Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables.

Thanks, as always, for all the responses given for the last chapter. I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoy this update as well.

(Just a little warning to say that I shouldn't expect the next update to be posted for a little more than a week from now since I have exams and essays to be done, but I will be on it whenever I have time to spare, and it will be updated, I promise. Thank you!)


Enjolras' knuckles whitened as he gripped the sides of his hand basin.

Never before had he found himself trapped in a whirlwind of so many emotions at once. There was a showcase of turmoil inside his head, and with the overwhelming magnitude of it all, he found it difficult to do anything other than simply stand there and watch himself in the mirror.

Grief, confusion, pity, and guilt all flickered inside him at one point or another.

Yet, rage was the harsh constant.

In his reflection, he saw no man staring back at him. He saw something much more fierce.

Rage had turned his normally cool blue eyes into ice, sharp and stinging wherever they looked. The muscles in his jaw jumped and tensed until they ached. His hands, until now, had previously hung by his legs in tight fists, threatening to unleash and destroy whatever might get in his path.

Rage, anger, or fury; Enjolras was completely out of his own control.

He had known that Eponine's disappearance would bring nothing good. Yet, what could he have done to prevent her from going? Nothing at all. He knew just as well as anyone else that he would not have been able to reason with her stubborn nature.

A shiver ran down his spine sharply as he recalled hearing the sound of her desperate scream.

They had been celebrating, he and the Les Amis, drinking and toasting to their success of the day. A promising amount of awareness had been generated. For the first time in quite a while, there had been hope for them.

However, he remembered specifically being in the middle of a conversation with Combeferre, discussing their plans for the next day, when they had heard it. The blood-curdling, heart-stopping scream that echoed nothing but pain and fear. Enjolras remembered growing cold, almost dropping the glass in his hand at the sound. He had known it belonged to Eponine long before he reached the top of the stairs.

Seeing Gavroche, small and afraid, did nothing but fuel his fear.

When they stumbled upon her curled up, trembling body caked with blood and wet with rain, he wanted nothing more than to go her side. He had wanted to pick her up, run, and hide her from all the shadows and darkness in the world. She did not deserve whatever it was she had received, and knowing now that it was one of Javert's men that had so brutally attacked her spurred his rage into burning adrenaline that frightened even him.

He looked towards the bathroom door. Willing himself to return to her clearly shaken mind, he knew he could not bear to look upon her broken body anymore. Seeing her standing there, exposed, with bruised and bleeding skin, roughened by time and poverty made a poisonous guilt grow inside him. In his mind, he wondered whether Eponine was actually aware of the damage she had been inflicted. She shook the wounds off like they were no more than mere splinters. He knew she had not seen her face yet, missing the split lip and red cheeks. Her throat had been deeply bruised. Perhaps she did not want to see the depth of her damage.

Perhaps it went far deeper than simply her skin.

Enjolras felt his shoulders fall as a heavy sigh escaped his parted lips. His head lolled forward, and leaned upon the mirror.

Guilt consumed him for reasons he did not understand. Guilt that she felt so compelled to come to the café for them. For him. So much so that she felt she had to walk the streets alone at night and come across Javert's men. Perhaps if he had been with her, he could have stopped it. He silently corrected himself; he would have stopped it. Without a moment's second thought.

The man who had dared harm her had no place in the world, was his bitter thought. Whoever thought to even lay a hurtful hand on her clearly had no heart or a single intelligent cell in his pathetic brain.

A deep, protective instinct that he didn't know existed spurred him on. The worst part was knowing it was most likely not the first time this had happened to her. The streets were a harsh, frightening place where people did anything in order to survive another day. Eponine had probably encountered this type of violence before in her life.

It was then that something inside him opened, allowing guilt to flood through. He remembered that she was there now, on the other side of the door, afraid and shaken. She wanted him there, and all he could do was sit and boil in his own anger, which amounted to nothing with purpose.

She needed him. More importantly, she wanted him.

Inhaling a shaky breath, he reached and ran a hand through his tangled curls. He then turned and received a nightshirt of his from his drawers, and held it carefully in his hands as he moved toward the door. After a moments pause, he turned the handle and went back into the main room.

Joly had sat her down on the bed, where she huddled her nude body in a bed sheet and sat quietly whilst he cleaned her.

Enjolras felt his heart tug at the sight of her smallness.

She looked up at him, and offered a weak, sad smile that made him feel even more terrible. He felt his lips twitch in return. Moving to her, he placed the clothing beside her and nodded at Joly, who continued his work with pure concentration.

"I will make you something to eat," he finally managed to speak in a quiet, yet stern tone. Eponine's dark eyes watched him carefully from below. "Once you've had something to eat and drink, you should sleep. You will sleep in the bed and I will take the settee, and I will hear nothing else on the matter. Do you understand?"

Eponine's lips parted. Opening and closing several times, like a fish out of water, until she fell quiet. She resided with a quick nod of the head.

"Good. Tomorrow, you are to stay in bed. I will stay with you. Joly will inform us when he thinks you fit enough to start going outside."

The young gamine looked up at him, her brow furrowed deeply. Her eyes shone with unspoken protest, but she dared not say anything to disagree. At the sight of displeasure of being told what to do, Enjolras could not help but let a corner of his lips upturn in a satisfied smirk. He thought then that he would rather enjoy having her all to himself for the next few days.

There was a knock at the door. Enjolras tore his glance away from Eponine's to answer. On the other side, Jehan stood with an out-of-breath Combeferre, clutching Joly's medial kit in his arms.

"I'm here," he said with heavy breaths.

Enjolras stood aside, and nodded, allowing them both to enter.

The two students scrambled inside the room. Joly jumped up from the bed and took his case from Combeferre.

"Perfect. Now I can dress the wounds."

"Courfeyrac, Grantaire and the others are with Gavroche at the café still," Combeferre spoke to Eponine. Enjolras did not miss the way his cheeks flushed slightly at the sight of her poorly covered body on the bed. However, he chose to continue with some pride. "I believe they are treating him to some wine."

"Is he alright?" Eponine replied. Her fingers tightened around the sheet. "He's not too shaken, is he?"

"Not anymore."

A smile ghosted her lips. "...Thank you." Joly returned to her side with clean wrappings. Enjolras watched for a moment as he began to dress the open gashes on her arms, but turned as he remembered his task.

"Jehan, Combeferre, you have done enough for now," he declared, watching his two friends observe the scene with a slight air of discomfort. It was not everyday after all, that they bore witness to such unpleasant things. "You should go and retire for the evening. Thank you."

Jehan was the first to respond. "You know where to find us," he said, before turning to Eponine and tipping his hat. "Mademoiselle."

"Goodnight," Combeferre added. They both followed each other out the door, shutting it quietly behind them.

Enjolras found he could breath easy. It was not to say that he didn't enjoy the company of the other Les Amis members, however, he felt his home was one of the few places in the world he could truly be himself. He felt a comforting sense of isolation. With so many people there at once, he'd begun to feel trapped.

However, now there was air to breath. He moved towards his small kitchenette and began to search through the cupboards for something that would suit well for Eponine. Finding some bread he'd purchased a day previous and some fresh cheese, he began to lay them out on a plate. Once he had become satisfied with his work, he turned.

By now, Joly had almost finished wrapping her wounds. He had also tightened some bandages around her arm, most likely where she claimed to have injured it in the struggle. The blood on her face had been cleaned, and she had begun to look normal once more.

"That should do it for now," Joly said, snipping at one of the wrappings. "I suggest some sleep would do you well. I can return late morning tomorrow to check up on you."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Eponine breathed, almost a whisper. Enjolras could see her eyes were falling, and the redness in them was returning.

"Thank you, Joly."

Enjolras handed Eponine the plate of food before following Joly to the door. He opened it, and the two stood in the doorframe for a few moments.

"Don't press her, Enjolras," Joly warned with knowing eyes. "Let her explain what happened in her own time."

Enjolras felt his brow furrow, disliking the feeling of being chided. "I'm no fool, Joly." He stepped aside. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Yes...well, goodnight."

With a short nod and a quick wave to his patient, Joly left the door and made his way down the stairs. Enjolras remained in his spot until he could no longer hear the sound of the young doctor's footsteps jogging down the steps.

He shut the door and turned back. Eponine was nibbling at the food, her eyes flickering around the space of his home.

When he saw he placing the soon empty plate down by her side, and move to stand, he was quickly brought back to their reality, and moved towards her.

"What is it?" he asked, reaching out his hands to steady her. As he moved beside her, they found themselves awkwardly on her elbows.

Her eyes flickered to his hands. "I want to change. I'm not sure I feel comfortable being so stark naked anymore."

Feeling an increasing flow of blood to his cheeks, Enjolras nodded, before clearing his throat. He reached down and grabbed his nightshirt. When he looked back to her, she was quietly pulling the sheet away from her body. He knew she was watching, awaiting his reaction. There was nothing, however, to make him feel ashamed. He did not once look down at her nakedness, knowing very well what he would see; bruises and scars and everything else that would possibly re-ignite his anger.

As she raised her arms above her head to assist him, he saw her teeth worry her lower lip and her breath hitch in the midst of pain. He finished quickly, slipping the shirt over her head and carefully looping her arms through. Once finished, he found himself having to withhold a small chuckle at the sight of her small body, drowning in his clothing.

He bent down, pulling back the sheets of the bed. "In," he softly instructed.

Eponine abided with no protest, slipping onto the mattress with a small wince. He leaned over to tuck the sheets around her.

She glanced up at him with wide eyes. "Enjolras," she whispered, gathering his attention. "I wasn't always like this, you know. I haven't always..." As she slowed her words, her hands entwined and her fingers fiddled together. "I spent my childhood being cruel to others. I was a spoilt, selfish brat. Now it's coming back to me, and I've accepted that a long time ago."

He raised a brow in questioning return. "You don't have to justify yourself to me, Eponine. I know who you are and who you're not."

She nodded slowly, carefully considering her words. "I just want you to know that I'm not pitying myself. ...I'm getting what I deserve."

Despite himself, Enjolras leaned closer towards her and grabbed her hand in his. "You don't deserve any of this. I won't have you say things like that." The two grew silent for a few moments, gazing into the other's eyes in quiet configuration. It was he who first spoke. "Are you comfortable?"

"...Yes."

He straightened himself, releasing her hand and standing above her. He offered a small smile that barely cracked his cheeks. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

"You won't leave?"

"I promise."

She smiled into the sheets in return. He turned to move away, stepping towards the window where he stood solemnly. His arms were folded tight against his chest as he gazed down into the darkened streets below.

It was a few minutes later, long after he had expected her to be deep in slumber, that a small, hesitant voice echoed from the other side of the room. "Enjolras?"

He did not tear his eyes away from the streets below as he mumbled, "Hmm?"

"...Have you read all those books?"

"Most of them, yes."

A few seconds of silence passed before the voice appeared again.

"...What are they about?"

Enjolras sighed, reaching a hand up and pressing his palm against his marble face. He had not suspected that she be rather difficult to settle. "Eponine," he muttered aloud. "Go to sleep."

"I can't," came a quiet protest, sounding more like a child than anything else. "What are you looking at?"

Enjolras felt his lips twitch as he was unable to answer. He could not tell her, of course, that he was looking at the occasional passer-by, wondering if he was the very soul that had threatened her life. He could not say that he was wondering what exactly had happened, picturing the worst possible scenarios in his imagination; the curse of the realistic cynic.

"Nothing," was his chosen reply. Eponine did not continue to press questions.

Her confessions troubled him deeply. For all the hatred she had against herself, he was sure he understood. Many times in his life, he had felt guilt and rage at his own name for having more than others. For not being able to make something good of himself, and not just for his family. He had felt disappointment and doubt at his own abilities to lead a group of students, who had once seen something great in him.

He wanted her to know, just how much she had changed that. For everything she had shown him, he had felt himself growing stronger, more impassioned. Now, it was his due to return the favour. He needed her to know, how much her friendship meant to him. He wanted fiercely to tell her how much it pained him to think of the idea of losing her, for reasons that even he could not comprehend.

She had worth in the world, and he wondered how on earth it was that she could not see it.

He swallowed briefly before speaking. His voice cracked through the silence as loud as thunder, with no more tremor than that of a whisper. "Eponine...I..." As he turned to her, he fell silent.

In the warm glow of candlelight, he saw her slack form and sleeping face.

The troubles of the day could clearly not withhold her from rest much longer.

Hesitantly, Enjolras moved from the window. Steering himself curiously towards the bed, he stopped just a few feet away to watch her silent figure.

With her skin cleaned of blood and dirt, he saw her features clearly for the first time. There was beauty in her face, he could not deny. Beauty that had been clouded and masked from years of poverty and sadness. Her skin was darkened by sunlight, but looked soft to touch. Her lips were full, just as lovely in sleep as they were in smile. Shut, her eyes were peaceful, and Enjolras thought of the dark orbs beneath. They shimmered with her youth, but had a depth dug by time and her harsh world.

She could have glowed with Grace, but had been dimmed by Life.

He wondered what would have been made of her world if she had not ended up on the streets. Perhaps she would have found a good life, maintained her radiance and found a husband who treated her well. She was young, but he knew of girls younger than her who had bore children already.

As pleasant as those thoughts were for poor Eponine, something settled funny within him at the image of her living happily with some stranger. Bearing another man's children. Living a life in which he would not exist. It was selfish, yes, but Enjolras knew quite plainly that these feelings were brought on by a childish cause of jealousy.

Marius' words from earlier that day rang in his mind like a chorus.

I do believe you poor little fools are afraid of love!

A strange sensation ran up his spine at the word. Love.

Never before had he taken much consideration to the possibility. Such things vexed him greatly. His great passions in life had resulted from a love, yes, but it was a love of Patria and Liberté. He'd never held much thought for a life with a woman. But perhaps, in all it's confusion, this is what he was feeling for the woman that lay in his bed.

Enjolras felt his lips twist in deep consideration. If this was love, then he wasn't sure he quite understood it. Or enjoyed it.

Was love supposed to hurt like this? Supposed to make the thought of harm coming to your supposed other sting in your heart? If it was, then why of all people, would it come to him for Eponine? It would be a cruel twist of fate, to make two people from such different worlds want each other. If they could ever find a way to be together, not one person would look upon Eponine without a mean eye. They would think she was in his company purely to better her life with his modest wealth.

A frown crossed his handsome face. It was not worth them caring about the mindless thoughts of others.

A sudden realisation struck him, freezing his bones. Why was he becoming so infatuated with this idea? After all, it was only a thought. It was not as if he really loved her.

Was it?

Below, Eponine shifted in her slumber and dragged the sheets up around her neck. Despite himself, Enjolras felt a thin smile ghost his lips.

In that moment, against his better nature, he had one, clear instinct. Ignoring everything that had been bred into him, all his priorities and goals, he slowly leaned down until he was a breath away from her peaceful face.

"Sleep well, 'Ponine," came the whisper of his voice. Then, with no second thoughts, he moved forward, and pressed his lips above the gamine's brow. He held them there for a few beats, seeming more like passing days to him, before he pulled back.

Friend of stone, indeed.

For now, she was safe, and under his care. Regardless of what he thought of her, that was his current calling - to watch her and nurse her to health. Such thoughts of love and other meaningless things could wait.

It was then that a fatigue hit him deep in the bones. He realised how heavy his limbs suddenly felt with tiredness. Turning his back to Eponine, he made his way toward the window, and began unbuttoning his vest.

How strange it was, he thought, that just a week ago he had been concerned with nothing but the revolution, and in great despair about the Les Amis' uninspired manner. Life had been simple, straightforward. There was him, the Amis, and the government. Now there was him, the Amis, the people of France, and Eponine.

Now there was fire, and feeling, and possibilities of love.

He placed his now folded vest down on the table, and went to unlace his boots. The bells of the Notre Dame struck twelve far across Paris, singing over the rooftops, bringing a new day. The idea tickled an excitement in the young revolutionary. They were one day closer to their rally, one day more until the city would know of their plans.

Moving towards the table, he blew out the remaining candle, and darkness consumed the walls around him. The soft breaths of Eponine rang on the air, a comforting sound. He slipped onto the settee, pulling a blanket from the side and settling into the black space in comfort.

The confusing ideas had tired his mind and body, and the turmoil slowed his heart at last.

He could rest easy, knowing that at that moment, his most precious possession and needed companion was for once, sleeping beside him.

No nightmares plagued him that night.