Note: An attempt at writing Enjolras from an OC observer's point of view. Partly for the challenge and partly because Enjolras needed someone to talk to…I have a tendency to make characters sit and think too much and am trying to work on it. Reviews are very happy things :D

Léon's heart lurched when he saw the big, blond prisoner sitting crumpled on the floor, one arm elevated awkwardly by the chain on his wrist. When the guard saw Léon, he stood up eagerly, jerking the arm further upward.

"So you're the one they've sent for the dull job, are you?" he said, unlocking the shackle he wore. "Well, have fun for the next four hours."

Léon forced a chuckle. "I'll try," he said. "Any special instructions?"

The guard thought. "Well, he's not to talk to any of the other prisoners, which isn't too hard since it's late and they're mostly asleep. You chain your left wrist to his right."

Léon looked at the revolutionary's wrist, worn red by its chain. "But I'm left-handed," he said.

"That's a bother. Well, you'll want to switch the shackle, then. Here's the key. Put this one on his left wrist before you take the other off his right. Don't think there's anything else."

Léon thanked him and he went hurriedly away. Gently, Léon shook Enjolras' shoulder and took his wrists. He locked the chain onto Enjolras' left wrist, then took the other end and locked it to his own right.

"Come sit against the wall with me," he said to his prisoner.

Enjolras lifted his head slowly and gave him a long, strange look. Léon felt like he was being read. When the searching ended, Enjolras shifted carefully and leaned against the wall. Then he sighed, a deep, weary sigh.

Léon sat against the wall also, separated from Enjolras only by the six inches that their chain allowed them. He reached up with his free left hand and clumsily undid his tight collar button. Enjolras was looking at him again.

"You can talk if you want," Léon said. "I mean, they only told me you couldn't talk to the other prisoners, and I'm not a prisoner."

Enjolras barely smiled. "You're not left-handed."

Léon colored. "I am to a degree. I can write or shoot with my left hand."

"But not smoothly unbutton a button."

"I don't usually have to undo buttons when I'm pretending to be left-handed." He looked across at Enjolras' right hand. "How's your wrist?"

Enjolras gave a noncommittal shrug. "It was shackled for twenty-four hours."

"And your face?" There were several blue and purple bruises across his cheek and eye.

Enjolras just leaned his head back against the wall.

"It looks pretty bad."

"It is," Enjolras finally admitted, his voice quiet and emotionless.

But there was nothing to be done about that.

"Your name is Enjolras, isn't it?" Léon asked.

He nodded. "Alexandre Enjolras."

"And I guess you mean to live up to your name, then? Defender of the people?"

Enjolras glanced at him again, then turned his gaze upward. "I didn't know that. But yes, I want to be the people's defender. Liberator, even. And yes, I know I will never be the only or the greatest. To be one is all I ask." His eyes came back to Léon's. "That has been my only prayer for many years. To take the world one step closer to justice before I die."

The simple words burned in Léon. He thought of all the injustices he had ever seen—and suddenly, he wanted revolution too.

"And you," said Enjolras, "what is your name?"

"Léon," he said.

"Do you aim to live up to your name as well?"

Léon considered. "To be a lion? I suppose I never thought of it." Then he remembered what he had been supposed to tell Enjolras. "Oh, I forgot. Some friends of yours were here."

His head jerked around to Léon. "They were?"

Léon nodded. "But it was too late for them to be allowed in. They're coming back, though. First thing in the morning. They seemed to have plenty of things for you."

Enjolras leaned his head back again, this time in relief. "Thank you," he said. Then he added, very quietly, "I've eaten only a little bread in the past two days. It's—it's easier to bear one more night when I know they're coming."

Léon nodded, trying to be understanding. But he didn't understand. Not really. It had never happened to him, after all.

"I've always hated injustice," said Enjolras, still quiet. "But this is the first time I've ever really experienced it myself. Some people—some people have never known anything else. Injustice is their entire life." His chin dropped. "No wonder they are easy to oppress."

Léon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know what to say, and the fact that the shackle was already bothering his wrist was making it no better. He imagined it staying there, locked, chafing against his skin hour after hour while he was hungry and tired and cold and friendless and trying to stay strong…

"How do you bear it?" he asked suddenly.

"Is there any other option?"

"Well…" Léon considered. "I guess I meant how do you…how do you not…You've stayed so strong!"

"I've done what I could," said the young defender of the people. "It was less than I thought I'd be able to, and I don't know how much longer—"

"Your friends are coming," Léon interrupted when he heard the edge of despair in Enjolras' voice. "First thing in the morning, they're coming."

Enjolras dismissed it. "They're students. They have class in the morning and if they don't attend they'll be fined."

"I saw their faces," insisted Léon. "They'll come. They have all sorts of supplies and maybe you'll be able to have some semi-private time with them—"

A bitter laugh. "Pleasant idea, but I am far from the favor of those who have the authority to grant that."

"But," Léon smiled, "I'm in favor."