pushbackthedarkness | (no subject)

These days, Marcus doesn't smoke as much as he used to, especially when he's working a shift at the Children's Home, but every now and again he gets the urge and so this night finds him sitting just outside the front door of the Home on a bench, one boot propped up against the ledge of the wall, a cigarette in one hand and a pencil in the other.

He's sketching in his Bible, casually filling the margins with drawings of birds in flight. Bennett had always especially hated the birds for some reason and now Marcus draws them on the rare occasions when he's missing the other man. They'd never been friends, but they'd been allies, and in a life like Marcus Keane's, an ally had tended to count for more than a fried ever could.

And although he's on a break, he's also on the lookout for Eponine, who's once again out past curfew. The other staff are far more worried than he is, because while Marcus is well aware something is out of sorts in the Home, he doesn't think it has anything at all to do with Eponine. He's eliminating possibilities one by one and if there's a demon in her, it's more than just well hidden. If she's out past curfew, either she's avoiding the same things he's hunting or, equally as possible, she's just being a teenager.

Still, when he sees her walking up the dark street on the arm of a boy, he can't help but watch with an amused smirk. Given the way she's walking, he suspects she's been drinking, suspects the boy she's with is probably responsible for that, too, but he says nothing, just smokes in the low light of the front door and waits for her to see him.

If she's here, she's probably intending on ending her night out, but he has to wonder if the boy is aware of her plans.

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It's so very on the mark, and said so casually without any to-do or sighing over it, that Eponine blinks, feeling unsettled, as though he must have read her mind or as though she's revealed too much about her quiet wishes. But she doesn't think she has. It's simply that Marcus doesn't see a problem with it. She nods. "I'll be all right," she says carefully, not wanting to appear too anxious to take advantage of his kindness, "but every once in a while, that might be nice. Just a little break, if the staff is all right with it, so you can keep an eye on this place. And so I can," she adds, liking the idea that she has a job of some import.

She shrugs and starts to braid part of her hair away from her face, for want of something to do with nervous hands. "We didn't have the rent, always," she says bluntly, dispassionately "so time was we'd sleep where we might. Especially starting out, we didn't know well enough where to look for a bit of assistance. Azelma - my sister - and I, we'd stay under the bridges when it got cold. Keeps the snow off, you see, but that chill and a few nights hungry and the shadows can look eerie on the river. If I ever get too frightened, I can just say to myself, Ponine, you've thought you might die or go mad, and you haven't done either, so there."

Yet. In Paris, she's dead, she knows, but she doesn't have to go home, yet.

He knows it's how people live, how they've lived in the past, how they live now, and yet it still hurts to hear her speak of it with such ease. Without the Church, for all its faults, he'd have likely found himself in the same position, starved and desperate for a little bit of warmth. The home and the Church and Father Sean had certainly all been cruel, but at least he'd always had a place to stay. Food in his belly. A warm bed, if not necessarily a comfortable life.

"Well, at least the home here gives you a place to sleep," he says with a sigh. It's far from perfect, especially given the circumstances there now, but it's better than a lot of other options. And it's better than the places he's stayed in his own life. The staff do their best to swiftly put any bullying to bed and he knows it must still happen, but it's not the sort of violence he'd endured.

"I know that's hardly a comfort, especially with things as they are now. I just... I hate to think of you having to live under a bridge."

"And food, too," she says, airily -- even if that food was off sometimes these days -- "so you see? I'm just complaining about nothing. Poor little Eponine, with a spooky bedroom. This place is spoiling me, I swear."

He's so gentle about his reassurance, though, and his regret so genuine and hesitating about what to her is simply a fact of life for years now. It's almost hard to listen to, tugging at something in her chest that she keeps locked away. In Paris no one looked twice at a couple of half-grown wraiths haunting the underside of a bridge, or if they did it was with distaste; their father would have just exclaimed at their chapped hands and frozen hair as fortuitously pitiful and sent them off to beg charity.

"You're a good man, monsieur Marcus," she says quietly, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek.