Author's Note: This is my first fanfic for something like this, but I'm giving it my best shot, tell me what you guys think, please.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I own nothing, except the plot.

Chapter 1

There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.

Les Misérables

"You're alive."

Éponine whirls, not just because of the familiarity of the owner's voice, but also due to the accusation underlying the tone as each word is said. She stares into a pair of blue eyes, just as she'd seen them in her dreams and nightmares.

"As are you," she replies simply, her voice hoarse from not being used in a few days.

Enjolras eyes narrow slightly. She looks the same as always: dark wild tangled hair, dark eyes, and a thin frame covered by tattered and dirty rags. Enjolras notes that she has changed from clothes at the barricade, instead of boy's clothes; she is back in her green top and brown skirt once again. She looks him over as he does her. Her eyes ask the question she doesn't say aloud, how are you still alive?

She isn't the only one wondering.

Enjolras clears his throat quietly. He can't help but feel a little annoyed at himself. Here he was, the fearless revolution leader, without words. She notices this. Her lips twitch slightly in amusement.

"How did you get out?" he finally manages to ask.

Éponine's eyes cast downwards to stare at her bare feet. She shifts her weight onto her other leg and fiddles with her fingers. She swallows around the dryness in her throat.

"I…I don't know," she admits. She meets his eyes. Brown clashing with blue. "But I did, that's all that matters."

Enjolras averts his eyes away from her. The guilt presses against his chest. He was responsible for her injuries, after all. She may be breathing now but the others; his friends – his comrades, his brothers – were not. And it was all his fault. He did this.

"Monsieur?" her tone is soft and hesitant. He doesn't meet her eyes. He waits for her to speak again, but the words out of her mouth are not what he expects. He never knows what to expect with Éponine. "When was the last time you've eaten?"

He feels himself shrug. He truly does not know. Why should it matter, anyways? Why should he get to live while everyone else he knew lay six feet under? He finally brings himself to look at her. She is still thin, all skin and bones, but she does not look hungry for once.

"Who nursed you?"

"Mademoiselle Baptistine," she answers quietly. "I left her care this morning. And you, Monsieur, who cared for you?"

"A medical friend of Joly's. As a favor to him."

He wishes his voice didn't sound so bitter. But they should've just left him to die. Death would've been easier. At least, he'd be with everyone. He glances at the bag at Éponine's side.

"Departing?" he asks.

She glances at her bag and nods.

"It is time to move on," she says quietly. She looks at him earnestly. "Would you like to come with me?"

"Why?" the word leaves his mouth before he can stop it. She shrugs.

"Because…because…I don't know! Why not? So what will it be, bourgeois boy?"

"I'm not worthy of company."

She surprises him by rolling her eyes. She strides toward him, moving as quick and silent as water. Her skinny fingers wrap themselves around his wrist and she tugs. For someone that looks like she could snap in half, he can feel the strength coursing through her veins.

"Nor am I, looks like we're a match made in heaven. Now hurry up, we've already lost enough time."

He shakes his head at her. Her persistence is both admirable and irritating. Enjolras does not like being told what to do, one of the factors that fueled his passion for the revolution. His family telling him what they expected of him, of what he should expect from himself. And how those not in the same class were beneath them. Enjolras nearly rolls his eyes. He lets Éponine tug him down the streets. He is still limping due to his injuries, not having fully recovered when he left, but he keeps up with her pace easily. She reaches into her bag with her free hand and pulls out a roll of bread, she hands it to him.

"Eat," she says.

"Not unless you-" he tries to hand it back to her. She shakes her head, her hair flying around her.

"I had my share already," she says impatiently. "Eat, bourgeois boy. The last thing we need is you collapsing from hunger."

"I'm called Enjolras," he says. He bites into the food she hands to him. It tastes heavenly on his tongue. It must've been days since he's eaten anything that wasn't stale. The roll is freshly baked. Part of him wonders where she got it.

She smirks at him. There are gaps in her teeth but her smile is still somehow endearing. "I know."

He finishes the bread and bows his head toward her.

"Thank you," he says.

"It was nothing. I know hunger when I see it."

A haunted look overcomes her face. The hard life she must've had to endure for years. The effects are still evident on her face, but the young youth she obtained before still clings on, showing that perhaps it may not be too late for the gamine. He doesn't realize he's been staring at her while they were walking, until she's looking back at him.

"What? You keep staring at me."

"My apologies. May I ask where we are headed?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead," she says. "Any ideas?"

Just one.

The first time he noticed the gamine, it had been at one of the meetings at Le Café Musain. Though dressed as a boy, hidden in the back of the café, Enjolras immediately recognized the sheep in wolf's clothing, the mademoiselle in disguise. Women were not allowed in Café Musain, yet here she was. She followed Marius around like a shadow; he soon began to call her that, and mostly kept to herself. She was silent, wanting to avoid drawing attention to herself, but she always listened. To the random chatter of the students or Enjolras speeches. She came back regularly, even on the days Marius did not.

He began to watch her out of the corner of his eye, studying her reaction to the world around her, wanting to know what she thought, even if she didn't verbally express it. In his orations, she would unconsciously lean forward, her head slightly lifted in his direction as he spoke. She tapped her fingers lightly on the table, drumming them against the surface in tune with his words. When her presence filled the room, his words took on more meaning, more passion about their cause and it made him feel better that she was there, and she was listening to him, and only him.

The first time they spoke, he had stepped out for some fresh air, and a voice spoke to his left.

"What makes a bourgeois boy like you want to start a revolution?"

He turned quickly and standing in the shadows was the object of his thoughts. She was leaning against the brick wall, dressed for once in feminine attire, a green top and a long brown skirt. Her hair fell around her shoulders, wild and tangled. She was scrutinizing him with those dark eyes of hers. Her face was covered in grim.

"Those that suffer," he said. But the real message lingered in the air, People like you.

"The suffering did not ask for assistance," she told him. "What makes you think they want it?"

"Whether they want it or not, equality belongs to everyone."

She pushed off the wall, her bare feet pattering across the cold pavement, not making a sound as she made her way to stand in front of him. She moved like a ghost, silent and deadly. She smiled slightly at him. The cold night air breezed by. She shivered but otherwise gave no indication she was cold.

"Even the wicked and the convicts?" she questioned. She wanted to prove him wrong. That equality should be bestowed upon those that deserve it. She for one didn't.

"They were not born wicked or convicts, they were born human beings. And humanity was created to be treated fairly."

"Life isn't fair," she muttered grimly. Marius stumbled out of the café, looking drunk but nether less in a good mood.

"Éponine!" he cried out in joy. "Éponine!"

"Monsieur Marius," she greeted, tearing her eyes away from Enjolras. She looked mildly concerned and worried. "You look…drunk. Very drunk, in fact."

"I am drunk," he agreed. "Drunk and in love. Oh Cosette! My dear, Cosette, where is she now?"

Éponine sighed, a look of hurt on her face. She squared her shoulders and went to help steady Marius as he continued to sway and stumble in his steps. She drew his arm around her shoulder. She looked one more time at Enjolras.

"Au revior, Monsieur," she said.

"Mademoiselle," he said in return. She laughed, bleak and empty. The light from the café and the shifting of her stance to up hold Marius' weight caused shadows to be cast across her face. And when she spoke her voice was grave and serious.

"I am no Mademoiselle."

With that, she led Marius away into the night.

Enjolras is broken out of his stupor when Éponine begins to hum. It is a tuneless song, with no actual meaning, but it lightens the mood. She skips lightly in her steps, like a bird about to take flight.

"How much further?" she asks. Enjolras looks around; the environment is foreign yet strangely familiar, as if he was walking through a half remembered dream.

"A few more miles," he says. The night air blows through his hair, causing a few curls to lose their place. Éponine has the urge to push it back. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. This isn't her first time to be in a predicament like this, but this is the first time anyone other than her family has ever seen it. Enjolras strips off his coat and drapes it over her shoulder. She shakes her head.

"No-"

"Éponine I'm not going to make you travel through the dead of night so that you can freeze to death."

It is a kind gesture; no one has ever shown her this extent of compassion. The desired result backfires, Éponine feels more annoyed than grateful. She is Éponine Thénardier and she refuses to accept help. She is independent, stubborn, and has fought for survival for most of her life. She tenaciously hands Enjolras back his coat.

"I'll survive," she bites out. "Just as I always have."

"I have no doubt about that."

He sighs. He folds his coat against his arm. If she wants to suffer through the cold than so will he. The cold would be bearable if they hadn't been exposed to it all night. The weather seeps into Enjolras clothes, causing his body to shiver from the sudden iciness of the night. He has new found respect for Éponine, whom suffered silently through this not just for this night, but others as well.

"How about we stop for the night?" he suggests. There is a small inn nearby, just two buildings down. He gestures towards it with his head. Éponine shakes her head.

"Anywhere but an inn. I'd rather sleep on the street."

"I'll pay for it," he starts.

Éponine grits her teeth. She crosses her arms over her chest and she goes rigid all over, frozen in place. Enjolras can go stay there himself and come get her in the morning. She will not enter another inn. She can feel her body attempting to shut down on itself, to give her body the rest it needs. She forces herself to stand up straighter, focusing on everything around her with more effort than necessary.

"I'm not worried about the cost," her voice is harsh and cold. "I refuse to enter a building that constantly reminds me of where my life went to hell."

"Then where do you suggest we spend the night?"

"You can go and rest there. I'll be out here on the street. Fetch me when you wake."

She turns away from him and begins to walk away. He catches up to her in three strides. He reaches out without thinking and grabs her arm. He spins her around.

"Don't be foolish. I would never let a lady spend the night on her own, especially not on the streets."

She glares at him. Of course, by saying what he did, he is making her sound weak. And that is one thing that Éponine is not. She yanks her arm angrily out of his grasp.

"I've done it for years!"

He would've protested further except the sound of horse hooves racing down the street reaches his ears. She hears it, too. A look closely resembling panic crosses her face.

"Hide," she hisses. She grabs his hand and begins running down the street, pulling him behind her. Reality finally dawns on him, crashing like a wave, and he begins to run at full speed until he overtakes her and she is the one being led. His limp causes pain to shoot through his leg, he ignores it for both their safety. They have a few seconds now. He pulls her into the nearest alley. As he pivots to check on her, he is surprised when he feels her tiny hands press against his chest and shoves him toward the wall. His back collides with the moss covered bricks and he grunts. Éponine chest is heaving as she tries to catch her breath and she peeks out the alleyway before pushing them both further into the shadows. Her hand clamps over his mouth and she makes a shushing sound right at his ears. Her own breathing lowers until he can hardly hear it. He wonders if she can hear the pounding in his heart, due to their proximity of each other. Her free hand is gripping at his arm, fisted into the fabric tightly.

They stand like that until the sound of hooves pounding on the dirt ground fade away. She removes her hands and steps away.

"You're a wanted man, Monsieur Enjolras. The National Guard wants your dead corpse at their feet. We're going to have to be more careful from now on."

"Gratias agimus tibi, Éponine," he murmurs.

She nods, accepting his words because while she doesn't understand, she has a feeling she knows what he just said. He normally fell back into using Latin and French for small things. They step out of the shadows and into the dim light. Éponine follows him toward the inn he pointed out and she had patently refused. She places her hand on his arm as they approach.

"I never wanted to return to anything remotely similar to this, but I will if it means that we won't have to worry about the Guards capturing you."

He hears the sacrifice in her words, the haunting that she's going to shove away so that his safety will be ensured.

"Éponine, you don't have to do this."

"It's just for one night. It won't kill me." She seems to be assuring herself more than him. He begins to reach for her hand then stops. This is probably the last thing she wants him to do.

As promised he pays for the room. It is a dingy room with gray walls, a musty smell, and a small bed. There is a tub and sink in the farthest corner of the room. Enjolras wrinkles his nose. He glances at his companion only to see her shutting her eyes, trying to rid her mind of memories that will never fully disappear. She must feel his eyes on her because suddenly they open and he is staring into her dark eyes. They are flecked with gold and he finds them pretty and intimating – just like her.

"We should rest," he says. There is a quiet knock on the door; he goes to open it, only to find no one on the other side. At his feet, there are two baskets, each filled with clothing for each of them. Enjolras glances down both hallways but find them empty.

"Who is it?" he hers Éponine ask behind him.

"No one," he tells her. "Only baskets filled with clothes."

He snatches them up and brings them into the room, closing the door shut behind him.

"We must look worse than I thought," she says, a smile gracing her lips.

A smile forms on his lips. He is in borrowed clothes from Joly's friend, the coat he wore to the revolution still dangling on his arm. Her clothes are still ragged and tattered but not smeared in dirt. She reaches for the basket meant for her at the same time he hands it over. Her fingers rifle through the dresses inside, pulling a simple white nightgown from the pile. She goes off into the corner to change and pulls her top off. Enjolras stares at her back, at how her waist curves in. He clears his throat quietly and looks away. It is not gentlemanly to gawk at a maiden that he is not married to. He heads over to the bed and slides in beneath the covers. He hears the window slide open and the night air wafts into the room. The other side of the bed dips as her weight occupies it and he rolls over in time to see her pull the thin blanket over her form.

"Goodnight Monsieur," she says.

She closes her eyes and in a few minutes her breathing evens out. Her face relaxes and she looks young and vulnerable and beautiful in the moonlight.

"Goodnight, Éponine," he whispers, closing his eyes to welcome the darkness and memories of those fateful few days in June that lurks in the depths of his mind.

Death and bloodshed. Gunshots and cries of the wounded. Enjolras stands in the middle of it. He is paralyzed to move, forced to watch as his friends get gunned down, and they are beginning for his help, pleading with him to not abandon him.

"Enjolras?"

It is a whisper in the middle of all the chaos. A voice he wants to find in the crowd but cannot. He continues to search wanting to keep her away. He does not want to see her perish twice. The guns are trained on him now. He waits for bullets to pierce his body once more, better him than her.

"Enjolras, wake up." Someone is shaking his shoulder. "Wake up!"

His eyes fly open and he sits upright in bed, nearly hitting her in the process. Her hand is still lying on his shoulder, fingers clamped down on his shirt. She looks tired and he sees the effort she has to put in to keep herself from falling back to sleep.

"I'm fine," he says. "I apologize for waking you." She moves her hand and draws her knees up, wrapping her skinny arms around them. She props her chin on top of them. Enjolras pushes the hair that sticks to his forehead from the sweat his nightmares creates.

"How often do you have them?" she asks. "Your nightmares?"

She turns her head, so her cheek is now the one pressed against her knees, to look at him. Enjolras glances out the window, it is nearly dawn. He can see the sky begin to light up.

"Every night," he says.

She nods because she understands. And looking at her, he is grateful for her presence. Because it proves that he is not alone, not anymore.

Author's Note: Review.