Disclaimer: Les Miserables belongs to Victor Hugo. The only thing that belongs to me is the developing of this series.

Chapter 3

The Tigers Come At Night

Stupid, stupid, stupid, thought Eponine. She was questioning her easy acceptance of Enjolras' offer. Enjolras turned his head to look beside him and the gamine's frail form was sturdy but ready to blow away at the lightest breeze. Her eyes were focused on a point in the distance, unsmiling. Rather like Enjolras, but firmer, stronger, fiercer. Eponine, out of habit maybe, wrapped her arms around herself. She found herself stroking her fingers through the thick knots in her hair. Enjolras turned and found himself being distracted by Eponine's eyelashes. Her irises flickered upwards. "Is there anything wrong, Monsieur?"

"No, there's nothing wrong, Madamoiselle. Is there anything wrong with you?" Her cheeks lit up with rage.

"How dare you?! And no, I'm just cold because somehow I lost my jacket."

...

Unbeknownst to her, Enjolras was thinking the same thing, but not for the same reasons. He only had a couch and bed. He'd let her choose of course. He sighed, resigning himself to the fate of a woman's tongue. Most women would choose the bed. Eponine isn't 'most women', Enjolras. She dressed as a boy to go into battle, remember? Enjolras turned the corner, and Eponine's head snapped up, hesitating for a moment before running a little closer. When they reached his flat (they'd gotten a few looks from the owner) Eponine's eyes flitted between the bed and couch. She outstretched her fingers and tested the couch. It was quite uncomfortable. Then she moved over to the bed. That was comfy. Eponine stood there. Sighing, she walked over to the couch and sat down. "This'll be my bed. Then I won't forget 'Roche." Tired half-lidded eyes followed Enjolras' form.

"There's some nightshirts you can use in that drawer beside the bed." When there was no response, Enjolras leaned closer to inspect her. She was already sleeping deeply.

...

Eponine's dream world isn't a good place. It's full of memories and bad people. It keeps in a cage of tigers. There are murderers and horrible men and vengeful prostitutes. There are people who didn't love her back. Eponine would often regret that sleep came so easily. When she slept, her body locked in place as if giant hands were keeping her still. Every few minutes she'd moan. When they were especially bad she might even strike out. If you examined her, like no one cared enough to do, you'd notice her nails digging into her palms, her face contorting in pain, sometimes even drawing blood. Eponine still dreamed of that and she would for a long time. You don't just forget. But that night Eponine dreamed of the night when her parents threw her brother onto the dirty streets of Paris. That was the beginning of her downward spiral. Soon the words got harsher, the hands got rougher, the minds snapped, insanity like a pool. She also dreamed of her brother running. Running through the streets, a bun tucked under his arm. Footsteps paced after him. Maybe it was her father. Maybe it was the police. Run, little Gavroche. Don't let them get you. Soon Eponine ran onto the street. She looked for Gavroche but he was gone. She looked down and saw her feet smaller than before. Eponine got it then. She had to help Gavroche. Eponine took off down the street, her body fast, her face contorted in determination. She held in the urge to laugh. Eponine turned the corner and found herself in a dead-end. Her breathing started getting harder, fearful. She felt her eyes glaze over. Her father came into view, smirking at her. Eponine ran at the wall, all laughter gone. She slammed against it, feeling it peeling the skin from her shoulder. She tried one more time and the bricks crumbled. She made to climb through the hole but, peeking her head through, she saw men closing in. The police. Eponine screamed. "Help me! Somebody freaking help me!" Eponine tried slamming into the other walls. She shrieked as she felt warmth start to bubble through her and flow down her arm. Burning pain shrieked in the ears of her system. She turned her head and looked at the gang, Patron-Minette and the police. Feeling the tears pooling down her face, she turned and ran at the police.

Eponine's body made a sort of spasm and she felt the contact of one of the police touching her arm. She opened her eyes and saw that it was still dark. Eponine wasn't totally scared of the dark. She was scared of what was in it. Of things like her family. Eponine sat up and looked around the room. The dark was crisp, like a cover. That was why she hated it. Eponine's ears started to tune in. A cry snapped her awake. She ran to her window, staring into the shadows. Then she realised it was coming from the sleeping figure in the bed. Enjolras. Eponine looked at the rise in the covers. It cried again and Eponine covered her ears. It's fine, Eponine. You used to scream too, remember. And you've heard much worse things. Eponine got up and walked over to Enjolras and considered waking him but decided not too. She might scare him, she decided. So she just stood there, listening to him cry out, again and again. Eponine held in a whimper. Eponine couldn't sleep. A book was on his bookstand. She could… read again? No, the light was too bad. Eponine was suddenly aware of the heat. She moved over to the window. She opened it and then stood on the sill. She bent her knees and then outstretched her legs over Paris. She inhaled the smell of the city and gripped the platform she rested on. Yes, that was better. A light breeze brushed against her. She watched as tendrils of gold started to curl through Paris. "Mademoiselle?" Enjolras' voice startled her and her fingers scraped against the brick.

"Monsieur?"

"Call me Enjolras."

"As long as you don't call me any formal names like Mademoiselle, okay." Eponine got to her feet again and clumsily let go of the sill. She put her hands on her hips and turned around. There had to be that terrifying moment when only one foot was over the city. But then she was facing him. She smirked and raised her eyebrows. Then she jumped into the room.

"Were you awake long, Eponine?" Enjolras' eyes were still tired. Eponine didn't like lying. So she sighed and nodded.

"Yes, I was, Mon-Enjolras. I've been up for an hour. You were crying out." Eponine bit the inside of her lip.

"I woke you up? I'm sorry, Eponine." Enjolras looked earnest. Eponine shook her head.

"I should thank you. I hate that place." She shuddered.

"What place?"

"Dreamland." She shrugged.

"Was it Gavroche?"
"Sort of. Not dying, though. Before that. Way before that." She shuddered as she remembered that night when her father had stood in the doorway without her brother. Suddenly her shoulder stung and she brought her hand up to cover it.

Eponine walked around and back to the sofa. "There's still a few hours left," she sighed, dread creeping into her tone. She heard Enjolras depart.

...

The warm water gave Enjolras its own kind of chill. It would be so easy to get lost in the waves. Enjolras shook his head and slipped a towel around himself. A squeak from behind him startled Enjolras and he gripped the towel. His head whipped around and he saw Eponine, her clothes from yesterday clinging to her shape. She had the end of the top lifted up, to her ribs. They were so obvious, sharp. Eponine dropped the shirt bottom but he'd seen enough. Bruises coated them, blue and purple and green. And tiny scars dotted her frame. Eponine was what Marius had said. Like smoke. Her eyes were surprised for only a minute before glaring at him. Enjolras decided not to pursue the story yet. "God, Eponine." Eponine had just appeared there, silent, not a single disturbance. Enjolras manoeuvred around the ghost of a girl and walked out of the room. Eponine just stood there. "She's not there," he heard her mutter.

Author's Note: Thank you my lovelies for reading my fan fiction, it means a lot to me. And to those who like my work GUESS WHAT? It's only 6:00 AM. Meaning, I might squeeze another chapter in today!