.

Neither feel incline to crack that box open right now, so with a silent agreement passing between them, they set that topic aside for later.

Especially seeing as Enjolras appears to have utterly forgotten about his earlier speech, a small blessing. Combeferre normally has no issue listening to his friend.

The hour before a big exam, however, is a very different matter indeed.

.

.

"Ah, good morning," Cosette murmurs, tucking one strand of fly away brown hair behind her ear, "you're friends with that blond would-be revolutionary, aren't you? Would you be agreeable to passing this onto him for me?"

Holding out one of the many essays that'd been a little too liberal for the university to accept, Cosette smiles softly up at the young man, well aware of Valjean's imposing figure at her back.

After that meeting in the university's courtyard, thoughts of revolution have been spinning rapidly within Cosette's head. Ideas of progress, the forceful awakening of Paris' (and all of France's) inhabitants. It's a fanciful dream, one she has considered many times before, yet something that would be incapable of coming into fruition without an unparalleled force of people behind them.

Instead, Cosette had turned her attentions upon steady progress, had listened to every story Valjean had been willing to offer her. Tales of his progress within that small town he had been mayor of, how he had turned it all around.

But then the people had not changed, had not showcased the same overwhelming goodness that Valjean just... embodies.

Regardless, Cosette had soaked it up, all of it. His ideas, his experience. His unwavering belief that there was goodness to be found in humanity.

While she shall never believe in god, will never believe in an almighty presence when there's just so many contradictions in the bible... there are some concepts that are applicable in life.

Such as be kind to thy neighbour. That whole 'Good Samaritan' thing.

And perhaps there's the drive to make Valjean proud. When he had shared his name, his full story with her... Cosette has never met someone so worthy of respect than he. Whatever he may consider himself, a sinner to be judged, Cosette doesn't care. He'll forever be the most amazing person she has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

That shall never change.

"To Enjolras?"

"Oh, is that his name? Yes, the blond I was arguing with. Do you mind, awfully? I haven't the slightest idea where to begin with finding him."

The young man, with his soft auburn hair and rounded spectacles, offers her a hesitant smile. It does little to hide his confusion.

"Of course, Mademoiselle..."

"Fauchelevent. Cosette Fauchelevent."

"Tarot Combeferre. It's a pleasure."

.

.

"Oh! Has our glorious leader received a love letter?" Grantaire coos mockingly, eyebrows wiggling atop his brow as he eyes the engrossed blond.

Combeferre much is too busy focused on Enjolras to pay the drunk's words any true attention, but they still register. They're background information, categorised alongside the slowly dying the candles that light their room. Something to acknowledge but nothing to really deliberate over.

No, he's much more interested in the intent set to Enjolras' features, how his friend's river blue eyes snap back and forth across the papers that he had personally delivered their leader.

"She writes papers, papers on the concept of progress. On revolution. These are… Does she have anymore?" Enjolras asks, bright and excited.

Combeferre's still attempting to wrap his head around Mademoiselle Fauchelevent writing upon such a dangerous topic. Academically even. No no no. That cannot be right.

Only, when Enjolras passes him the parchment, it proves true.

The little mademoiselle who may yet to have even see her sixteenth birthday has indeed written such things. Her language, the way in which she presents her ideas, critiquing both the system and her own solutions... it's incredible. Far beyond what Combeferre would have been capable of at that age, despite the best education money could buy.

The more he reads, the more fascinated he becomes.

Never has he read of a person so self-aware, so objective within their own ideas that they could bounce the justifications of their thoughts back and forth between good and bad. It's astounding, as if someone has taken a handful of Enjolras' ideas, jotted them down onto paper and then just, furthered them.

He can understand why his friend is so excited over the idea.

"I shall ask her, if Mademoiselle Fauchelevent is amiable to another conversation with myself."

The rest of their little group crowds around and Combeferre smooths the paper out upon the table top, so that they might read and discuss.

"Come now, Marius. What troubles you so?"

In the corner, Marius looks glum.

A bit shamed that it took the drinker of them to notice Marius' state, Combeferre toys with the idea of going over there.

As irritating as Marius' mooning over the 'fair maiden' has become, he is still, after all, their friend.

With that thought in mind, Combeferre pushes back from the table, sucking in a deep breath. With any luck, he'll have inhaled some patience with that one.

Dealing with a freshly rejuvenated Enjolras and a mopey Marius in one night is far too much to ask of one man alone.

.

.

"Mademoiselle?"

Twisting to the source of the voice, Cosette offers the young man a small smile; his visage is familiar but she's not known for her ability to recall faces to names.

"Monsieur? Can I help you?"

"The delivery you entrusted me with, one of your papers for my rather like-minded friend? I have it here, read and returned."

And while the young man remains nameless she recognises him in context now. He's part of that blond speaker's group.

"Oh! Did he find it particularly enlightening?"

"Indeed. Actually, he wishes to enquire if you have anymore."

At that, Cosette grins, passing over to the little table she has appropriated in the library. All of her work is thrown hazardously across the surface, a territorial claim, a dare for anyone to try and move it. Valjean sits slouched in one chair, though his eyes darken as they land on the man that has come to join them upon the table.

"I don't have anything on that particular topic on my person right now, but I've got some things on the concept of human thought and behaviour that he may find interesting. Of course, if you're willing to meet me this time next week, I'll happily hand you some of my more... idealistic papers to pass along, if that's alright with you, Monsieur?"

"I- yes, of course... what are you working on right now?"

Pausing, Cosette tilts her head back to look the stranger in the eye, considering the sincerity of his words. But no, those warm forest green eyes are dripping with honest curiosity.

"At the moment, biology. Tracking the physical traits through family lines, be they human or dog or even something as mundane as plants, in order to see the pattern. Like how a blond woman will give birth to a dark-haired child if the father is dark of hair, but if that child goes on to have a child with another of dark hair, there's a chance the mother's blond hair could reappear in the grandchild. A concept of inheritance."

"That sounds fascinating."

"Brilliant. I'm glad you agree... if you're not too busy, you're welcome to stay and work with me on it."

.

By the end of the day, Cosette had learnt a great deal of things about her unplanned but welcomed company.

His name is Tarot Combeferre, though they have been introduced once before (she doesn't recall). He's twenty-two and studies science, or what atrocities pass as science in the present day, though he has yet to select his topic of study.

The more they discuss, the sooner they end up deviating from the previous topic to branch out into psychology and philosophy, particularly focused on the concept of man and his place upon the earth.

By the time the sun has set and the candles have burned for an hour too long, Cosette has not even gotten half of the work she wishes to complete done, but has instead got branches upon branches of topics, of ideas and thoughts and theories to later explore.

"The term genius is well applied," Combeferre decides, staring down at his own mess of scribbled as Valjean flicks to the next page of his book. Cosette considers the man she knows as her papa before returning her attention to the bespectacled young man she shares a table with.

"Is it the genius, or just the ability to ask for questions, to seek further knowledge and apply it though?"

"...You've twisted my brain into a fine knot this day, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. Please, cease and desist."

"I do think you can call me Cosette after this brain-storming session, Monsieur."

"Brain-storming. I like it, an apt terminology. I should have set off hours ago, but I can hardly say this was not a pleasant way-lay. My thanks, Mademoiselle Cosette." He bows, offering Valjean a slight nod of his head before he leaves.

And then she gets the paternal stare of disapproval. Well, not disapproval. Just... well, Cosette isn't sure what kind of stare that is.

Only that she doesn't like it. Not one whit.

.

August 1829

.

"That's the wrong pocket, I'm afraid."

Gavroche's hand stills, the edge of his fingertips still brushing the pocket of the lady's dress. He'd assumed, because her dress was odd enough to have pockets that she had to have some serious money to afford customising such a lovely dress. More money than sense.

But she'd noticed the second his hand had tried sneaking into her pocket and now her chaperone's hand has clamped down atop his shoulder.

"Lemme go, I've got lice and I bite!" Gavroche hisses, baring his teeth to strengthen his threat. Though he's lying about the lice; he hasn't caught any of them yet but even then, it's only a matter of time.

Ever since they moved here to Paris he's been thrown out of the home more and more often, told to bring some money back or to not come back at all. Then he'd stolen from the wrong man, but instead of beating him, Courfeyrac had brought him along to a little cafe.

Gavroche had stopped going 'home' after that. The cafe has become his new home, Les Amis his new family. They are all incredible. They are also absent at the moment and he's been caught trying to steal from a lady. A lady he's suddenly on eye-level with.

"Is it money for the sake of money, or money for the sake of food?" she asks, a little tilt of a smile to her lips, her eyes soft.

Gavroche grimaces, looking between her gentle facade and the man who's still got a grip on his shoulder. But no, even that guy doesn't look angry. Just, just a little sad.

"Sweetheart, are you after money for food?"

Sweetheart?

Distrustful, Gavroche tests the old man's grip with a quick jolt but it's hellishly strong. He's not getting out of here without a fight and he's in condition for that. It sucks, but he's not tall enough, not big enough, not old enough to take this guy on.

The lady sighs, running a hand across the top of her head and then scowling as she displaces the artfully displayed bonnet she wears.

"Come on."

.

That's how Gavroche finds himself sat in one of Paris' many inns, cleaner than what he'd have been able to get into himself but oh so obviously still working class. It doesn't matter; the broth that's brought of the table if filling, the best thing he's tasted in these past few weeks, the bread still soft as he tears into it.

The lady and her chaperone (father? Grandfather? Uncle?) offer him no harsh words for his table manners, even as they sit and primly eat their own portions. It's clear this isn't their usual spot, they stick out like a sore thumb and the matron of this place looks one kind word away from fainting in shock.

"Wha'd'ya want from me?"

"Who says I have to want something?" the lady murmurs with a sly little smile, twirling her spoon nimbly between their fingers, back and forth in a good show of dexterity. Gavroche knows, he's done that many times before; it makes for nimble fingers.

When he stubbornly folds his arms, the lady rolls her eyes and bushes her own bread towards him.

Ever the opportunist, Gavroche tears right into it as quickly as possible.

"You're wearing Enjolras' rosette, Sweetheart."

"You know Enjolras?" The words slip free from his mouth before he could ever hope to stop them. But to even recognise the rosette as belonging to Enjolras, she has to have some kind of idea of the cause too.

"My name is Cosette Fauchelevent, and this is my, grandfather."

"Fauchelevent? I know you, they all talk about you at the cafe."

At that, Cosette does look quite lost all of a sudden, as if he's confused her.

"Who are these people that talk about me?"

"Courfeyrac. Him and Grantaire and Combeferre and Pontmercy and Enjolras. More Pontmercy than anyone else... says your eyes are like sapphires, he does."

Mademoiselle Cosette's face goes a fantastic red and Gavroche grins, bold and bright. "Well, to answer your question, I don't know Enjolras really, we just pass letters and papers back and forth. I do know Monsieur Combeferre though. He told me the significance of the rosette. I have my own somewhere back home."

.

He can't quite remember what they talk about after that, but Gavroche remembers having to insist he has a home to go back to (the cafe. It's not somewhere he can stay and sleep but it's home all the same) and he's good getting there on his own.

Cosette frowns as he takes off; he doesn't forget the look on her face 'cause it's not one he's ever seen before. Not directed at him anyway.

.

He doesn't plan on finding her again, but when he's scrambling through the streets and he spots her, well he just goes over to make sure she's having a good day, doesn't he?

It's not like he's disappointed that it ends with his belly full and little crusts of bread beneath his nails.

Even better, Cosette has something she wants him to pass onto Enjolras. Not that he needs more of an excuse to go and stick around with the Les Amis, to spend some more time in Cafe Musain. But it's nice.

He's not seen an expression quite like what Enjolras wears when Gavroche declare she has something for him, something Mademoiselle Fauchelevent entrusted him with delivering.

He's heard them talking about her before, about her ideas for progress within Paris and all of France. He's got no idea why they don't just bring her to join in.

But he agrees to keep passing their papers back and forth.

He doesn't recall when he passes the first paper to someone who's not a member of Les Amis, doesn't remember the first day he ends up staying the night at the Fauchelevent house when he 'drops from exhaustion'.

He thinks it's because Cosette piled him up with food then stuck him in front of the fireplace to 'warm his bones' before he went out. Next thing he remembers is waking up in the spare room on a bed comfier than anything he's slept in before.

At some point Cosette promised to wash his clothes but they never came back and he's suddenly got a wardrobe filled in that spare room with little shirts and trousers that couldn't fit either of the Fauchelevents and have to be for him.

He doesn't know at what point this moved from being a quick errand run to him being employed as a courier. Because that's what he is. Cosette leaves him a few coins every day, more than anyone else would pay for a street rat to run their errands, but that's what happens. And life is... comfortable here.

He's got a warm, dry place to rest his head, the promise of food and it's not like going to see the Les Amis is exactly a chore to him.

"Gavroche? Could I borrow a moment of your time, please?"

Making his way over to Cosette, Gavroche eyes the many, many papers that litter her desk. She's a strange one, this Mademoiselle. In the comfort of her own home or in her not so little workshop upon the university grounds, she parades about in men's clothes, working hands on with 'machinery'.

All Gavroche knows is that it brings in a lot of money and gets all the huffy old men excited for some reason. He has seen an automobile or two pass by on the streets now, which'd been weird to say the least. Slower than a horse, but they looked mighty comfortable.

"Yeah, Cosette? Wan'me ta run to the cafe again?"

Cosette grins, reaching over when he's close enough to ruffle his hair, patting the empty chair in a clear sign he should take a seat.

So take a seat he does, frowning as Cosette pushes what is clearly a report onto the table space before him.

"Can you read, Gavroche?"

"No," he spits mulishly, turning to frown up at Cosette. He knows her, knows for some unthinkable reason she has a soft-spot for him, knows she won't tease him over this lack of ability.

But he's got no idea where she's going with this.

"In a few months, I plan on giving a speech at university over the concept of a public school in Paris, somewhere that the children under 12 could attend to learn their numbers and letters and to think for themselves. I've got the building and someone from the church has agreed it's a good charity project, so he's going to teach there. But I need a thorough case study to go alongside the results from the school. If I can prove a child can learn a significant amount with the right method of teaching..." she trails off, looking at him expectedly and Gavroche realises with a jolt he's the case study. Part of the 'science project'. He's helped Cosette every so often, but he's never actually been involved. Just helped pass her things, make observations aloud for her to write down. Now she wants him to join in?

"Why? Why're you doing this now?"

"Enjolras," Cosette says, as if his should be the answer enough.

When it shows upon his face that such a thing is not an acceptable reason, she huffs and grabs some worksheets, all with large letters drawn upon them. He knows enough to recognise them as letters, but which ones they are, he doesn't have the foggiest clue.

"He goes on and on about the betterment of Paris, but helping the people would be so much better than if I went out and attended a rally. Education means the Bourgeoisie won't be able to suppress the working class that way. Once people have learnt something, learnt to question the world around them, they start striving for better. Just like Paris will not have been built in a day, neither will a better society. But I can build the first house here. We could build the first house. Will you help me, Gavroche?"

"Well when you put it that'a way, how can I say no?"

.

.

January 1830

.

Though they exchange letters and papers often, Enjolras does not run into Mademoiselle Fauchelevent until the second dawning day of the new year.

.

He's in the library, looking for a particular book upon philosophy. Greek in origin, as whole the name eludes him; Enjolras knows he'll recognise it when he spots the cover.

His fingers are working through the spines, some old, some new, some rebound and others with their original backing. There is so much he has yet to learn, that much has become evident as he talks with the rest of Les Amis, as he re-evaluates all he knows, as he reads the papers Combeferre and then later Gavorche brings him.

He hadn't been thinking deep enough, far enough. There's not been enough thought, he'd been so short-sighted and looking back upon it now, it makes him cringe internally.

All these brilliant ideas, but with no concept of how to implement them.

Yes, the Misérables could revolt, yes they could raise the Parisians in a revolution. But king or no king, they would still be poor. There is a monumental task set before him; fixing a country that has long since been brought to a state of ruin, situated upon the very cliff-edge, threatening to tilt with the slightest breeze. Even if the weather stays kind, the crumbling foundations that erode away will ensure the current state falls soon enough. How much suffering such a wait will mean, how many more lives that will be lost, Enjolras cannot even begin to guess.

His fingertips halt at the perfect little gap between books, neatly trimmed nails tapping at 'Aristotle's Complete Works'. This had been where he found it last.

Confound it, someone must be perusing the very pages he needs. There had been a quote in there, one he'd been longing to include within a speech but he had not been able to work in the source material. Until now, that is. Perhaps the culprit Is still here within the library? Surely, they would not have travelled far with that book; despite it's significant contents, it makes for particularly dry reading.

Scanning his surroundings, Enjolras makes his way down the aisle, looking over the handful of people whom occupy the library.

Two he recognises from his own course, would be lawyers ready to churn out more money for those who have already grown fat upon their wealth. There is another male, one whom he doesn't recognise but is young enough to perhaps be a first year; understandable why Enjolras would not know his face. The final figure… the final figure is wearing a dress.

His pace dies, the creek of floorboards beneath his feet falling silent. She's young, still as fresh faced as when he last saw her, though her features had blurred from his memory with the passage of time. She's also watching him, fearlessly making eye contact the moment such a thing is possible.

"It's Monsieur Enjolras, right?" she asks, fingers tapping against the spine of the book she'd been studying, a very familiar book indeed. "I wouldn't forget a face that pretty."

"Mademoiselle..." Enjolras trails off, eyeing the book currently cradled within the girl's hands.

Cosette Fauchelevent has her hip cocked against the side of the table, hair pulled back into a messy bun that sits at the base of her skull. She's remarkably clean, but that only makes the ink stains upon her fingers stand out more. Those dark-dipped fingers currently holding onto the very book he'd been looking for. Additionally, if the not-quite woman is here, that means her father (grandfather?) is lurking around somewhere, chaperoning. Combeferre has spoken of the man often enough, though he never joins in their discussions.

"Yes, Monsieur?"

She smiles, eyes dropping to the book and it transforms into a teasing grin. She knows he wants that particular title, had probably watched him as he searched the shelves for it.

"I'm sorry, can I help you, Monsieur Enjolras?"

Lips pursed, Enjolras considers the woman before him with thinly veiled annoyance. She's smiling and there's the same glint in her eyes that Grantaire gets, the gleam when he's too far into his cups but still stewing in a good mood. She's teasing him and Enjolras doesn't have a clue how to handle that. No woman has ever teased him before, nor has he ever witnessed a woman teasing a man. He has no prior knowledge to work from here.

But just as the little Mademoiselle hadn't balked in challenging him with an argument all those months ago, Enjolras will not back down either.

"Are you finished with that particular book, Mademoiselle?"

"Hmmm… Not quite yet. There's a few concepts I wish to discuss, but my usual partner shan't be joining me today. He doesn't have the time, you see?"

Pulling out a chair, the little lady seats herself, placing the book down upon the table, movements openly demure as her nimble fingers smooth out the pages.

Jaw clenched, Enjolras stiffly joins her at the table, sliding into a chair. It would unbecoming if he were to remain towering over her and intimidation is a poor form of exerting control. One only needs to look upon the crown and national guard for such evidence. If that method were truly effective, then there would have been far less rebellions in France's history.

"Would you be willing to discuss the intricacies of Greek democracy, Monsieur Enjolras?"

The tip of a pen taps against paper, upon which he can see many words in a familiar hand. Cosette has one elbow resting upon the table, her chin cradled within her palm as she surveys him.

"If that is what you require to relinquish your book, Mademoiselle."

She smiles, eagerly reaching for his notes and soon enough, Enjolras' mind swirls.

.

.

"-thinking that far ahead isn't something we've considered yet."

"So, you'd tear down an old regime without something to replace it with?"

Valjean can only watch in horror, because for all that their words are clashing... their bodies are in agreement, leaning into one another.

Cosette's shoulders are open without the defensive pride that so oft rests atop them, and the young man's hips angle towards her a surely as his face (twisted in annoyance and intrigue) does. They've abandoned all pretence of sitting correctly, both having abandoned the table top in favour of twisting to face one another, a brightness to Cosette's eyes that has become harder and harder to ignite.

No, Valjean can only watch, a heavy stone sinking within his stomach as if little girl comes alive before his eyes, a rose blooming and all for this too beautifully boy that shines like the sun.

"Of course not. We have a skeletal structure for the kind of framework we would introduce, elected officials that would represent different aspects of government."

"And from there? How do you stop the corruption from taking root again?"

"I believe removing the current regime would be more effective than dallying over what-ifs. Prevention is always something that can be discussed at a later date."

Cosette huffs, still utterly focused upon the young man; neither of them had noticed Valjean when he'd coughed, nor flinched when he had dropped a book a far too loudly upon the floor. That had gained him the attention of the rest of the library's occupants, so it had been with great discomfort that he had forgone he next plan to break their... fascination with each other.

The debate itself has left his head spinning. All he knows is that it is a blessing from his Lord in heaven that they have kept their voices low and tones hushed. Otherwise, he doesn't imagine they would not have already been thrown from the library, if not arrested for disturbing the peace.

It is long past time he breaks this up now.

As much as allowing Cosette her freedoms and the chances to chase her happiness brings him joy, they do have things to be considering today.

"Cosette."

Cosette startles, her lips parted, caught right at the beginning of her sentence. Her company seems confused as to her sudden distraction before he too recalls where they are, a look of surprise overtaking his face, though for what reason, Valjean cannot even begin to guess.

"You wished to visit one of the factories today, implored that I remind you should you get lost in your... studies." For what she has spent the past hour or so doing could hardly be titled as 'studying'.

"Yes, of course. How foolish of me," Cosette mutters, teaching to run a hand through her hair, as she so oft does when at home, where her hair is unbound and free of constraint. She scowls when her fingers find a lack of long tresses, all pulled back into a bun as they are.

"You'll have to excuse me, Monsieur Enjolras. I ought to go visit the people who work for me... though that's a topic to discuss at a later date," she finishes with a winning smile, the warmth of her tone prominently displaying the humour within her words. "There's another topic for your consideration; the rights of the working man and all that."

She retrieves a handful of papers from the table surface, offering them to the young man, this 'Enjolras' that is far too handsome for his own good.

"If you'll excuse me, please?"

"Of course, Mademoiselle. I look forwards to our next meeting."

Valjean most certainly does not.

.

All throughout the factory visit, Cosette is distracted.

Though she refuses to let it prevent her from continuing on with what she considers her duty, Valjean has known her for years, has watched her evolve from the timid little sapling that those foul inn-keepers had raised into a gorgeous rose, the most beautiful young lady he has ever met, both inside and out.

That has never been more obvious than right now, as she speaks quietly with one factory worker after another, offering them the chance to attend the public school she has set up. The public school that now holds evening classes for adults whom wish to learn their numbers and letters.

All the workers there watch his little girl with such awe, such admiration within their eyes.

What exactly it is they adore so much about her, he cannot even begin to pin down. Perhaps it is her genius, a trait that has resulted in these factories being opened and the creation of the jobs they so desperately need. Perhaps it is that Cosette implemented a 'workers rights' document, placed proudly both within the office and by the door. An entitlement to half pay for up to two weeks if they fall sick (with a doctor's note provided to prove it), a promise that health and safety aspects of the factory will constantly be considered and reassessed. It might cost Cosette a bit more money, but in the end, production rate is up, quality is consistent and the workers are happy.

In fact, there is apparently a queue outside the door every Monday morning, full of men looking for work in whatever factory is funded by the Fauchelevents. They're always asking if there's any jobs going, according to the foreman.

Cosette thanks him for the knowledge, a look overtaking her face and Valjean knows he shall have to begin playing with the numbers. They care little for money, Cosette saves just enough for them to live a modest lifestyle (it is, after all, money she has earned and thus hers to do as she will) while the rest is all invested.

It's starting to show.

During schooling hours (nine till three, Monday to Friday), there are significantly less orphans upon the streets; Valjean wonders if anyone else has noticed it yet. He knows Cosette plans a speech regarding both that and the young lad she's taken under her wing, but he tries not to look into what she is doing too much. She has his trust.

He pauses, considering the blond from earlier this day and a frown crosses his face.

Correction, he trusts her with most things. That particular thing he shall have to watch out for.

He'd never witnessed her become so wrapped up within a conversation and though he has tried, Valjean is far from the most learned man in all of Paris.

That boy though, it's obvious beneath that halo of golden curls there is a brain interesting enough to capture Cosette's attention.

Oh, he's seen her look upon men before, assess their appearance, but that has all it has ever been. Aesthetic appeal. Nothing more.

He's not quite sure what God's plan is, throwing this boy who looks far too much like an angel into his darling daughter's path. A young man with a handsomeness that draws Cosette's eye, but a brain that entices her mind enough to keep her eye.

The Lord Almighty must have a reason, but Valjean is hesitant to even begin guessing as to what that it. Nothing happens for the sake of it, everything is part of some greater plan. Just as he can now see it had been his lot in life to find Cosette, to suffer until he was in the perfect position to help the little Mademoiselle. That is his purpose in life, has always been his destined purpose, even though he had not known it in his earlier days.

Because he helped Cosette, and she has gone on to help so many; it has become one long, beautiful chain of kindness. Who is he to break a new link forming upon that? If this golden boy is part of a higher plan, then so be it.

But that does not mean Valjean cannot ensure the young man is worth spending time with his little Cosette, and if he is not, then God would not have given him the thought of mind to drive the boy off were he not supposed to do so.

"I'm done, Papa," Cosette's murmurs, returning to his side, slender arm slipping into his hold, dainty fingers resting upon his forearm.

"Then it is time to return home."

.

March 1830

.

"Public schools," Combeferre muses, slipping into a seat with a notebook and pen in hand, inkwell already upon the little desk that comes attached to the chair, "I would never have thought it myself.".

Courfeyrac nods, already running the edge of his pen back and forth across his lips, eyes focused downwards upon the stage.

"It creates an opportunity for the working man," Enjolras concludes, fingertips tapping against the top of his thigh, mind already swirling with the concept, "of course the bourgeoisie would not think of such a thing. It puts them in a far more delicate position should those beneath them begin catching up academically. Heavens forbid what the Aristocracy would think of such a thing."

He had seen a poster upon the campus for this particular talk last week, a report and discussion upon the advantages of schooling the lower class and why the people of Paris should endorse such a thing. It is something Enjolras himself would support wholeheartedly, he needs no discussion to come to this conclusion.

Education is (unfortunately) not a right; it is instead a privilege. But the very thought of it becoming such a thing, of a world in which every person could count and read; how could that be anything other than progress? It is these kinds of ideas that he wishes to see born, to see brought into the world so that France and its people may better themselves constantly, so they may continue to develop into something greater than they once were.

Taking this into consideration, Enjolras finds a strange absence of surprise when it is Cosette Fauchelevent whom walks upon the stage, even as a great deal of his fellow students begin to mull over if they should really be here, if they should listen to a woman speak academically.

It is painfully clear on just who among the student body have paid attention to her work, who she has talked to, or those who have listened to her previously. For they are the ones that remain seated and while they may not afford her the same respect as a male lecturer would be allotted, they nevertheless remain silent for her to begin.

Begin she does, expanding upon just what she has been up to these past few months, on why exactly there had been so few orphans out in a certain sector of Paris, how she has funded and opened a schoolhouse to see children taught their letters and numbers, no matter their background.

Throughout the speech, at least half of the audience get up and leave, shaking their heads, in disagreement or disgust, Enjolras cannot say for sure. More stay than what he would have expected though and he takes careful note of their faces. If they are perchance open to a concept of progress such a this, he should probably start his own speeches where they will hear him, will hear the truth in his words.

"No wonder we've seen so little of Gavroche, that little rascal," Courfeyrac chuckles at the young boy joins Cosette on stage, her 'in depth case study', as she terms it.

It had never even crossed Enjolras' mind to consider if the boy knew how to read, or if he wished to learn. Nonetheless, he will strive to take such things into consideration from here on out, to not make assumptions of others solely based from his own experiences.

Just because it is difficult to imagine himself incapable of reading by ten years of age.

It is with ideas swirling fast inside his mind that Enjolras sits and listens to Cosette's presentation, cataloguing anything and everything of interest the little slip of a girl can come out with.

How she uses passages from the bible, the holy book that so many bourgeoisie abide by, to guilt a person into wanting to fund further schoolhouses. Talks of the beggar on the road, of being purposefully ignorant and not carrying out God's will to help the people who need it. That if they proclaim they are no ignorant to the plight of the people, then they must be the evil that set upon the one in need, for if they are not helping, then they are certainly not a good Samaritan.

She implores them to aid her in her 'charity work', her academic researching; she appeals in anyway she can to gain aid, to entice those over to her side while all the while backing up her words with cold hard facts, evidence that can only be dismissed with more research.

Enjolras is of the opinion any research conducted would have to be tampered with in order to contradict Cosette's findings. She's just too smart to leave such a gaping soft-spot in her appeal.

Before he knows it, she has finished, two hours having past and having lost just over half of her audience. But there are those who have stayed, all of the lecturers have remained, the ones that deigned to come to this presentation.

They applaud at the end, some more enthusiastically that others; a sound of promise. Of progress.

.

They remain seated as others begin filtering out, Gavroche instantly leaping up the stairs to come and join them, many a student leaning out of the way now that they know his status as a gamin (former gamin?). It makes his approach all the easier though, the ten-year-old skidding to a halt in order to grin up at the three of them.

"Well? Did'ya like Cosette's rally?"

"I hardly think it classes as a rally, little Gavroche," Courfeyrac mutters, grinning as he ruffles the boy's hair with a sure, steady hand.

"Hey, I can read now. Best not be putting too much of your sap into ya love letters, Courfeyrac."

He laughs, dancing out the way of Courfeyrac's playful swat, hand stashed in the pockets of his trousers. Come to think of it, Gavroche's clothes have been far cleaner and less worn than ever before; it's clear to see why now.

"Did you enjoy it? Learning to read and write?" Enjolras asks, leaning back against the wooden back of his former chair, one hand resting upon the 'table' to keep his balance.

"It were boring at first, but now that I can read the secrets you guys are passing around, it's pretty interesting." Gavroche grins, smoothing his hair back down, though it still remains a ghost of the neatness it'd been while on stage.

"Useful is the word you're supposed to use, Gavroche. Useful. These are tools for life, not a neat little parlour trick."

Cosette pinches the tip of Gavroche's nose for a second, long enough that the boy tries playfully pushing her hand away, the both of them grinning with an easy camaraderie that can only come from a great deal of time spent in one another's company.

Is that what it means, to be a 'genius'? To be capable of finding common ground with a stranger, upon which a structure of friendship can be built? Enjolras is capable of inspiring the masses, but he can claim he share few warm relations as what Cosette appears to do.

She is more like Courfeyrac in that way, friendly and open-minded.

Something he should consider more; while he believes well and truly in the rights of the working class, he has never considered how the oppression of women is rampant within his beloved country. Had not even considered that they were exposed to subjugation also.

Not until he'd met a woman who seems to have clawed her way up and out of that, one that keeps trying to reach out and grasp progress, even as so many walk away from aiding her.

"Mademoiselle Cosette?"

Her attention is upon him instantly, eyelashes dark even in the bright light of the lecture theatre.

"Combeferre, Courfeyrac and I often meet with a collection of like-minded others in order to discuss France's potential for progression. Would you care to attend the next one? I am sure Gavroche could show you the way."

I have no idea what I'm doing anymore; writing has literally become what little stress relief I can get from uni (to the point I posted this on AO3 and forgot to post here) So I hope some of you like this, and bear with me, I'll be getting back to my One Piece, Harry Potter, and other stuff... at some point in the future.

Also, I'm no history buff, nor have I actually read Les Mis or ever made anything more mechanical than a lego bridge, so prepare for inaccuracies.

Tsume

xxx