A/N: Hello again Les Mis fandom! It's been years! I'm back with another Énjonine fic, this time one with a much deeper meaning and plenty of subtext and symbolism. But you will see that as you read. Anyway, enjoy and please review my story!

Ch 1

In the Café Musain on the second floor, Éponine sat in the corner of the room while she watched and listened as the Amis chattered on about their plans for revolt, her eyes glancing from Marius to the book she held in her lap. Gavroche was with Courfeyrac who was showing him plans on paper. She wondered if Courfeyrac knew that her little brother couldn't read. She yawned, her body weary but would not allow her tired mind sleep. So instead she eyed Marius, pondering if he ever thought of anything else—she, that perfect little Lark was always on his mind, that much was quite clear from that same lost, far-away look in his dark eyes—but did he consider her? Did he notice her, recognize her? Did he see that she was there? Éponine pretended that the smile he held was for her.

"Marius!"

Éponine nearly jumped from her seat, and Marius' head snapped into attention.

There was a slight crease in Enjolras' brow, and Éponine wondered with mild fascination if that line was permanent. His deep set eyes were sparked with impatience, and his bitter stare was enough to melt Marius' smile.

"Focus," Enjolras said. From her seat she could see the raised veins and muscles in his neck.

"We need your help in securing the gunpowder and ammunition." Enjolras went on, his annoyance fading, the ring of passion swelling as he continued to reveal his plans, his delusional ideas of victory. Éponine lazily turned back to her book, staring at the letters, attempting to make sense of the scribbles on paper, but the revolutionary's voice was still in her ears. His words stirred and encouraged the Amis, his tone laced with empowerment, confidence, faith, hope for his beloved France, and if Éponine had the slightest of any of it, she would stand up and cheer with the rest of the men and her little brother. But instead she remained quiet, however unable to keep from listening to the golden man's endearing voice.

He is so calm, Éponine thought, glancing at Enjolras. Despite his seriousness, he looks happy in his determination. But of course, he's not always so restricted—his mask of glass—at least not in front of his friends. He's their golden leader, perfection. She wondered if his friends had ever pulled back the layers of darkness behind the veil of light. Did they know him like she did? She listened as the room hushed to murmurs as talk of plans, strategies, and ideas rose.

"On the first of June—"

"We will need a distraction—"

"—citizens to help us—"

"—the armory..."

Éponine could not listen to them anymore, all of their big plans, their wild hope, blind faith, and for what? The poor have no strength to fight. But she would not think of that now and thought of other things. She felt out of place here in the Musain, surrounded by people she had little in common with. She came for Maruis. While he did not come to the meetings as often as he should, Éponine accompanied him, and she could see that he appreciated her company. But now she waited, waited for nothing in particular all the while refusing sleep. She picked the dirt beneath her fingers with little interest until her ears picked Marius' voice out from the rest of the men, even above Grantaire's drunken babbling. His voice was even, calm and joyful, and then she heard the name, the source of his utter foolishness. Cosette. Cos-ette. Éponine's teeth clenched, her tongue pressed against them to swallow any sounds that threatened to be heard.

Slowly she turned, her eyes searching for him again—maybe she could capture his attention this time. And in her search her eyes caught Enjolras' heated stare as he stood, his palms flat on the table, and at that moment Éponine could feel her blood thin, leave her face, a naughty child caught in a place they don't belong. His stare seemed to judge her, accuse her—of what she had not the slightest idea—but nevertheless, where she would typically defy any demeaning look, in this instance under the weight of his blue eyes, even from across the café, Éponine could not help but feel small and slightly disheartened.

He quickly turned away from her, a look of frustration in his eyes as he scanned back over papers and scrolls. Éponine stared at him, confused by his colder demeanor than usual—though they hardly exchanged words in daylight hours, he never showed any indication of sheer dislike or distain until now.

The minutes turned into an hour, and before long Éponine could not keep herself from sleep. When she awoke the sun had set—how late was it?—and the Musain was still alit with candles though nearly everyone had gone. She stood, glancing around for Marius, but the only man left was Enjolras.

"He's not here." His voice was stern, hinted with annoyance, and he did not bother to look up at her as he sat at the table, writing.

"M'sieur—"

"No one is here so don't call me that. And before you ask, the answer is no." The crease on his forehead seemed deeper in the flickering candlelight. "I don't know where he went. And frankly, I don't care to know."

Éponine frowned but said nothing, glancing at the candles about the room. She leaned against the little table, her hand flat on the surface as her finger tapped against the wood. "Will you be coming by tonight?" She asked.

"You know not to ask me that."

She folded her arms across her chest, "Nobody is around to hear me. Don't you think this secrecy is a bit extreme? Our agreement interferes with my work."

Enjolras' grip on his quill whitened his knuckles. "You agreed regardless. We have been meeting for months."

She dropped her arms, her tone firm, "It conflicts with my schedule."

He did not reply, not that she expected him to, she hardly expecting anything from the revolutionary.

"You will inspire no one if you can't even look at them."

Enjolras scoffed, "What are you talking about?"

"You speak for the poor, but you can't even look at one." She took the few steps to cross the room and stood in front of him, the table all that separated them. "Even in a public place you can't look at me without disgust."

Enjolras' eyes flashed with sudden intensity as he looked up at her to which Éponine smirked, satisfied, and folded her arms across her chest. But then that intensity vanished into something softer, and it surprised Éponine to see the dark rings, the same ones she had under his eyes.

"Éponine, are you finished?" Enjolras returned evenly.

Éponine tilted up her chin, refusing to let go of his slight. He sighed and stood, gathering his things and shoving them into his satchel. His movements were slow and lethargic as he turned his back to her, "What do you want?"

"I'm curious, M'sieur Enjolras, are you capable of any other feeling, a true feeling other than bitterness?"

She left before he could face her. She left before she could see his expression, and she imagined the shock on his face which was appeasement enough for her. His angered expression she pictured resulted in her grin, even as he called out her name. She ignored it and left the warmth and light of the café for the cold night.

Éponine hadn't been receiving many customers tonight, but then again, many of the girls were struggling. There was a tension in the air, a stillness that seemed to leave all of Paris on edge ever since the Prime Minister died nearly a week ago. Stay away from the wells, the sewers, the government is poisoning our water, stay away, protect yourself. Éponine was always reminded of this, especially at night when the world was eerie and quiet.

After a few hours of no luck, the dark night's chill getting to her, Éponine returned to the brothel, shivering, her shawl affording little resistance to the cold. From across the room, she was mildly, almost pleasantly astonished to see Enjolras sitting in his usual spot in the main entrance by the fire.

Walking over to him, she said, "You came," her tone feigning indifference, hoping he wouldn't catch it. The orange glow of the flames tossed shadows about his face, darkening his eyes. His elbows were up on the table, hands together, he looked lost in thought.

Éponine sat across from him, waiting, and his eyes fell on her. He sighed in aggravation, dropping his arms to rest on the table and leaning back against his chair.

"Grantaire again?" Éponine asked, recognizing that look in his eyes. She did not need for him to nod, but he did anyway.

"I'd kill him if I could, that drunken fool." Enjolras growled.

"Ah yes, the same old thing. He drinks too much and does not care for your brave ideas and hopes of change." Éponine replied dryly.

He rolled his eyes, "Be serious Éponine."

"I am," she said, "But first explain yourself."

"Éponine—"

"Tell me now, or I will walk away." she snapped, "You can't take out your frustrations on me. You were mean that night."

His eyes narrowed, "You don't expect me to believe you prefer a stranger's company to mine."

"I just might!" She retorted and stood from her chair, uncaring of others in the room that turned their heads to stare at her. She stared down at him, enjoying the sight of his discomfort and said, "You need this more than I do."

"Enough with the dramatics." Was his tone a challenge or a surrender? Unsure, she remained standing.

And then his eyes softened into something gentler. There was a fight still in him burning behind his neutral expression that Éponine did not miss. Any other time she would admire his resilience.

"Éppie. Please." His voice was nearly a whisper.

She sat down because she chose to, she told herself, not because he was asking, not because that look in his eyes made her feel guilty.

"I've been under plenty of stress," Enjolras said. "I was wrong to take it out on you. I apologize for that."

She hardly expected any sort of explanation, and as feeble as it was, his was good enough for her. His apology though truly surprised her. No man had ever apologized to her, not for anything. To hear it from Enjolras was the taste of sweets.

They talked for hours. Well he talked and she listened just as always. Or sometimes they didn't talk at all, staring into the flames in the fireplace, the two lost to their thoughts. This was their routine, a constant, something Éponine found herself accustomed to, something she enjoyed. They had been meeting like this for many months now, almost as long as she knew Maruis. And yet, he had been growing more distraught recently, Éponine had noticed. He used to be gentler, kinder, polite, but she could not bring herself to ask of his sudden change. Asking him of his anxiety, of his moods felt entirely like a breech. She already felt a shift in the air, just as she knew he felt, as all of Paris had. Something was going to happen.

She appreciated his company though, more so when he wasn't in one of his moods, which were becoming more and more frequent as the days passed. Not only did his company keep her away from unsavory customers, he was generous in his pay. It was enough to cover an entire night's work, which the other ladies of the brothel were envious of—Éponine could not hide the smug satisfaction she felt at their expense. And while they continued to sit together, Éponine glanced at him, wondering what was laying so heavily on his mind. It must be more than just Grantaire's drunken antics that kept his features hard.

"Tell me what you are thinking," she said.

Enjolras thought for a moment, his mind's wheels turning, and Éponine thought he would not confide in her. But she wanted to know, her curiosity genuine, tinged with concern.

"Grantaire mentioned death," Enjolras said gravely. "He expressed how he felt about dying, and everyone else could not keep silent, not about that. Most were comfortable with dying for our cause."

"Most?"

"Marius said nothing." He did not hide his irritation, "He's a fool too in love to think of anything else."

"Being in love does not make him a fool," Éponine said.

"The fight in him is gone."

"Not everyone cares for the revolution you hold so dear," she said abruptly.

"The revolution is our future. It is a fight for the wellbeing of the working class, for those who are struggling," he replied evenly, "The people need this. They need us to encourage them, and once we have convinced them they will rise with us."

"Your efforts are wasted Enjolras. They are too afraid."

"I do not believe every person is so frightened. The crowds we gather on the streets are large, and those that come have are courageous enough to do so. They will come and fight with all the courage they can muster. Their want, and their anger will outweigh their fear."

"Just because they come to a rally cry, that does not mean they will come to spit Death in the face. You give too much credit to cowards." Éponine said as she leaned forward, her eyes capturing his gaze, "I am of the poor, Enjolras. I know them better than you can hope to understand."

She paused, waiting for his defiance, waiting for him to dissolve her opinion. But he said nothing and she finished. "If you think any of this has a happy ending for anyone, you might want to rethink your little rebellion."