Pairings: E/É
Words: 13K
Warnings: death, mentions of rape, mentions of abortion, and some (consensual) sexually explicit content
Beta: The Amazeballs Inge!
Type: Canon-era, beyond the barricade
This fic is based on the song Run by Daughter and I highly recommend that song, because it is lovely and so utterly perfect.
Thank you so much to Inge for response and Beta! I love you, you talented thing, you.
And to Sabrina for asking for smut it her askbox (which lead to some smutty scenes in this fic.)
I would also like to mention that I have altered the lyrics slightly (by exchanging the word Folks with Friends) to fit my story, sorry, not sorry, but I thought the lyrics said friends as i planned the story and then I found out later that it was not. So yes, I am aware that the lyrics are not 100% correct :)
also posted on my tumblr (lesbianmisunderstood)
When I powder my nose / He will powder his guns
She looked around the café for any sign of Enjolras, but he was nowhere to be seen. Again. She pulled the hat on firmer as she passed Combeferre, not missing the second glance he threw at her face, the slight hesitation and recognition marring his features as he passed. Cursing herself she quickly crouched down and swiped her already dirty hands in the dust before she rubbed them over her nose and cheek, checking in the reflection of a window that she had a better cover. Over her shoulder in the reflection she saw a flash of gold. She turned around and looked at the blond man on the barricade, climbing on it, filling various items into the holes. Once he ran out of objects, he turned around to survey his men. Eyes traveling from man to man, the pride was evident, until his eyes met hers and she recognised the look in them.
Her stomach did a double take as she remembered the first time she met him.
She heard heavy breathing in her ears as his hot breath fanned over her face. She had him pressed up against the wall, her hand on his chest and holding her breath. Said hand ran up his neck and jaw before she placed it tightly over his mouth, wanting him to be silent as the coppers were ransacking the alley for him. She had already made him ditch his purple coat as they ran under the bridge, and now they were here, pressed together in a corner, praying the coppers wouldn't hear them.
The men were noisy, alerting them to their presence, and it wasn't before she had heard them make their way out of the alley that she looked back at the man she was helping. He was with Marius, his leader friend Enjolras. And if it weren't for the fact that Marius had asked her to help the leader from the rally, she would have left him.
His eyes were looking calmly into hers, an eyebrow raised as if to ask if the hand on his mouth was really necessary and she slowly removed it, but didn't step away. He didn't protest either, but stared back, eyes questioning, as if both asking why she saved him, and who she was. And she faintly registered both their breathing getting quicker as she felt herself lean into him, and before she knew it, he had met her halfway, slanting his mouth over hers and sucking a quick breath through his nose. She gasped, feeling the warmth and the complete shock of his lips on hers, and before she could think it through, her hands were in his hair, gripping it and anchoring herself to him as if her life depended on it. And she wasn't the only one, his arms had already circled her waist and their bodies were pressed tightly together. She slipped her tongue into his mouth as he gasped for breath, and when their tongues met he groaned. The sudden contrast between the silent hiding and this loud, guttural moan brought them back, and she quickly stepped away.
He looked shocked, both by his and by her reaction, and she shared that sentiment. Never had a man's kiss felt as good as this, and the fact that it was given by a stranger, a stranger who didn't even know her name, and not by Marius was a surprise.
She cleared her throat and started down the alley, eager to escape.
"Wait!" he croaked out after her, stumbling as he caught up.
"I- I don't… What is your name?"
"Éponine," she whispered, and before he could reply she had already gone.
His eyes were staring intently at hers before moving to her cheek, a frown gathering as he looked at her poor excuse for a mask. His stare became a glare before he turned around and gathered the guns he was checking. Making up her mind, she strode over to him.
She started helping him, loading the guns he had checked, but the moment he saw exactly who was helping him, he quickly delegated the task at hand to Courfeyrac and left her to help someone stack matrasses onto the barricade.
She finished her task and followed him, waiting for him to make use of her again, to make her feel important.
And if I try to get close / He is already gone
She stayed, trying to aid him with his revolution, no matter how useless she knew it was. And when he finally understood that she wouldn't let him be, he turned and grabbed her by the shoulders, pressing her up against the wall of the café. Her heart raced, thinking of the many times he they had done this in dark alleys. But instead of ravishing her against the brick wall, he grabbed her jaw, tightly, forcing her to look at him.
"Leave." It was a command.
She drew in a breath, but before she could answer, he had already pushed her towards the alley leading away from the barricade.
She turned, planning on sneaking back, but he stood there, arms crossed and a deadly expression. He knew her too well.
He left her with no other choice but turn around and leave. Still; she did not.
She tried to reason, tried to tell him that she had just as much a right to be here as him, but he just stood there, un-moving, like a statue.
"Please." He whispered, and the shock of him actually begging made her quietly leave the barricade.
That doesn't mean she didn't come back.
Don't know where he's going/Don't know where he's been
The barricade had fallen, leaving the boys dead and scattered. She'd been there. She'd somehow survived. She had tried saving Marius, only to have strong hands gripping her ankle and dragging her down into stronger arms, and for a moment she could feel the chest she was pressed against vibrate with equal amount of anger and relief.
But before she could turn around and see who had saved her, she saw Marius fall, and it was not as if she didn't already know who it was.
Marius was the first to fall, but not the last.
They all fell, most strewn on and around the barricade, and a few inside the headquarters.
But as Éponine and Enjolras stood together at the window, waiting for their execution to be ordered, Grantaire had stumbled out of nowhere, clearly hung-over, or maybe still drunk, and disturbed the guards, and that was all Enjolras had needed. He quickly grabbed her around the waist and spun, almost throwing her out of the broken window, and she grabbed his arm, forcing him out with her. Together they fell into a heap on the ground to the sound of gunshots and Éponine, with the agility and speed and underestimated strength that she had developed from years of necessity on the streets, hauled Enjolras to his feet and made it to the sewers with him, desperately needing to escape, desperately needing him with her.
Enjolras was barely conscious after the fall, and that was probably her fault, as instinct had made her twist and turn like a cat, while he rushed headfirst down to the ground. Still, it was his leg that had been hurt.
She made her way through the foul smelling sewers quickly, remembering all the time her father had taken her down there to rob bodies or partake in hidden meetings. It was almost with fond nostalgia that she thought of that time, the time before she had fallen into Enjolras' life and he had embraced her with open arms, the time when she was robbing the already dead bodies, instead of creating them herself. She had never fired a gun before, never killed anybody, but today she had. And she would never forget it. Today she had overstepped that one line she had set, the one thing that made her better than her father. She had become a murderer too.
But as she half-carried Enjolras through the sewers, getting as close to their apartment as possible, she thought that she didn't really mind it as long as Enjolras lived.
She hauled him onwards, struggling through the piss and shit and other nasty, undistinguishable things that covered the floors and canals, making her eyes water. She did not stop for breath, not even once, and she kept encouraging Enjolras, who was starting to come to his senses. If she could only get him out of here in time, then everything would be worth it.
But each step became harder, Enjolras became heavier, even though he was supporting most of his weight on his own now, and before she knew it, he was the one supporting her, he was the one carrying her through the sewers, talking to her and encouraging her to stay with him and tell him where to go.
And she guided him through this underground labyrinth, and once she could see the opening she smiled and stopped, leaning on him and telling him he needed to go home and find a doctor, before she passed out, the last thing she saw were his blue eyes shining with worry.
She woke up a few days later, her hair washed and cut and plaited nicely, her skin spotless and clothed in a simple white linen dress. Her throat was dry and the bed was comfortable. For a split second she though it was all a dream, that she was back in her and Enjolras' bedroom and that she would feel him if she just rolled over onto her side. She didn't do it though. Because she knew this was not a dream, and the walls were a light blue, not the washed out red she had become so used to.
It was Marius' grandfathers' house, she found out later, when Cosette, of all people, came in to check on her. Marius had survived, and the older man who had been at the barricades when she had snuck back turned out to be the man who had taken Cosette, years ago.
Cosette had fed her some broth and helped her get into a thin, pink robe before she had followed her down the hall into Marius' room.
"He said you were his friend, he said you were the reason we were together." Éponine furrowed her eyebrows, she was sure that Marius had been the first to fall. He had been shot in the chest, right before her eyes as Enjolras had held her back.
She slipped into the room and found Marius sleeping. The room was big and luxurious with beautiful murals on the walls, and in the corner she could spy some toys. This must have been his room growing up.
Éponine thought back to that time, almost a year ago, when nothing would have made her happier than to be indulged in the hidden aspects of Marius' life, but now she really could not care less.
"Where is Enjolras?"
Cosette looked at her with a confused glance. "Enjolras?" She queried.
Panic took a hold of Éponine and she grabbed Cosette's hands, willing her to understand how important Enjolras was to her.
"Enjolras! Marius' friend! The blond one, the leader. He was with me in the sewers, he is alive, I know he is, he has to be!"
Cosette took a step back. "There was a man who delivered you here, he was covered in…. unspeakable things just like you and my dear Marius and Papa. I was not here at the time, but Papa told me the man had found you in the sewers and asked if you could recuperate here. He was adamant that you knew Marius. He then left."
Éponine blinked back tears. "But he is alive?"
"Yes." Cosette looked downright worried now and Éponine felt herself being gently sat down in a chair, her breathing was heavy and her vision blurry. Cosette let her cry in peace and escorted her back to her room, telling her that some clothes were being tailored to her size as they were speaking. That the men's clothes were disposed of and that she should be feeling better, physically, by the next morning.
But Éponine did not care what Cosette told her. The moment the beautiful two-a-penny-thing left the room, Éponine was up and opening the closet in the corner. The closet was empty, except for a few robes and nightshirts and sheets. Éponine grabbed the dark green robe and threw it over the nightdress closing it with one of the ropes from the exquisite curtains hanging by the extravagant window. There was a great mirror abode the fireplace so she climbed onto the bed to see if she looked passable, and she did. She looked better than she had before she started living with Enjolras.
She unplaited her hair, thankful that it was still long enough to hide the white of her nightshirt collar as she exited onto the balcony and climbed down to the gardens underneath.
This place was huge, and she immediately recognized the street on the other side of the house, quickly making her way through the alleys and other shortcuts. She was in Paris, and she knew this place like the back of her hand.
It took no time at all to make it to Enjolras' apartment, their apartment, and she snuck in, picking the lock in a matter of seconds.
The apartment was in shambles. Everything was torn apart, smashed and thrown all about the place, and in the middle of the chaos, she found him, sitting in a clean shirt and underwear, shivering from the cold, but refusing to move. She had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but he had the beginnings of a beard and she guessed the only thing he'd done other than smashing the apartment was to take a bath.
"Enjolras?" she asked. And he looked up. His face was like a ghost, like he was not there.
"Éponine?" he muttered, his eyes had problems focusing on her.
She didn't move closer, afraid she would trigger something. But instead of breaking down, or running to embrace her, he got up and found himself a pair of trousers, hurriedly getting dressed before running into the bedroom.
She moved towards the door he had shut behind him, but before she had the chance to reach it, he was back, with two bags and a trunk.
"I need to go. They will be here any minute"
"Who will?" she asked, shocked at how frail her voice sounded, in fact she felt frail. The adrenaline had worn off and she was surprised by how weak the run here had left her. She supported herself on the back of the sofa as she watched him run around the wreckage that was their living room, picking up books and clothes and other miscellaneous items and throwing them into the trunk or bags.
"The gendarmes." He said, carrying the cutlery drawer and emptying all his silverware into a bag, stuffing money in it next. He picked up the bigger of the two bags and looked at her for a split second before he emptied the content into the trunk and threw the bag at her.
"Pack what you need and get out."
Éponine blinked away the tears yet again before she ran into their bedroom, opened the drawer that contained what little she owned and threw that into the bag. What happened? What made him act like this? At least he was alive.
She then emptied her nightstand and stuffed the books he had given to her into the bag and looked around the room for anything else. She had robbed plenty of houses before, so she knew what was of value in the room, but it felt wrong to rob him. Then again, they would leave together.
So she stuffed the candlesticks and his shaving kit into her bags before she closed the clasp.
She heard the door bang open, and then shut. In a panic she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and ran after him, he was already across the street and heading into an alleyway.
The adrenaline was back, and she ran, not caring if people were staring.
"You little shit!" she hissed when she caught up to him, and yet again she had him pressed up against the wall, their belongings spread around their feet.
"You think you could just leave me there?! That I was going to just let you run out on me after everything?"
"You would be safer away from me." He said, refusing to look into her eyes.
"I don't give a damn. Its not like I haven't been to jail before. And it's much better than being in the streets when it's wintertime. And the streets is where you are sentencing me to if you leave me here."
"Nonsense. I left you in Pontmercy's care. You would never be on the streets again. I took care of that."
"This is not about me being taken care of, this is about me not wanting to be away from you. No matter what."
He finally looked at her again, and she felt the agitation fall away.
"I'm going with you, chief" she muttered, picking up their bags and giving one to him, before she took the handle of the trunk, waiting for him to take the other.
And he did, in silence, but he did.
And together they made their way to wherever he was running.
He is restless at night / He has horrible dreams
They went to the countryside. Enjolras paid off a driver to take them out of the city, where he paid off another to take them further. He never gave anyone the ultimate location, which Éponine deemed smart, as no one would be able to give them away unless they all worked together.
So over a week later, tired and weary, Éponine stepped out of the carriage to witness a spectacular sight.
It was a house, a beautiful house, at the end of a long dirt road and it was more luxuriously decorated than even Marius' room. Enjolras told the driver how he and his wife were to visit her parents here, and the moment the driver had left and the carriage was no longer visible, Enjolras spun and started towards the forest, away from the house.
"Where are we going?"
"Just a little further. Up here and then – yes."
They reached the top of the hill and spied a little village at the bottom. It reminded Éponine a little of the village the inn had been in when she was younger, but it was a little bigger and looked way better kept than Montfermeil.
They made their way down the valley and walked towards the outskirts of civilization until they came to a rundown farm.
And that was how their new lives began.
Enjolras worked in the little factory at the other end of the village and his 'wife' worked in the library. It was a perfect life. In the mornings they would have a quick breakfast before he walked her to work, once there, she bid him adieu and he continued through the village to the factory and he would come back at lunch to eat with her and then she would return home, only having short shifts at her work.
On the way home she would buy food, if necessary, and get to know the people. At six he would be home and she would have dinner on the table and they would eat, after the food was eaten or stored away for later, they would wash their dishes together, shoulder to shoulder, before enjoying a book in the living room and then retiring to bed.
And repeat.
And it would have been perfect, it would have been a happy life, but it wasn't.
Éponine was not his wife, she was not a good cook, and she felt trapped in this little village. But the worst part was; they did not talk.
Oh, well, they did talk. It was not as if there was total silence in their house. He would say good morning, she would ask how he slept and then he would lie to her and tell her he slept well. And then they would comment on the weather, on the new teacher that came to town, on the sale on potatoes. Anything that they did not care about in the attempt to not appear dysfunctional.
And it was horrible.
Sometimes Éponine would lie awake at night, wishing Enjolras would wrap his arms around her like he used to, that he would hold her close and kiss her shoulder before snoring softly in her ear.
But no, Enjolras lay as far away from her as the small bed allowed, not saying a word and with his back towards her. And she did the same, staying perfectly still as she mused about how her life became like this. Sometimes she would catch herself crying silently, and hurriedly make her way out of the room and into the garden, running in her night dress with that stupid green robe she stole from Cosette wrapped around her as she made her way to the little river, loving the way the rushing made her feel free enough to let a few sobs come out.
She cries for Gavroche, her brother, she cries for Feuilly, her friend, she cries for all her friends. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Jehan, Grantaire, all of them. She cries for Paris, and how much she misses the city that turned its back on them, she cries for the lives she took, the deaths she was responsible for. She cries for Azelma, she cries for her mother, she cries for the fact that she will never have a family of her own, she even cries for her father while she is at it!
And then she cries for Enjolras. She cries for the man she lost, the man she used to fall asleep next to at night and wake up with in the morning. The man who would confide anything and everything in her, uncertain about his feelings and how to proceed but managing better than he would have if he only followed her advice in the matter. The man who would sometimes stop what he was doing to look at her, send her a little smile or reach out and touch her for a few seconds before getting back to what he was doing. The man she loved was gone, he was physically right next to her every night, but it was like he was empty, and so she cried for him the longest. And she told herself to stop hoping he would come back to her every time his eyes lingered on her, or he offered her his arm as they walked through town, because he was not there.
Then again, she was not the same either. She never cried in Paris. She used to brush off emotions that hurt and fight through the pain, not succumb to it like she was doing here. She used to be strong, she used to speak her mind, she used to be unafraid, and now she was cowering within herself, refusing to voice anything out loud.
They had both left pieces of themselves in Paris. The pieces they had given to each other all those months ago.
When she returns later, she knows he is awake, that he has been awake since she left, but he has not moved a muscle and pretends he is still asleep.
But if he were asleep, he would not be this still. He would be restless and sometimes he would mutter intelligible things.
But never, not even once, did he reach out for her. Not when he slept, nor when he woke. So she did not reach out for him.
And so the next few weeks progressed. The summer nights grew colder, and Éponine spent less time by the river than before. Instead she would start working. It started out with her doing it at midnight, in her robe and nightdress, and then she started doing it while Enjolras was still at work and she came home from the library. She started by cleaning the little barn, the mess had to be removed before she could start the actual cleaning. It was not as if they needed the barn, but it gave her something to do, something to take her mind off of everything.
She then did the same to all the other constructions on the land.
Enjolras didn't comment, didn't offer her his help, other than him making the food and doing the shopping. And together they stopped with the polite, but forced, pleasantries, saving them for when they walked to work together.
It was not until Éponine had finished fixing up the henhouse with what she had found on the farm that she sat with Enjolras after dinner. If he was surprised, then he hid it well, as he put more logs on the fire and sat down on one of the two little chairs next to it.
"Enjolras?
"Yes?"
"How often do you buy eggs?"
He blinked at her for a moment. This was the first conversation they had had in the privacy of their home since July.
"Once a week, sometimes twice as Monsieur Bernandé is in short supply."
"How do you feel about getting hens?"
He thought over it for a few seconds. "I do not see the problem in that." He said before returning to his book. Éponine sighed, turned on her heel and walked into the bedroom, dragging her bag out from under the bed and removing a candlestick from it.
She wrapped it up in her cleaning apron and placed it in her drawer, ready to sell it to the goldsmith when the market came into town next week. With that money she would get the hens and they would supply their own eggs. Maybe they could even sell some.
That night she finished setting up the fence around the little chicken coop, and went to bed in higher spirits than she had in days. It felt wonderful to have a purpose, even more wonderful to be making progress.
And Enjolras had looked her in the eyes today.
Even as she lay down in her nightdress, with her back to him she could not help but give off a content sigh.
That night a lot changed. It was not only her spirits that were raised, but his nightmares got worse.
She woke up a few hours later by him shouting in his sleep. She turned to look at him, and found him soaked in sweat and with a pained expression on his handsome face.
"'Ponine," he muttered, giving her a fright. "Please, 'Ponine, no. NO! Leave me!"
He shouted again, and it was so heart breaking that she could not help herself as she reached out and touched his shoulder. His eyes burst open and he looked around in a wild, disorientated panic, before his eyes settled on her and he calmed down, but he did not relax.
She said nothing, just moved closer to him, and for the first time in months, she wrapped her arms around him, letting him cry into her chest as she stroked his hair. It would need a trim soon, or he would be forced to wear it in a band. On second thought, that might not be too bad.
"I asked you to leave, but you came back." He mumbled into her chest later, after his sobs stopped wracking his body and his hiccups were fewer and father between.
"You knew I would come back." She told him.
"Yes, but you shouldn't have." There was a pause, then: "You dragged me out of the window."
"You threw me out first." She bit back, dreading where this conversation was going.
"Yes, but I was supposed to be there, and you robbed me of that."
She said nothing, just continued stroking his hair and ignoring the pain in her chest. He would rather have died alone at the barricades than survive with her.
It was what she had feared, it was what she had guessed, but now that he had put his problem with her into words, it made her feel worse. Her good mood was instantly spoiled as she lay there, with him still in her arms.
At least he hasn't moved away.
It takes a few more minutes before he goes back to sleep, his hand clutching at her waist and his hair tickling her chin. And she lay awake, still thinking of his words.
I was supposed to be there, and you robbed me of that.
She let out a humourless laugh.
"Once a thief, always a thief." She said to his sleeping form, before she closed her eyes and forced herself to think about the arms around her and the puffs of breaths on her collarbones. And she fell asleep promptly.
So we lay in the dark / 'Cause we've got nothing to say / Just the beating of hearts like two drums in the grey
They did not start talking after that night, but now she would come in, exhausted from a day of re-tiling the roof and curl up next to him. And they would just lay there, tangled together and not voice the fact that he resents her for saving his life. He doesn't cry, and even though it stings in her eyes and the back of her throat, neither does she.
Don't know what we're doing / Don't know what we've done
The market was a few days late, much to the towns' disappointment. But it was much grander than Éponine would have ever imagined. It was nowhere near those she had experienced in Paris, but it was big enough to sell some luxuries.
Enjolras did not join her at the market until his lunch, she bought him some bread and he ate that as he went to the different stalls and carriages, pointing out what they needed, and left Éponine to negotiate the price.
When his lunch was over, he hurried back to the factory as Éponine hurried home with their purchase, she then grabbed the candlestick she had wrapped up that night and bade her way back, determined to get the best damn hens she could find. But she never got that far. Because at the edge of the market there was a carriage that looked a little worse for wear, and outside that carriage she could see a familiar man with red hair and mean eyes. Her father. She hugged the candlestick to her chest and ran to the goldsmith, selling it for more than she expected and shoved the money into her pocket as she walked briskly towards the factory.
But the fire is coming / So I think we should run / I think we should run, run, run
"Oi! Arnold!" One of the factory workers shouted, "Your wife's here to see yah!"
Enjolras appeared moments later from the little office on top of the stairs. Of course he had an office job. In fact she should not have been too surprised. He had purchased a lot of ink and paper recently and the house always smelled like their old apartment. Smelled of parchment, books and drying ink.
"Madame," he said, a concerned expression marring his face for a second as he made his way toward her. She took him by the arm and out of his co-worker's earshot.
"My Papa is here." She told him, willing him to understand the desperation she was feeling.
And he did, he immediately got that look on his face, the one he'd been wearing a lot during the preparation time, the time before everything went south.
And then he quickly shuffled back into his office, dragging her along and ignoring his co-workers catcalls as he asked her questions at rapid speed.
"Did he see you? Are you the reason he is here? Did he talk to you? Did you find out if people are looking for us, me, here?"
"No, I did not make contact and I know nothing."
He seemed to deflate, from parts relief and parts because he was at a loss as to what to do now. He opened his mouth again, but at that moment the same co-worker she had met shouted up the stairs again.
"Oi, Arnold! Some bloke's here asking 'bout your wife!"
They both froze and looked at each other, both mirroring the other's panic before Enjolras smoothed his features and went to the door. "Stay here." He muttered as he passed her. And Éponine, left with nothing to do than wait and listen in, could not help reflecting that this was more emotion that she had gotten from him in three minutes than the last week.
"I can't think of any man who would possibly have business with my wife," Enjolras said in a puzzled voice, and Éponine thanked the heavens that he was a good liar. "Is it regarding the library?"
Éponine made her way to the door, staying clear of the windows to the rest of the factory and listened in over the noise of the machineries.
"I'm not here to talk business about the library, no. I am here about a… settlement, with her father."
It was Montparnasse. Merde.
"Her father is dead." Enjolras said, "So this settlement is void, whatever it is."
She could hear the silky laughter of the cutthroat, and she wished she could be there, prayed that the fact that they were surrounded by people would be enough to protect Enjolras when he, surely, angered Montparnasse.
"Her father is very much alive, Monsieur. In fact, he is in the market at this very moment, would you like to meet him and let him explain?"
Please say no, please say no.
"No, there will be no need; as my wife's father has passed and this man is very much alive, it can't possibly be the same woman we are discussing."
There was a few seconds before Montparnasse answered, and Éponine could tell from his tone that he was done playing this game.
"Listen here you little bourgeoisie-boy. We both know that it is 'Ponine you've got hidden up there in that fancy office of yours, and we both know that you are that revolutionary from Paris that Éponine left me for. So why don't you ask her nicely to come and join us, as her father wants her back."
"I have no idea what you are-" she heard, almost impossibly, a knife leave its sheath, and without thinking it through she burst through the door and down the stairs towards the two men that were standing a little too close, one holding a knife to the other's side.
"Drop the knife 'Parnasse," she warned him as she moved closer, well aware that the eyes of all the workers were trained on them. "Drop it and lets move this discussion outside." She placed her hands on her hips and fixed her childhood friend with a stern expression that he was quite familiar with.
"Ah, 'Ponine, I knew I saw you making your way here. And when I saw this," he gestured to Enjolras, "grumpy little boy, I assumed you would be here with him. He still has you around for his whore after all this time? My, you must be ever so kind with the favours-"
"She is not my whore, she is my wife." Enjolras said with so much conviction that even Éponine believed for a second that she was married.
"She is not your wife, she is mine. Her father promised her to me years ago, when she was a little slip of a girl, barely fourteen. And I bet she still remembers how I… sealed the deal."
Éponine shuddered involuntary, remembering the night Montparnasse had snuck into her bed and had his way with her, she could still remember the sting, both where he penetrated and her eyes. And the feeling of betrayal and hatred that had bloomed in her ever since. That day was the day she stopped believing in Montparnasse, that day was the day where the pictures he painted, of him saving her from her damned life and making her his queen, the queen of the streets at his side, had turned sour and lost its appeal. And her resentment had not faded like the bruises on her wrists and collarbones, but infested itself in her, making her loath herself and making her no better than the whores of the dock. Making her hate him.
That was the night she had lost her best friend.
"I see you have not forgotten, my queen." Montparnasse said with a wink.
Slap.
Éponine's hand stung as it made contact with his face, and Montparnasse sighed and closed his eyes like he used to do every time she attacked him in that manner. But that split second he had his eyes shut was enough. Enjolras sprung to action, the heel of his hand making contact with Montparnasse's chin, and his foot with the dandy's stomach. He then grabbed the expensive coat and threw him on the ground, making sure he landed with his head first.
"We need to go." He said as his co-workers made their way towards them, wondering what the hell was going on. He then grabbed her hand, squeezing it like he used to before running with her to the entrance.
"No, the back door." She said and took over, like she had many times in several streets and alleys back in Paris. She then led them through the factory, dodging men and machines before running through the door and up the hill to the forest.
Then they ran parallel to the main street, of the village, hidden by the trees as they made their way in the direction of their house. Not once did they let go of each other's hands.
They made it in record time, sprinting down the hill almost faster than their legs could carry them and breaking through their front door.
"Get the bags," he ordered, letting go of her hand almost reluctantly as he started gathering his documents on the table. She did as he asked, placing them on the table before she copied his actions of stuffing everything of value into them.
"We leave the trunk," she said, and he looked at her for a split second, clearly thinking hard of thepros and cons before he nodded. Leaving the trunk meant leaving most of their books behind, and though it pained her to see them being thrown on the floor, she knew they could not make a run for it if they were to carry it between them.
Some books did make it though. The ones he deemed most valuable, either in sentiment or revolutionary philosophies. And one book of fairy tales that he had given her for Christmas, the book they had used as he helped her learn how to read and write again.
And then they were off, back into the forest, not looking back. It was not until they were safe on the other side of the hill, past the beautiful house they had first seen when they arrived here at the beginning of the summer, that they stopped running, and she felt a sore feeling in her chest at the thought that they would never be coming back. The little farm had grown on her, and now all her hard work on it was for nothing.
And she had forgotten that stupid green robe that she had stolen from Cosette on the peg by the kitchen door.
While I put on my shoes /He will button his coat
She felt rather fulfilled. It was a queer feeling, being both sort of happy and satisfied, but at the same time ashamed and bitter. She laid still as she caught her breath, listening to him doing the same, and she revelled in the heat coming off his body. Then she deemed herself well enough rested and leaned over the side of the mattress to pick up her chemise, quickly slipping it over her head before she stepped into her skirt, hiking it up and fastening it with her belt before he had finished his inhale and exhale. She then grabbed her shoes in one hand and used the other on thedoorknob as she made her way outside, pretending not to hear him call her name.
She ran down the stairs from his apartment and out the door, only pausing for a few seconds to let his landlady enter her own apartment downstairs with her shopping. She then made her way down the busy street and to the nearest ally, seeking the shadows. She needed to have a moment to herself. She needed to clear her head and come back to reality, no matter how soul-crushing it was.
She was promised to Montparnasse. She was supposed to be out with him and her father and the rest of their gang right now, to keep watch as they burgled houses, maybe even stealing something herself if the house was big enough and Montparnasse deemed it beneath him and took the watch alone.
But yet she was here, fighting tears in an alley after giving herself away, again, to the pretty boy who she had known as "that blond leader friend of Marius'" up until a month ago when she had kissed him in that alley.
He had offered her his arm, like a polite gentleman two weeks later and she had accepted his offer to walk her home, she had then kissed him again, this time because she was avoiding Montparnasse and kissing him just seemed like the best way to do that. Montparnasse thought she would never dare to let other men have their way with her as she was his property. Little he knows.
And then she had walked him home, Enjolras, who had) touched her with inexperienced hands, explored her curiously and made her feel things she never had before. The least she could do was hide his mussed up appearance from gossiping peers who would ruin his reputation of Marble Man, unmoved by women.
And it had led them to his apartment, where he had sweetly, and bashfully kissed her hand goodbye. The innocence of that gesture stood in great contrast to the bite on his collarbone.
And she found herself walking with him the next night, and the night after that. Found herself accepting his offer to come in and have a cup of coffee. And then, two nights ago, she found herself in his bed, soaked in sweat as his body merged with hers in a glorious heap of feelings and emotions she had only ever dreamed off.
And she had run off, just like she did tonight, and she had run all over Paris, trying to distract herself from the handsome man who she had just given her body to willingly.
And she was determined not to be thought of as his whore. He had given her coffee, and even though he probably did not think of it as her being in his debt, three cups of coffee was a lot to a child of the streets. And when she went to ask him what he would want in return for the coffee, aside from her body, he had completely stumped her by giving her a pair of boots. Nice boots, not as big as her father's and more feminine, but without the heel.
So tonight she had brought him a coat. It was the least she could do. She had stolen it. Well, It was an out-dated coat, red in colour, and she had washed it, and altered it, polishing the buttons till they looked new, cutting the bottom of the front part away and sewing it onto the back to give it that fashionable cut that Marius had. The cut that resembled the coat she had thrown away when they first met.
And the best part about these alterations were that no one would recognise the coat as the one missing from that second hand shop on the corner where she lived.
She had come to his house and given him the coat. And he had accepted. He had accepted the coat without making a fuss, and she was forever grateful. So grateful and relieved that she had thrown herself at him, kissing him.
And now she had just run from his bed again, letting him have her body like the whore she was.
So she sat there, fighting tears as she laced up the boots.
"''Ponine."
She looked up, blinking as she saw a hastily dressed Enjolras making his way towards her, buttoning up the red coat as he went.
She stood and pressed herself towards the wall, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I don't want your money, monsieur."
He stopped, and it looked like her comment had hurt him.
"I, I wasn't going to offer you money…" he trailed off looking shamefully at the ground. It was clear that the thought had never occurred to him.
She swallowed. "Then what," she spit out, trying to sound like she had not been on the verge of crying just moments ago, she swallowed again. "What do you want?"
"I just," it was his turn to swallow. He then sighed and looked up at her, "I wanted to ask you to, well, stay." She said.
"What?" She blinked, not sure she had heard him.
He reached out and took her hand, gently bringing it up to his chest and holding it tightly with both of his.
"Please, I want you to stay. You don't have to run away after- you can stay." His eyes shone with earnest hope, and before she could think about his proposal, she found herself nodding.
"Alright. Yeah, I'll stay." Then she realised what she had said. "But just for tonight!"
He smiled, and nodded, before leading her back to his apartment.
And hours later, as she laid in his bed, dressed in a long nightshirt of his and listening to his soft snores, she couldn't help feeling like this was too good to be true. And with that she closed her eyes and fell asleep. /
"Éponine," she felt someone shake her shoulder and opened her eyes, muscles coiling and ready to leap up at any sign of danger. Old habits die hard, and this particular habit was one she had only managed to stun for a few weeks, the weeks before the barricade. She took in her surroundings, she was colder than she usually was, nowhere near as cold as she used to be on the streets, and it was understandable as she was huddled under a tree, miles from the village they had just run from.
"What?" she asked as she felt the hand on her shoulder drop back down to her waist, and she peered up at the man it belonged to.
"You were crying in your sleep." He said, and she felt too exhausted to deny it, and only shrugged before she huddled closer to him, closing her eyes again.
"Were you having a nightmare?" he asked her hesitantly, obviously surprised by her lack of defense.
"No," she sighed. "It was a rather pleasant dream, and I cried because it was not reality, not anymore."
And then she fell asleep again, not bothered by how stupid that comment sounded, or how puzzled it left him. She was asleep again before he had the chance to gather his thoughts, lulled back to the land of dreams by the familiar sound of his heartbeat.
And we will step outside / Checking out the coast is clear on both sides / We don't want to be seen / No, this is suicide / You can't see the ropes
The weather had grown colder as August turned to September. It was still not too cold, it was the beginning of autumn after all, but the nights had become chilly, and the leaves were turning gold.
Enjolras and Éponine had made their way north by foot, spending their nights at inns or under the open sky. They started out by avoiding civilization as much as possible, staying hidden when carriages passed them on the roads and keeping an open ear for anything that might be considered a threat to their safety. The first night they stayed at an inn, Enjolras had been a little jumpy and Éponine paranoid, but after a few inns and no one bothering to, well, bother about them, it became easier, and they finally slept through the night.
Sometimes they would stay in one inn for more than a night to avoid catching a cold in the rainy weather. They paid for food and lodgings with the money from the candlestick, thankful for it, Enjolras didn't even ask her where she had gotten it. She held on to them and decided not to tell him she had stolen more money from the unfortunate guests at the inns every time they left.
It felt surreal, like she was a little girl again and her father was teaching her how to gain as much from the guests as possible. Except now she gained information, she did not trick her victims out of their money. Paris had taught her that you need not even ask for anything but still leave with more money, and information, than you had before.
She found out about the warrant for Enjolras' arrest, labeling him as a dangerous and violent traitor and that upon his capture he would be executed, and they learned of the other revolution attempts, of other barricades and protest. And when Éponine told Enjolras about the positive conversation she had with the group of Parisian travellers about what was essentially his cause, she could see a flash of hope in his eyes, before he nodded and kept on walking.
And wherever they went they were on the lookout for coppers and her father… and Montparnasse of course.
It was not as if Montparnasse would just give up.
It was not until a week later that they met again. He was stiff and cordial, and she pretended she had never seen him before. It infuriated him, and she sort of enjoyed watching the vein in his forehead throb as he clenched his jaw and stared at his books, eyes unmoving, as she talked to Feuilly who was sitting next to him.
And she has no idea why, maybe it was the lingering tingle in her lips as she made her way out of the alley that night, maybe it was the way he had met her eyes without showing pity or disgust, or maybe it was the way heat pooled in her stomach every time she snuck a glance at his frustrated appearance. But when all the others were clearing out for the night, she stayed.
"I never got to say thank you for helping me the other night." He bit out as politely as possible as he angrily stuffed his books and maps and papers back into his bag.
"Enjolras…"
And there they were again, Éponine and Enjolras, standing in the darkness and just looking at each other. She found herself gradually gravitating towards him as their eyes met and just as she was close enough to reach out and touch him, as her body was screaming at her to do, he cleared his throat and moved half a step back.
"Let me walk you home, Citizenesse." He said, his tone a little softer than it was a few minutes ago, and arm extended for her to take.
Swallowing the feeling that flashed in her chest, one she had started to associate with Marius' carelessness and her father treating her like dirt, the feeling she associated with not being good enough, she raised her chin and took his arm. He was not wearing a jacket, probably because she had thrown it away last time they met, and she wondered why he had not bothered to buy a new one as she felt self-conscious about the dirt she was smudging into his white shirt where she held his arm.
They made their way out of the café and down the street in silence, her leading the way, planning on leaving him at a semi-respectable street and doubling back home, but as they rounded the corner to a side street, Éponine spotted someone at the end. Not just any someone, Montparnasse.
"Merde." She hissed and found herself, once again, pressing the blond bourgeoisie leader against the walls in the darkest shadow of the alley. She even had her hand on his mouth, wishing he did not have a bright white shirt that could give them away. Who was she fooling; of course it would give the away.
She quickly changed their positions, holding him against her as she pressed herself into the wall. She reached up and frantically pulled his head down as she rose to her tiptoes, placing her lips at his ear and breathing a near silent message.
"If he asks, I'm your whore. I'm not Éponine."
And then she moved back enough to look at his confused expression and steal a glance at the dandy walking closer, before she smashed her lips into Enjolras', hard.
It took him a second, but once again they were back, back to two weeks ago, back to hardly knowing each other, with his tongue in her mouth and her hands in his hair. And as she heard Montparnasse come closer, the heels of his shoes clicking on the pavement, she realised how un-whore-like the situation looked and quickly dropped her hands to the top of his trousers and ripped his shirt out.
Enjolras froze, and Éponine panicked for a split second as Montparnasse was moving closer yet, but then Enjolras gripped her wrists and raised them above her head, pinning them to the wall behind her, and she moaned and the unexpected initiative and used his body as leverage to wrap her legs around his hips. He grunted and caught her as she started slipping a bit, hoisting her up and pressing himself further into her, and god, the feeling of his hardness rubbing against her heat made her forget about Montparnasse for a second as she buried her face in Enjolras' collarbone and rocked her hips against his.
Another groan escaped Enjolras as he pressed himself even closer pinning her to the wall with his body as he yet again trapped her wrists against the wall, reclaiming her lips and meeting her trusts. The feeling of him rubbing the rough material of his trousers against her as his left hand trailed down her naked thigh and hooked itself under her knee to hold her up and bring her closer, hitting a new spot and making her moan a little too loud into his mouth.
The clicking of Montparnasse's heels halted for a few seconds as he observed them, but as Éponine, wanting to hide her face, bit and sucked right under Enjolras' jaw and Enjolras growled in response, she could hear Montparnasse moving on down the street. And despite the fact that she knew she could call off the pretence, it felt too real to stop.
Enjolras dropped his hand from her wrist and let her wrap her hand in his hair as he cupped her face and brought his lips to hers again. The sudden sweetness contradicted the roughness from seconds before in the most delicious way and Éponine heard herself whimper as he trailed his left hand back up her thigh, and up to where her skirt was hitched up, and god almighty, his fingers slowly, hesitantly made their way towards her slick folds, almost curiously, fascinated by the moans and whimpers she couldn't hold back as he held her there, exploring her with his fingers and stared into her eyes.
She protested as he removed his fingers from her, but all he did was hoist her up again and replace his left hand with his right, his rhythm was surer this time and with her moans and whimpers turned into groans and shouts, he grew more confident and Éponine struggled for breath as she felt herself getting closer and closer to something. It was a new experience, something she had hardly felt before, and she clutched herself to Enjolras, biting his shoulder to keep from shouting his name louder than she already had. And then she was overcome with a divine feeling, like her whole body was consumed by fire and flood at the same time, and her body twitched under his fingers as she squeezed her eyes shut and tasted blood on her tongue.
Nothing had ever felt this good. She thought as her body went limp, legs falling down his and if Enjolras hadn't held her hips, in his slick fingers, she would probably have fallen to a heap on the ground. After a few seconds, she figured she could stand on her own and pulled her head from his shoulder and leaned back against the wall.
He cleared his throat and stepped away from her, and instantly she felt cold.
"I beg your forgiveness, Citizenesse." He said as if he had just bumped into her in the streets, which contradicted the way his cheeks were red and he hurriedly shoved his shirt back into his trousers. She could see that the blood she had tasted was his, as there was a small bite mark on his collarbone, and she wondered whether she should apologise for that or not, and also wondered when she had undone his cravat.
"There is nothing to forgive." She said, straightening her skirt and fluffing her hair a bit, refusing to let her eyes linger on the slight smudges of dirt that covered his shirt and neck and face. Shamefully she looked down and gestured towards the clear evidence of their shenanigans on him.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur. Let me take you home through side streets so that your reputation won't be ruined. It's the least I can do." She said, reattaching her shawl and wrapping her arms around herself, not wanting to look at him.
"Alright." He said, and his arm appeared in front of her, she looked up at him in shock, seeing him extend his arm like he had in the café earlier this evening. She accepted it and started leading the way to his address.
Little did she know that it would become her address too in the not too distant future.
No, she was not a novice when it came to hiding from Montparnasse, and that time had not been the first time she had managed to fool him, but both she and Enjolras had been in confrontation with him a handful of times in the past year.
She would have to be better at tricking him from now on, better at running.
And I won't tell my mother / It's better she don't know / And he won't tell his friends / 'Cause they're already ghosts
"Where are we going?" she asked Enjolras as she huddled tighter in her jacket as he poured over his little map in the light of the single candle this room had to offer. The inn they were staying at as Enjolras had been recuperating from his onslaught of the common cold were one of the worst they had stayed in so far. They had almost been robbed twice and there was a constant draft that left Éponine awed by how quickly Enjolras' fever went down, and loud coughs turned to throat clearing.
"Belgium."
"Belgium?"
"It's part of the United Kingdoms of the Netherlands… at the moment."
She had heard of the Netherlands before, and their queer way of speaking and understood what he meant.
"Well, then we will need to go north, instead of continuing east."
"We've been going north east until now."
She nodded. And looked over his shoulder at the map, and remembered when Enjolras had first told her for of the Belgians fighting their Dutch King for the end of religious freedom and for the freedom of education and freedom of press. He had told her excitedly about how they had been inspired by the July revolution and managed to throw the Language policy and reclaim French, and he had told her how great it was that they did not use any oppression whatsoever to make the upper class speak French.
"The Dutch are in Antwerp," she told him casually as she got out her book, wanting him to know that she had not forgotten everything he had taught her. "I heard the barkeeper talk about it with a patron, the French are helping the Belgians though."
It was Enjolras' turn to nod, and they sat there, close together, in the shared light of the candle. Him planning and her reading, she read a passage that made her think of her family, not her father, but her mother and sister. Azelma had written her off when Éponine had left, angry that she had someone to whisk her away and refusing to accept her help and apologies. Their mother on the other hand had been proud of Éponine for finding a man. She had told her that she found it awfully romantic that they would be together no matter the huge gap between their social classes, and that she wished Éponine the best of luck. The memory of that little conversation was barely even tainted by the demands that Éponine steal Enjolras' money.
She wondered what her Mama would say if she were to know that they were fugitives on the run across the border. Maybe she would make a small quip about how the laws should not apply to love, that all lovers were fugitives from acceptable marriages anyway. And Éponine pondered once again how strange this feeling of love was, even when it was purposefully disregarded.
As she shifted to bump her knee with Enjolras' and refused to remove it, the room did not seem as cold as before.
So we'll just keep each other as safe as we can / Until we reach the border / Until we make our plan / To run, run, run
They had made it almost all the way to Belgium by the time the first snow arrived. It was an impressive feat considering that they had started in Bretagne.
"I think it's Christmas soon." Éponine commented as they made their way into a town, spying through the shop windows.
"I can't remember the last time I had snow at Christmas." Enjolras answered as he consulted their map, trying to find out exactly which town they had stumbled upon.
"Four years ago." Éponine reminded him. She would never forget that Christmas. Much like tonight snow had been coming down is small puffs of white and cold, only barely covering the ground at night before it melted in the day sun. Some days the snow would be thicker and the snow would blanket, though reduced to a muddy cold mess by the everyday life of the city, over the city like thin cotton sheets Enjolras had on his bed those last warm weeks they had in Paris.
But unlike the sheets the snow had been cold. Éponine had been lucky, living in that small, sorry excuse for an apartment with her family, sharing a few ratty blankets with her sister, but some nights she had been forced to spend in alleys or even Christmas day in Gavroche's Elephant. It had been the winter she had started defying her parents. It was the winter she had been promised to Montparnasse.
It was a winter she could never forget, though she sometimes wished she could.
Enjolras registered the melancholy barely concealed in the bitterness of her voice, and reached his hand out for her. If there was one thing about their weary journey that Éponine was happy about, it was the fact that they had started mending.
They were still struggling with nightmares and moments where something would remind them of something horrible and they would sit down for a few minutes to catch their breaths, and the constant fear of being attacked or followed or recognised hung over them like a rain cloud, bringing their moods down to a constant state of angst. But at least the unspoken rule that one should never leave the other, and keep each other safe, forced them to get through everything together.
When Éponine felt tears come at night, she would not walk off for privacy, but bury her face against his chest and let it out as he gently ran his hands over her hair and down her spine, sometimes muttering nonsense in a soothing tone, and other times just staying silent. And she found herself crying less and less. Likewise, she would hold him during his night-time terrors, and wake him up if they were bad. And she would play with his hair, which he had now taken to tying with a piece of her torn-up work apron when they were traveling, but was sprawled over his pillow at night.
And they would talk.
They found that walking was an activity that was quite dreary and repetitive. So when Éponine had been singing that one same line from that one same song Grantaire had loved to sing with Bossuet and Joly over and over in her head for two days straight, she had been frustrated enough to ask Enjolras if he knew the rest of the lyrics. Which he did, and after a little prompting she had gotten him to sing the rowdy song. And after a sweet smile from her, Enjolras started talking about Joly and the funny alterations he had made to the song the time Grantaire had given him a few small sips of his absinth.
And it felt good.
It felt good to talk about les Amis, about their funny stories, their little antics and quirks, about how great they had been. How happy they had made them.
Had been, had made.
Because it also incredibly sad, thinking that Bossuet would never break another bottle, that Grantaire would never sing with Joly, that Bahorel would never tell another raucous story about the completely unprovoked fight he just came from, that they were dead and gone.
But despite the fact that they now talked about things like memories and feelings and politics and observations, they still did not mention his resentment towards her saving his life, nor their hopes and dreams and what they had been like together.
But they had intimate moments where they could forget, only for a second, that their whole world had turned upside down.
When he would fumble for her hand as they had a pause in their conversation, and his fingers would tangle so perfectly with hers. Or when she cracked a joke and he would laugh without restraint and she found herself smiling fondly at him, and did not bother to hide it when he noticed smiled almost shyly back.
Or when she would catch him staring at her as they ate or when she read one of his few precious books, and she would smile to herself and place her hand on his knee.
All these little things, small touches and caresses, brushes of hair behind ear, made her feel hopeful for the first time in months.
And she felt more like herself, like the pieces of themselves that she thought they had left behind in Paris had been packed by the other, and given back piece by piece as the time passed.
So when he reached for her in the dark street at around midnight she did not hesitate to meet him half way, slipping her arm around his waist as he wrapped his over her shoulders, before they walked on, taking comfort from the other and giving in return as they located an inn.
Will you stay with me, my love / For another day?
As 1833 started, Enjolras and Éponine made it across the border. The news that the Dutch had been thrown out of Antwerp that December had made Enjolras exited and his mood had lifted, in fact both of them were happier in general.
And when they had settled in the first Belgian inn, Enjolras had actually hugged her before he kissed her cheeks three times and went downstairs for a celebratory drink, leaving her to take the bath she had wanted to take for the past two weeks.
He came back an hour later, slightly tipsy with an adorable flush to his cheeks as he saw her sitting in the big tub that the innkeeper's wife had helped her drag into the room.
"I am sorry," he muttered as he quickly cast his eyes down and turned to leave again.
"Wait!" she exclaimed, standing up as if to lunge for him and force him to stay, and he turned, his hand on the door handle.
"Please."
And that was all it took.
After months of neglecting their urges and feelings, months of biting lips and frustrated sighs, they both finally relented.
He locked the door and moved towards her in three long strides, taking her wet, and slightly shivering body, in his arms, eyes dark and oh so alive; he kissed her.
And it was pain and it was pleasure, it was caring and sweet and rough and urgent. It was everything and anything all at once, and she wanted more, she wanted every part of him like shehad before. And as she fervently removed his shirt, he kicked off his shoes and dropped his trousers, unceremoniously splashing water all over the discarded clothes as hoisted her out of the tub and flush against him, not pausing for breath as he carried her to the bed. And Éponine could almost cry again for the joy she was feeling. She was soaring high over the clouds of dreary rain, she was huddled in the hottest embers in the hearth, she was his, so irrevocably, undoubtedly and forever his.
And as they clutched at each other that night, moaning and gasping for air, they could not deny that what they shared was special, what they had was love.
And all it took for them to realise that they had both been in love since that night he first asked her to stay, was for them to be reunited like this after almost seven months of insecurity and despair.
'Cause I don't want to be alone / When I'm in this state
"Please don't leave me," Enjolras muttered into her shoulder as she was drifting off to sleep, exhausted and so undeniably happy.
"Why would I?" She asked, smiling at his silly request. Of course she would not leave. She loved him, and she never wanted to be without him, this him, the one who was not cold and distant and resentful, ever again.
When there was no answer she realised he was muttering in his sle, so she turned carefully in his arms and brushed his hair out of his face.
"I need you," he whispered when he felt her shift, and held her closer.
"Shh, shh, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere." She told him, wrapping herself closer to him.
And she came to think of that first night she had held him in her arms like this after the barricade.
Please, 'Ponine, leave me, was what he had said back then. And she sort of understood. He never wanted her to be at his barricade in the first place, he never wanted anything he ever did to hurt her, and he wanted her to stay safe, to leave the barricade and live a long life regardless of its outcome. But she had returned, even though she had known of these arguments at the time. And then he had thrown her out of the window, determined to save her even if it was the last he ever did, but they are both stubborn, so of course she had saved him too.
But then she had fainted, and he was forced to face the first three days completely on his own, wrecking their apartment and wallowing in self-pity and guilt.
And he needed to lay the blame somewhere, because the fact that he was the one leading them into their graves, the example they followed that did, in the end, cower and run, was too much.
So he laid the blame on her so that he could have an excuse to hate her, to alienate her, to leave her behind as he continued his revolutionary work in the name of les Amis. Because if they could not be with the people who made them happy, and the people who relied on them for happiness suddenly found them gone forever, then he had no right to be with her.
And then she had come and foiled his plan, hanging onto him and forcing him to bring her with him. Forcing him to hold the grudge and resentment close to heart, because it was all the motivation he had, because he was too stubborn. They both were.
So she wept that night, one last time for her own heart and loneliness, holding it tight and promising herself that she would never be alone another night.
Sleep claimed her a few minutes later, as Enjolras calmed down. And when morning came, Enjolras woke her up to apologise and explain, but in the middle of blabbering about the exact same epiphany she'd had when he was asleep, Éponine kissed him, smiling as he threw himself enthusiastically into it, and had to break away from him by force to tell him that she knew, and she forgave him.
"Just know that it wasn't your fault," she cupped his face, "it was their own choice, and it was not your fault, and I will remind you of that should you ever doubt it."
She saw he did not believe her, but a weight had lifted from his shoulders, and for now, she was happy to just make him happy, she could keep working his guilt away day by day, until he could finally start to forgive himself.
"I love you." He said, knowing she believed in him, "I think I always have."
"And I love you," she smiled, feeling like her chest would explode and her smile would stay permanent on her face, she was in a state of euphoria and she knew it was not for the first time.
"I know I always have."
Will you stay with me, my love / 'Till we're old and grey?
Éponine can't have children.
The first time she had been with Montparnasse, her mother had taken her to the old witch down by the dock the moment she got sick at breakfast. The woman was cold and her instrument old and rusty, and the pain and sickness that followed were the wort Éponine had ever experienced. And the next time Montparnasse had taken her, she had run away and stayed with Gavroche, praying every day that she would bleed like she normally did, and when she did, her mother told her how lucky she was.
The next few times, she refused to admit to herself that it had happened, she had stubbornly decided it was not an option, and every month she bled, she had grown less weary of chancing a child.
By the time she had met Enjolras, it was but an afterthought when she cleaned up the proof of her not being with child. And so it was not a bother really. And Éponine continued to look upon it as a blessing until she got married.
After a year in Belgium, Enjolras had deemed it time to return to France, and Éponine had been reluctant.
"It is not that I do not miss the city, because I do, but I can't bear the thought of leaving you."
Enjolras looked taken aback, "Why would returning home mean that you are leaving me?" he asked, gripping her hand and looking her in the eyes, silently asking her to explain this silly notion. And she could also see the fear in them, the fear that she felt every day herself.
"Not voluntarily, no. But if I am seen by Montparnasse, or Papa, or Azelma, then I am done for and you will never see me again."
Enjolras ran his hand through her hair, brushing it out of her face before he tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes with that passionate, burning intensity that she loved.
"You will not be taken away from me, not if I have anything to say about it."
Éponine smiled and leaned closer, cupping his cheek and bringing his face to hers lightly nipping at his lips before he brought her closer. The light pecks got heated and fierce, rough and needy, but still so utterly sweet and loving. And before she knew it she was pinned against their bookshelf, legs wrapped around his hips as she helped him discard her chemise.
He looked at her with the same adoration and awe as he had almost two years ago
"Marry me," he said breathlessly.
And without thinking about the fact that she would be robbing him of an heir, despite the fact that she sometimes still felt like she wasn't good enough for him. She still loved him so very much, and she knew that he loved her to. And for years to come he would tell her he still wants to be with her, even if they can't have kids, even if his heir will be some gamin off the streets, he still wants her even though her father is scum and her mother in prison.
And she cannot be without him, for it would break them both.
"Yes."
I don't want to be alone / When these bones decay
And they were never alone again.
They had each other.
Run, run, run