A/N: So… my first Les Miserables fic and my first multi-chapter fic! I've been obsessed with Les Mis for such a long time, and thought it about time I try writing for my ship of choice! This story is quite different to others that I've written, but I'm fairly proud of it!

Before you read this, I must point out that the idea of Éponine and Enjolras surviving the barricade and leaving Paris together was fantastically written about in "There Will Be Light" by the amazing Unicornesque. I highly recommend it, as well as all of her other fics because they are some of the best I have ever read! That being said, I have been working on this fic since January, and have most of it already written, so any similarities are coincidental.

I'm using the movie cast for this, purely because as much as I adore both Ramin and Aaron, Aaron works better for my purposes, and Samantha Barks will always be Éponine to me (though she made an amazing Nancy!)

This story was beta'd by my wonderful sister, but as always reviews and constructive criticism are highly appreciated and welcomed. I hope I've done these two justice, and I hope you enjoy…

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Les Mis… sadly I don't…

They had saved each other.

That was how this started. Through the smoke and haze of the war zone, their hands had found each other, fingers entwining and palms mashing haphazardly together. He'd pulled her away roughly, his angelic face - smeared with ash and the blood of his comrades - hard as he ignored her protests. He could feel the warmth of his own blood slipping from the bullet hole in his shoulder, but he could not think of it now. He'd pushed her down a side alley with a glare and a command to stay away.

"I came to fight, monsieur... isn't this what you wanted? I am the people and I am rising for your cause."

"You do not come for your freedom." He hissed, his dark blue eyes boring into her. "You come to die for Pontmercy, and I will not have it." With that, he had turned on his heel and swiftly abandoned her where she stood.

His arm was throbbing now, his head filling with clouds and sending his vision hazy. He stumbled, his good arm pressed against the wall to keep him upright as he tried to return to his brothers.

He was mere feet away when he heard the impact.

The deafening crack and splinter of wood and metal colliding sent him reeling backwards. He lost his balance, the ripple effect of watching the barricade crumble to twigs knocking him from his feet. Shrieking and gunshots were amplified by the walls of the alley, echoing inside of his head and sending more blood pulsing through his open wound.

Desperately, he tried to clamber to his feet. He felt two painfully thin arms beneath his, wrapping around his torso and attempting to pull him away. He began shouting then, his screams of protest rivalling the death cries from his barricade. He was pushing with all of his might, but he was too weak to fight back.

"They are dead, monsieur," She tells him, her own voice thick with unshed tears. "There is nothing you can do." Despite her words, he continued to struggle. Then the gunshots ceased, and so did his fight.

For a moment everything was still. The birds did not fly; the world did not turn. Breath did not come and tears were not shed. Then she hastily pulled him to his feet and down the alley.

She'd taken him to a healer in the middle of the slums. He was barely walking by the time they arrived at the tiny hut; Éponine had told him the old woman had always been kind to her, and she would do what was best for him. In his delirium, he'd asked her to fetch Joly, for the medical student would know what was best. She'd given him a sad smile, dabbing at his face with a damp cloth as he lay in front of the fire. Gently, she'd reminded him that the young man had passed at the barricade mere hours ago.

That was when the pain kicked in.

He barely noticed the bullet being wrenched from his shoulder as the tears of anguish coursed down his cheeks. Éponine sat silently by, watching as the marble facade washed away and left in its place a broken man who had just lost everything.

She wanted to cry right alongside him, but she would not. Instead, she sat by his side, their fingers entwined once more as the healer stitched up the hole in his flesh.

They remained with the old woman for several days, hidden away as Enjolras attempted a hasty recovery. His mind was still jumbled, and half of the time it appeared as though he remembered nothing, but the sadness in his blue eyes spoke far more than he ever did.

He would sleep for most of the day; the combination of blood loss, grief and painkillers kept him barely conscious. This meant Éponine had the time to slip away from the hut and walk the streets of her home once more.

She avoided the Musain as much as possible. The now all but abandoned Rue de la Chanverrerie constantly smelt metallic - a mix of gunpowder and spilt blood. The cobblestones and walls, though washed clean by the women left behind, still had the faintest tinge of scarlet. The shutters to the Musain were in tatters on the floor, and the building that had once housed a revolution had now become nothing more than a place for lost spirits to dwell.

It was on one of the trips out that she heard the news. All had perished that night on the barricade. The boys were not hailed as heroes as they should have been. Instead, like their blood, they had been hastily washed from memory. Life in Paris had returned to normal.

She had taken Enjolras away in the dead of night a mere 4 days after the revolution had failed. By this time, he was shaky on his feet, but able to move if aided. Though the healer had insisted they stay longer, Éponine had insisted she get Enjolras away from the broken streets of Paris. It would not take long for the gendarmes to realise the leader of the rebellion was not amongst the pile of corpses dragged from the barricade.

She had spent the afternoon gathering together the things they would need for the trip - though in all honesty she still did not know where they were headed. Somewhere that was not filled with the ghosts of their memories.

She was used to having very little, and she supposed Enjolras would adjust, but all the same she gathered him a change of clothes and whatever money she could find in his apartment (which she had let herself into, assuring herself he would understand.)

With a bag full of memories and drugs, she had pulled Enjolras unsteadily to his feet. A final kiss on the forehead and reassurance that the healer would pray for them, the two set off down a path that would ultimately lead them to each other.

They had just made it out of the city when the pain and fatigue became too much for the revolutionary. The weather was not in their favour either, as the clear black sky had quickly flooded with clouds, releasing a drizzle that threatened them with a full blown storm. Thus they were forced to find shelter beneath an old bridge that had long been forgotten.

Éponine dutifully handed Enjolras the pain relieving concoction he had been craving and watched as he gulped it down before quickly nodding off. She took the moment, sitting in the dark under a decrepit bridge, to behold him truly for the first time since his glory days in the Café. His skin was pale now, sickly and with a sheen of sweat and rain. His blonde curls were matted and dirty, slick against his head as he shivered violently. Though his clothes were no longer blood stained and covered in filth (she had left those with the healer to burn) he still looked physically weak. A far cry from the Apollo who had led so many into a doomed battle that was not theirs to fight. For the first time since she had known him, he resembled not a God, but a foolish young schoolboy who had jumped into the deep end of a river without understanding the strength of the current.

She pulled herself closer to him, hoping to give him what little body heat she retained in her fragile frame. The urge to protect him was strong, and she couldn't explain it – after all, she could have left him to perish at the barricade, or bleed out in the gutter, or turn him over to the authorities for a reward as her parents would… but she hadn't. In the end she figured she did it not out of altruism, but for Marius. For this man had been his friend, and when she ultimately was reunited with her beloved in the gardens of the Lord, he would be proud to know of the good she'd done. And so she lay her head upon Enjolras' uninjured shoulder and drifted off into a restless sleep.

And though neither of them knew it, it was to be the first of many nights sleeping in each others arms.

Surrounded by a million but I feel like I'm alone, and I might be a nobody to you, but if I'm playing, would you listen?

I hope you enjoyed chapter one... Again, reviews and constructive criticism are welcomed :) And if you ever feel like chatting about Les Mis, you'll find me on tumblr at wanderingmidgardian . tumblr. com