A/N Sorry for the wait, I've had a bunch of work to do for college.

Anyways I thought it was time for a bit of Aimee's POV. Enjoy

Disclaimer: I'm not Victor Hugo. Deal with it.


Chapter Seven

The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated softly throughout the small apartment; pale, chilly sunshine peeked through the windows. An amused smile danced across Aimee's as she pushed open the door of Enjolras' room and took in the scene before her. He was sprawled on the bed, blond curls in an endearing muddle, and a ferocious scowl on his face. A soft chuckle threatened to escape; whoever was annoying him in his dreams was most definitely in trouble. Stepping carefully, so as not to wake him, she crossed the cluttered room and placed a large cup of steaming coffee on his desk before tiptoeing back out again.

It was now late November and the pair of them had reached an understanding, albeit a slightly uncomfortable one on his part. With her shoulder getting stronger every day and her confidence returning somewhat, she had taken it upon herself to complete little tasks around the apartment, the gestures born of a determination to pay back for the kindness that had been shown to her. The furniture shone a little brighter each day, the floors were cleaner, and the books were no longer in as much disarray. True, they still covered several surfaces of the apartment, but the majority of them were neatly placed on bookshelves, in alphabetical order of course. Oh, how she loved those books, her sharp and inquisitive mind was always eager to learn more, leading her steadily through every book in the apartment. She had even, with the help of Courfeyrac and a very large dictionary, started to learn Latin. There was no particular reason for her to do so, but boredom was her greatest enemy, and her thirst for knowledge, and specifically language, was unquenchable.

Unfortunately, Enjolras had several very unpleasant exams looming on the horizon and therefore was completely oblivious to anything she had done around the apartment. In fact, on a particularly boring day when Courfeyrac had been unable to come and see her and Margo was out all day, she had tidied his room. The only reason he noticed this change was that he couldn't find any of his books, a fact he was very unhappy, and very vocal, about. No matter how messy it was, she was never going to tidy his room again if that was the fuss it caused.

However, after all of this drama she had discovered the one very simple way for him to notice her attempts at helping.

She woke early one morning, her shoulder throbbing from the chill in the air and making a return to sleep impossible. The apartment was cold, unusually so, and she shuddered as she flung back the warm bedclothes, hurriedly reaching for a warm brown jacket of Enjolras' that he was letting her borrow until she could gain possession of a warm robe. As she struggled into a pair of woollen stockings to protect her feet from the bitterly cold floor, she wondered at the lack of heat, knowing that Enjolras usually built the fire back up to boil the water for his usual cup of morning coffee. Briefly, she assumed that Enjolras had simply forgone his morning coffee, but quickly decided against it, knowing his reliance on the beverage for both warmth and wakefulness on these cold, dark mornings. As she entered the kitchen, the explanation to her musings was provided by a very familiar, dark blue jacket hung limply over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. That clue, coupled with the muffled curses emanating from Enjolras' room, led her to realize that he had overslept and was going to have to skip his usual morning coffee. Now, here was a problem that she could remedy.

When Enjolras exited his room a few minutes later, trying to tie his cravat with one hand and scrub ink off his cheek with the other, he found a steaming cup of excellently brewed coffee sat waiting for him on the table. Hence, the coffee ritual had begun.

The coffee done for the morning, Aimee returned to her room and began to dress, excitement making her movements somewhat clumsy. Courfeyrac had promised to take her out today for a walk around the city; the first time she had been outside properly in two months. Occasionally Margo had taken her out into the small fenced garden at the back of the house for a breath of fresh air when the apartment became too confining, but apart from that she had remained indoors, a prisoner of her injuries.

Pushing aside that rather depressing thought, Aimee began to fasten up the back of the dress that Margo had found for her, made of warm wool in a deep green colour, but found that her newly healed shoulder was still tender and would not complete the contortion that was necessary. She let out a harsh sigh of frustration. Margo wasn't around, so there was only one person she could ask.


"Enjolras?" Holding the front of the dress up with one hand, she knocked again, "Are you in there?"

"Don't come in!" he shouted, "I'm not…decent."

She chuckled at the hint of panic in his voice, "I've already been in with your coffee, remember?" She took a bracing breath, "Look, I need your help."

Only silence from beyond the door. Then, "Give me a minute!"

Biting back a huff, she stood, shivering slightly at the temperature of the apartment. A minute or two later he opened the door, only to shut it again just as quickly when he saw what she needed help with.

"Oh, come on, Enjolras!" she groaned, "This is just as awkward for me as it is for you, but I need you to help me!"

"Find Margo, I've got things to do!" His tone was harsh.

Gritting her teeth in annoyance, Aimee sharply twisted the handle, flung the door open and stood in the doorway, hands on hips. The back of her dress gaped open, showing the olive skin beneath and Enjolras desperately tried to look anywhere but at her, eventually settling for a spot four inches above her head.

"I have a dilemma, Enjolras, because Courfeyrac promised to take me out into the city for the first time today now that Joly said my sling can come off an. Unfortunately, in my joy at my newfound freedom of movement I, rather foolishly, told Margo that I was able to get into the dress by myself, therefore she went to the market early, but it turns out I can't put on this blasted dress so I really need you to stop being difficult and help me!"

"Oh, I'm being difficult!" he snapped irritably, "Why do I have to help you right now? Why don't you wait for Courfeyrac?" he spun away, "You seem to be rather familiar with him."

Aimee shivered, a bewildered expression on her face, "I have no idea what you are trying to insinuate, but all I know is that I am freezing and you are being extremely ungentlemanly!"

His shoulders drooped in defeat as he realized that she was, in fact, right. He was being very ungentlemanly. "What is it that you need me to do?"

The smile she gave him was shy, but sincere, lighting up the room, "Could you please finish hooking me up?"

She could feel his hands shaking slightly as he fastened up the dress, but decided not to acknowledge it as he already seemed uncomfortable.

"All done," he said, his voice level and detached, completely at odds with nervousness he had displayed only mere moments ago.

"Merci, Enjolras," she flipped her hair off her shoulder from where she had been holding it out of the way, "I believe that there is bread, a little cheese and some fruit in the kitchen if you're hungry; Courfeyrac and I are planning to buy some more food at the market," she gave him another brief smile and then left hurriedly to continue dressing, shutting the door gently behind her.

After she had gone, Enjolras seated himself carefully at his desk, wrapping his hands around the warm mug, and tried to convince himself that his hands were shaking because he was cold.


The air was cool and crisp and Aimee breathed it in with relish. After spending nearly two months in an apartment with barely anything to do but read, just the simple act of walking down a street was a blessing.

Courfeyrac had her arm looped protectively through his and insisted that they keep the pace slow. "You haven't walked any great distance for nearly two months, Aimee chèri; don't try to run before you can walk," he grinned and patted her hand, "Both metaphorically and literally!"

Heeding his advice she slowed her pace, instead regaling him with the tale of what had transpired that morning. The volume of her friend's laughter bounced off the buildings and the humour it contained drew smiles from passers-by.

"Poor Enjolras, I can only imagine the colour his face went…" his laughter trailed off as he felt Aimee stiffen. "Aimee chèri, are you alright?"

Aimee barely heard him. Her head ached; she felt dizzy. Visions flashed through her mind's eye, strange, confusing images, that made no sense but that she knew were memories, her memories. A kaleidoscope of colour gathered speed behind her eyes and she pressed a hand over them as if to try and push the blurring tones away. Her breathing quickened, her grip tightened on Courfeyrac's arm subconsciously. If not for the solid weight of his presence beside her, Aimee felt sure that she would have drifted off into the maelstrom of time, sound, and colour that battled for prominence inside of her head. Finally, her vision cleared and she found she was sat on a conveniently placed bench under a tree, its leaves clustered in russet-hued piles beside her. Crouched down in front of her was Courfeyrac who was looking very concerned.

"I'm fine," she reassured him somewhat shakily, "Just a bit of a dizzy spell."

He scoffed loudly, "You're as bad as Enjolras, I swear." Seeing her affronted look he expanded upon the point, saying, "I very nearly had to catch you from falling to the floor in a swoon, and you say it was a 'dizzy spell'." He shook his head in consternation, "Despite my devilishly good looks and scintillating charm I have never had a lady faint when in my presence. I could have dropped you! Then where would we be? You'd be injured again, and I'd be dead because either 'Ferre, Joly, or Enjolras would kill me. So, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"I… remembered things," she admitted slowly, "Not details, or names or anything, but…," she stopped, suddenly inexplicably frustrated, "I know they're memories, and that they're my memories, but I don't remember them!"

"Calm, darling," He rubbed a soothing circle on her back, his earlier dramatics replaced with sincerity, "If you are going to remember, you'll remember in your own good time." His gaze suddenly shifted to across the street, "Well, what were the chances of that; look who is coming over. Prouvaire! Hey, Jehan! Over here, you hopeless romantic!"


A/N Sorry for the cliff-hanger, but I thought I'd better dedicate a whole chapter to Aimee meeting the Amis. I'm sorry if the healing time for her injuries wasn't very realistic, but I had to get the story moving.

I am amazed and slightly humbled by the response to this story. Please give me any feedback, questions or ideas you may have in your reviews.