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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[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.

You keep telling me you're terrible, but I still don't believe you.

[He takes another sip of his drink, then lifts his eyes, watching her closely. He's acutely aware of her movements, her proximity, and her expressions. This is the time he feels like he should turn on the TV or radio to break the silence and give them white noise and distraction, but none of that exists here.]

You hungry? I can make you something.

Not many do. Not until it is too late.

[She opts to kick off her own shoes, as Costigan himself has done, then nestles back further into the couch.]

Oh. No. I could not eat anything.

What is it you think you're going to do to me, huh? Kill me, betray me, what? I want to know.

[The questions are conversational. Although her insistence grates every so slightly on his nerves, making him question his instincts, he'll listen and take whatever she says into consideration. To help alleviate this paranoia, he downs the rest of his glass and then sits up to pour himself another.]

I do not intend to do any of them, m'sieur. But- in confidence, I am a thief. I am a whore. A liar. I have killed a man, I will have you know. I lured a man to his death, as well. That is the world I lived in, in Paris. I could not trust my own family.

There, loyalty did not exist. [she holds out her glass to him.]

I would not harm you. Not on purpose. But if such a thing arose, where my life were at stake, my survival... My father always said it was dog eat dog. I am inclined to believe him.

Sometimes we do things we wouldn't normally do when we don't have another option.

[It's said in that vaguely philosophical way that suggests it might be a comment more of empathy than his trying to make her feel better. Costigan pours her another glass before returning the bottle and leaning back against the couch as before.]

You're right, about the need to survive.- [His free hand fishes around in his pocket to withdraw his pack of smokes and a lighter.] You mind? [He pinches a cigarette between his lips and removes it from the pack.] -But you aren't in the same situation here. You don't need to do those things. Whether you do now, that's up to you. The decisions you make when you don't have to? That's who you are. Not the bullshit necessity.

[She gestures for him to continue with his cigarettes. What should she care?

She tries to settle in again, keeping her eyes trained on him the whole time. He speaks so well, and when he says it, she wants to believe him. Leaning against him slightly, she nods.] I like when you say it, m'sieur. You speak as though you understand. Many here... They do not.

They do not understand the life I lead.

[He tosses the pack on the table and flicks open the zippo. Breathing deep, he ignites life into the cigarette. Then the lighter joins the pack and he pulls cigarette between his fingers, blowing the smoke away from her and looking to meet her gaze.]

Most of the people here had choices. You deserve better than that, but you aren't a bad person for it. [He takes another drag, watching her, then another sip of his drink. Costigan focuses on the burn in his throat, in his lungs. The whiskey, the smoke. It's a comfort.]

I had choices, too. I often made the wrong ones.

[She likes the smell of his cigarette, she decides, mixed with the whiskey.]

I'd like to think... In the end, I made the right one. Even though it lead me here. [She takes another long drink, closing her eyes as the whiskey burns down her throat. When it passes, she opens her eyes again, closer to him.]

Do you wish to know how I died?

[Again he blows the smoke away. Her death isn't really something he would pry about, but her offer makes it seem like she wants to tell him and he's not one to refuse that kind of camaraderie.]

If you want to tell me. [He replies quietly, his expression softening.

It reminds him of the night spent with Abigail, learning of her murder and holding her as she fell asleep. For some reason, she seemed more like a child to him than Eponine does, despite their being the same age.- Costigan makes an effort to veer his thoughts away from Abigail, to focus on the woman before him.]

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