Eponine. Even now I hear her name, whispered in the deepest of my dreams, rank and sweet like a forbidden pleasure. The word calls up a picture to my mind, a blurry memory of a tall, waifish girl with listless black eyes and dull, lackluster hair, tattered skirt dancing around her ankles, face twisted into a smile. If I concentrate hard, I can still smell that familiar putrid scent wafting heavy from the river, feel the dirt and grime of London, the summer air heavy on my skin, the shadow of my patched hat falling over my face. I can still feel the tingle of the sun, still hear the noise and bustle and rumbles of Paris. When I close my eyes, I am instantly back there, back fifty years ago when I thought everything made sense, back to rhythm of the dismal pound of my feet as I walked back to my room at the Gorbadeu tenant house. Those days, full of the fresh emotions of youth – longing and love and wistfulness – feel so real to me in my mind now, almost as if in the advancing of age I was instead going backward instead of on, back to where my life began.

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I see Eponine by the side of the road, unnoticed by all but me; for who would notice a creature as ugly and horrid as she? The only reason she caught my eye was that I knew her, and was looking for her. Having had given her father money the day before, as a loan, I had approached him today (smelling of whiskey and madness) to ask if he had gotten it. He said his eldest had it- ("Filthy slut wot she is, be dammed if she haz'nt gotten 'way wiv it, wot wiv 'er bein' such a greedy animal an' the like")- and so I had gone out to locate her, being due at the Café Musian in a half hour.

"Eponine!" I called, and seeing her turn I approached. She smiled at me, a leer with few teeth and less hope. Her skirt was ragged and I could see her legs, and one filthy shoulder of her dirt-encrusted chemise had slipped off her arm, offering a dark bruise to the setting sun.

"Monsieur Marius!" she exclaimed in her creaky tortured-cat voice. " Wot are you after? Com over 'ere to say 'ello?"

"Err…your father said you had some money for me."

"'E did, did 'e? I ain't got no clue wot….." she trailed off, and her eyebrows clashed together in thought. "Yeah… I got yer money. 'ow much did 'e say, I don't quite remember?"

" 20 francs."

"Alright…'ere yer are." Her hand is rough and thin as she gently places the coins in my palm. I see that her nails are bitten ragged. Her fingers are cool and trembling as they waft lightly over the back of my hand, leaving stray dirt and goosebumps. I know I should pull away, and I know I could, for her grip on me is light. But I don't. I look up at her weathered face, and I see that she is smiling, a crooked smile that is somehow pretty. I touch her arm gently, moved more by pity and curiosity then by feeling. I feel her arm warm under my hand, and she takes a step towards me, eyes on my face. Something about her makes my mouth go dry. The coins are hot and heavy in my hand, and I feel the same hotness flush my face, pulled forward with her touch. I jerk away, suddenly frightened, and bury my shaking hands in my pockets.

"Eponine…."

"Monsieur Marius?"

I feel that my cheeks are still red. I take a sep back and give her a distant smile, willing to forget what happened between us. There's hurt on her face, longing too, but it disappears quickly and she lowers her eyes.

"I'll be seein' you, Monsieur Marius. Around." Her gravelly voice cracks, and then she's gone. Leaving me alone in the bustling streets, my thought racing, hands still trembling.

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Now, twenty years later, as I lie in my hot bed, I can still see her lurid eyes gazing at me, can still smell her warm blood on my hands in the shivery nighttime on that fateful day at the barricades. Now, with the wisdom of age upon me to late, I see many things I had not before. I see the look in her eyes when she laid her head on my lap, the pain in her voice as she brought me to my loves house, the touch of her hand upon mine. I can remember the day I first met her, her voice as she rambled on in my bedroom. She showed me that she could write, and it had made me laugh then, to see her meager display of skill. I don't laugh anymore at her memory. Now, I wonder how she could have been so brave, so bold, so in love. Yes, I realize it now, far to late. The things I did not pay attention to as a young man come to the surface of my memory now. I see how she looked at me, and I am ashamed, ashamed for not even noticing. I did not love her – how could I? she was vile, toothless, dirty. How could I love her? I couldn't. I chose my Cosette, and I do not regret it. I love my Cosette greatly, and I know she does me. We are happy together, as I knew we would be. She is my dream come true.

But sometimes, at night, I see the ghost of a hand caress my own, feel forgotten goosebumps rise once more. I see a dim shadow at the door to our room, the glint of lonely black eyes, the shine of moonlight on blood. Thin legs under a soaked skirt, trembling fingers brushing oh so softly over the window frame, footsteps silent as she paces around. I hear her raspy voice, echoing through many happy years. Every night I hear it, the same thing night after night, playing out an unfulfilled scene, fragments of many days running together into a haunting, desperate monologue. "I can write too, you know….I lave a letter for you, Monsieur….we weren't always what we are…sometimes I go out at night…..sometimes I don't come back...you never notice me, but I notice you…..you are a very handsome young man ….You don't seem happy to see me… …..a women like me…you thought me ugly, didn't you?...you see, you are finished.…oh, I'm so happy, we're all going to die….oh if only you knew…you'd hold it against me, prehapes…we'll see each other again…..promise me….promise me…I think I was a little bit in love with you.

That was what he'd been trying to forget for the past twenty years. Her voice, declaring love for him. That haunting, tearful voice, rough and brave, that echoed in his room at night, so that he buried his face in his wife's long chestnut hair and wondered if maybe he'd loved her after all.

A/N- I'm not a fan of Marius/Eponine….at ALL. So why did I write this? No idea. Just bored. Read and review!