tushanshu | 006 ; [ video, open to action ]

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006 ; [ video, open to action ]

[So, it's April. Eponine has sobered up somewhat, gotten her wits about her, and realized she needed to actually go see Marius Pontmercy. And explain. And apologize for being a fool and asking him to kill her, for begging him to love her. It took what courage the girl had left for her to walk over to his suite, and when she knocked, the door swung inward revealing what she feared most. What he said he would not do.

An empty apartment.

You know how Eponine spent most of March on a bender?

She's... about to start it again.

When she finally appears in front of the camera this time, she has dark circles under her eyes, her skin sallow. She's nearly as skinny as she was when she first arrived, and there's a bottle of whiskey in her fist.

She speaks simply, without light in her eyes.]

Marius Pontmercy has gone home.

He has returned home where none of us shall be living, to perhaps June 7th, 1832. He will return to his beloved Cosette Fauchelevent. They shall be married.

[She takes a pull from the bottle.]

And he shall forget all about us.

About me.

[She closes the network connection.]

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[She considers this.]

Yes. What sort of work?

I have files at my place that need sorting, or you could help at the Rehab Center.

Rehab... For the Dust. [Dick helped out there. And she'd taken it once before. She bites her lip.]

I work at the Brazen Turtle, but I shall help with your files.

For whatever people need it for. [Relaxation, someone to talk to, addiction to other things.]

Thanks.

WO-1A. I'll see you tonight.

I will be there.

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[Costigan doesn't exactly know what he's doing, but he's sure a shrink would have something to say about his inviting Eponine over not too long after Abigail's departure, even if it isn't like that. He has stocked up on alcohol, grateful for the excuse to drink some himself, and is casually flipping through some of the aforementioned files.]

[In time, Eponine does arrive, looking worse for wear. At least, she's cleaned up some before arriving. She knocks at the door, after double-checking that this was indeed Costigan's home.]

M'sieur Costigan?

[Costigan sits up with the noise and then stands, moving quickly to open the door. Her voice is confirmation enough of what awaits him on the other side. He steps back, allowing her plenty of room to enter.]

Hey. [His eyes quickly glance over her, searching for signs of her health and wellness.] How you feelin'?

[Eponine steps in cautiously, looking about. Then, she turns her attention to Costigan. She hasn't really even spoken to him in person, not that immediately comes to mind, and it's odd, seeing him like that. Then again, she was still used to communicating to people face-to-face.]

I survive. Which is all I can do.

[He closes the door lightly behind her, leaving it unlocked as a gesture that she's free to leave anytime she wants. Then he gives her a smile, gesturing to the kitchen and beginning to walk that way.]

Not all you can do. [Entering into the room, he gestures at the collection of alcohol on his counter waiting for her arrival. One of the advantages of actively participating in the black market is always having immediate access to things that might not normally be easy to obtain.]

I promised him I would.

[Her tone is resolute as she follows him to the kitchen and oh- look! Alcohol! She's already got a good amount in her system, but more will only help, she is sure of it.]

What shall we drink first, m'sieur Costigan?

[Costigan's not keen on plying someone this young with alcohol. He also knows she'll be drinking with or without him. At least this way, he can keep an eye on her and make sure she's alright.]

That depends on how quickly you want to forget. [He offers a smile.]

The faster, the better.

[She'd been drinking since she could remember, anyway.]

Scotch it is. [Costigan fetches an approximation of scotch that he's found close enough to the real thing that he calls it as much. Probably made the same way. He pops the cork from the old-fashioned bottle and pours the two glasses. Neat, no ice. This is about getting drunk, not playing sophisticated.

Once finished, he picks up one glass for himself and holds out the other towards her. He offers a cheer after she's accepted it.] To lost friends.

Perfect.

[Eponine accepts the glass, smelling it, before she accepts the toast.]

Lost friends. [She drains the glass in one gulp, closing her eyes as she feels the burn down her throat.]

[He takes a long sip, feeling like an alcoholic only for a second, until he sees her drain her glass. Costigan lowers his from his lips, his free hand retrieving the bottle to pour her another. It's strange, getting drunk with a woman barely eighteen, especially one he can't help but notice isn't bad on the eyes, but he reminds himself that he's just trying to be a good guy. This place is hell.]

Grab the vodka and come on. The couch will be more comfortable.

[He turns, still holding the scotch and his glass, and makes his way back towards the living area.]

[For his troubles, Eponine finds him just as attractive. This sort of thing, as it were. Was normal to her. When he called her to join him on the couch, she took another drink as she picked up the vodka.

On unsure feet she came to the couch, plopping down close to him.]

Another toast! To new friends! That is us, M'sieur.

[It feels comfortable and that ease is almost foreign to him. The alcohol probably helps, he figures, as he drains his glass and pours himself and then her another. Costigan kicks off his shoes and stretches out his legs. It takes conscious effort to relax back against the couch, but he tries, feeling as comfortable as he can be in his old t-shirt and jeans.]

To you. [He agrees with a smirk, raising his glass in toast and then taking another sip of his drink. While he hopes to get drunk, he needs to pace himself to ensure he's sober enough to take care of her. Or at least try to.]

To me! [She echos, with a giggle, before clinking her glass to his. Another swallow, and the glass is empty once more. The fuzzy feeling in her head has returned, and the edges of the world are blurry. Without waiting for him to signal yes or no, she pours them each another glass.]

And now, to you. My savior m'sieur Billy Costigan!

[Costigan lifts his glass slightly as she pours to discourage her, but it's full again by the time she stops. Then he gives her a light shake of his head, still smiling, and wonders if he should be more worried about her.]

Sure. [It's as much as he'll agree before he takes another sip, not draining his glass as she does. Costigan then glances over at her.]

Slow down, kid. We have all night and I don't want to take you to the hospital.

[She was about to pour another when he stopped her.]

Slow? I do not wish to slow. I wish to forget. But. You are supplying and helping me. So I shall slow. Though I guarantee, there will be no need to bring me to a hospital.

[Costigan pours her another scotch before leaning forward to set the bottle on the coffee table not far from them. Then he leans back, again attempting to relax. Another sip, another smile for her.]

I'm guessing you haven't eaten. Those drinks will go right to your head. Give 'em a minute and take your time. I promise we'll make sure you forget.

No, but that is not different from back in Paris. There I had nothing to eat, and only things to drink. It was not liquor that killed me, rather, a bullet.

[Eponine looks up at him.] I shall not come to harm under your care.

[He frowns at the reminder of where she's from. It's unfair that Gavroche left. It's unfair that Abigail left too. Costigan knows some part of him has her here in a vain attempt to ensure that she stays, to keep her close and try fruitlessly to protect her from powers outside of his control.

He meets her gaze, quietly considering for a moment before he looks to his own glass.] I trust you. You say you can handle more, drink away. Just be careful. There's a fine line between forgetting and poisoning.

[Or a really thick one, but that mainly depends on what one does while one is drunk and he's trying not to think about that.]

You trust me! Oh, m'sieur, you make a grave mistake. No one should trust me. I am a terrible person, as I have told you. Untrustworthy to my last. Yet you see fit to trust me. Such a kind, wonderful man you are.

[She smiles fondly, her eyes looking a little glassy.]

I shall try not to let you down.

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