AN: This is it! So many little things are different-and maybe some big things too. History has some new players to contend with now.

I put up the mix I put together to listen to while I wrote parts of this fic up at my tumblr here, if you too wish to cry about it: post/59904207282/until-at-last-weve-got-it-right-a -mix-for-the

Once again this fic can be thoroughly blamed upon Emma (souryellows on tumblr) and Melody (firemoonsilverwaters), who made me write it, so if you get a piece of Les Mis in your eye, blame them. It was beta-read by Bridget (graintaire) and Elizabeth (inkgeek) who specialized in different sorts of feels so I could know if I was breaking everyone's heart properly. If you're surprised by any ships... well, I might be putting up my little unwritten additional bits or adding them in or something later. We'll see. 3

My next big Les Mis project, among others, is an E/R Neverwhere crossover because I am a ridiculous parody of a human being, if that sounds like fun, idk. Thank you everyone for reading!

June 7th, 1848

The room is already waiting for them before they get there. Someone different owns the Musain now, but they know to have the place ready on the seventh. It's a large, loud bunch, but they tip well. Children run around the room and play under the tables, and the room is filled with laughter and voices. Every seat is filled—except two, together by the window.

Bahorel stopped bringing his kids along every year after the sixth one, but has made an exception for his newest, Armand; his wife, Florinde, a stout, laughing woman, holds the tiny thing in her arms.

"He isn't but two months old but strong as a horse," says the proud father with a wide beaming smile. "Little Alexandre tried to tip him out of his cradle last week, didn't trust leaving him at home with Florinde's sister. She can hardly watch her own backside." Florinde whaps him with the back of her hand but smiles.

"Oh, come off it," laughs Courfeyrac. "You know you only wanted to show him off." Courfeyrac has no children; to the surprise of some (but not those who know him best) he has stayed unmarried. He is teased occasionally (again, not by those who know him best) that he is determined to stay carefree and unattached until he is old and gray. He laughs along with them. He lives happily with Jehan in a respectable flat in downtown Paris. Jehan makes no indication of marrying any time soon either.

Jehan is discussing the author Charles Baudelaire and his stance on the Romantics with Éponine over glasses of wine. Éponine has not worn her old rags in a long time, nor her old name. As Mme. Éponine Combeferre, she dresses fashion forward sometimes to the point of prompting whispers—her evening gowns are lower in the neck and her skirts fuller than any of the wives of Combeferre's colleagues. They have two children; the eldest, Isabelle, plays in the corner with Marius and Cosette's two. Combeferre, being in possession of yet a third opinion from Éponine and Jehan's about Baudelaire, would probably be joining the debate if he were not discussing politics with Marius and Feuilly.

"I favor giving the government to the people as much as anyone," Marius is saying, "but the case for it is weakened when it seems they can only think and act as a mob. Our opponents—"

"So we educate the mob," Combeferre insists, leaning forward intently in his seat. "Our opponents claim the people cannot be trusted to make decisions for their own government but refuse to provide the people with the knowledge or opportunity to do so."

"Really, it isn't as though you don't talk about just this all day," Bossuet complains. "Save it for City Hall, can't you?"

"Hear hear," seconds Musichetta. "I've heard enough of this all weekend with the Women's Union." (She is Madame Joly these days, but their eldest child, Brigitte, has Bossuet's nose.)

All conversation is momentarily interrupted by a great clattering up the stairs. A tow-headed youth with loose cravat and dazzling smile appears at the top.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, not looking sorry at all. Éponine looks up and tsks at her little brother.

"Good luck getting anyone to not talk of politics now," smiles Cosette. "Did you have a stump speech that just couldn't wait, Gavroche?"

"When duty calls," Gavroche returns, hefting Cosette's small son Jean up and onto his shoulders. (Valjean lived to see him born, and his older brother Georges grow to a kind, precocious child, before Valjean passed with a smile and his daughter's hand in his. Javert is only a couple of years gone; he died gray haired and harsh-edged as ever, but with a reputation for abrasive wisdom that he never much appreciated.)

"Don't tell me these old stodges were debating suffrage of the people again," Gavroche says. He gallops a giggling Jean around the room once.

"We're not debating whether suffrage should occur," says Marius. "Only—"

"Only how to minimize the damage, finishes Gavroche wryly, swinging the child down to the ground again.

"How to get it taken seriously," corrects Feuilly with a frown. "It's true that in the last few years—"

Musichetta throws up her hands. "And they're off again," she sighs.

"I'd rather talk about Feuilly's new painting," offers Cosette as she bounces Éponine's youngest on her knee. "Has anyone else been by to see it? It's wonderful."

"I have," smiles Joly. "And it is."

"It took me all this time to get to it," Feuilly says, "and I'm still not satisfied with it."

"Don't let him get bashful," says Éponine. "There was a piece on him in the Herald last month."

"He'll be better remembered than all us old statesmen, that's for certain," says Combeferre. Feuilly ducks his head and smiles.

"I haven't had a chance to come see the painting," says Courfeyrac. "Is it the one you always...?"

Feuilly nods. "It seemed like the right time, with everything that's going on. It's… It's something Grantaire told me once," he explains to the others. "They're in this room here, in front of the window. Enjolras is holding a red flag, and the sun is coming in behind them, and their hands are joined."

"Between you and Jehan's poetry, they couldn't ask for a better tribute," says Courfeyrac softly. Jehan blushes.

"Nobody will ever forget the June Rebellion," declares Gavroche, his chin high and looking like the impetuous street urchin again. "And when the dust settles on Paris now we'll have a republic they'd be proud of."

Combeferre fills his glass of wine and stands. There are the beginnings of lines at the corners of his eyes, and the slightest streak of early gray at his temples, and he is smiling. "To days gone by and days to come," he says. The others raise their glasses silently. The night is warm and they are together, and even the two chairs in the corner don't feel empty.