A/N Okay, just want to put up a brief warning here, this chapter is pretty dark in places, and could possibly be a trigger for cutting.

I think this fiction has been a bit too cosy and fluffy, so I want to try and get my head around Aimee's emotions. She has no memory of who she is or where she comes from; she should be terrified and emotionally vulnerable. I hope I do this justice.

Disclaimer: Me not Victor Hugo


Chapter Eleven

An insignificant layer of snow dusted the streets of Paris the week before Christmas and in the back room of the Musain, the little group of friends sat drinking mulled wine and socializing.

"'Tis the season to be Jolllly, falalala la la la la," Courfeyrac warbled, slinging his arm around the medical student's shoulders with a brightness in his eyes not related to his mischievous personality and more to the alcohol he had been consuming at a steady rate.

"Weve me awone Gourfeyruc. And stob singing," Joly groaned, sniffing miserably. True to form, he had caught a cold as soon as the first snow appeared.

"What's wrong with my singing? I thought I hit that last note rather well, thank you very much."

Bahorel muttered something about Courfeyrac hitting notes only dogs could hear, much to the amusement of the other occupants of the room who had a hearty laugh at the drunken dandy's expense.

Being Courfeyrac, he took it in good humour. "You're not going to see me for two weeks; I may as well annoy you as much as I can now!"

"Why, where are you going?" Aimee had only been half listening to the antics of her friends, her attention being taken up by her book, but the mention of her dear friend's absence caught her attention.

To be honest, most of the Amis were a little worried about her. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and held a haunted look that even Jehan's cheerfulness and Courfeyrac's teasing could not dispel completely. She was preoccupied and nervous, jumping at sounds and flinching away from unexpected embraces. It was an open secret that her remembered terrors were a nightly occurrence, if the matching dark circles under Enjolras' eyes were to be believed.

Both Combeferre and Joly had attempted to speak with her, they had even taken her to see Dr Dupont again, but she remained almost completely silent, shaking her head in answer to their questions and beginning to become hysterical if they pushed her for explanations. As a last resort she had been prescribed a sleeping draught, but the medication had simply caused her to become trapped in a nightmare, unable to wake up, an experience so traumatic for her that it had not been tried again. So, they did the only thing they could and were her friends, hugging her if she would let them and trying to cheer her up.

Sighing dramatically, Courfeyrac collapsed into the chair next to her. "It is necessary for me to make the annual allowance earning trip home for the holiday season. I don't see them any other time of the year, and as my father is paying my university fees and partially funding my…other interests," he eyed up the new waitress as he spoke, "It really is only fair that I have some form of interaction with them in the year."

"I've always wondered where you got your money from when you don't seem to work," she muttered.

"It's not my fault I haven't got a job," he protested, "my temperament and law clerking just weren't compatible. Besides, I know for a fact that 'Ferre, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan and Bahorel are going home for the exact same reason!"

The aforementioned Amis grimaced in acknowledgement.

"Isn't that a little…I don't know… hypocritical in regards to what you all believe in?" Aimee's question earned her some questioning looks. "Claiming you wanting to help the poor, living on the political edge… but all the while living off money that your parents are giving you instead of working?"

"We try to give away as much of it as we can," Combeferre sat down with them to share the conversation, "but we do need something to live on. As for the money not being earned by us… most of us are at university studying to become people who can make the world better. Change in the world can be brought about by the education of people, so if we can become people who can educate, help, or defend others, where the funding for our studies and lives comes from could be seen as a necessary evil."

"But change through education can be a slow process. A noble process, but slow none the less." Enjolras spoke from his normal place in the corner, taking the conversation on a different route. "Sometimes a brief time of violence accomplishes more than many years of peaceful change."

Combeferre frowned. "Violence is not always the answer, and," he held up a hand to stop the argument his friend was already forming, "I am not saying it does not have its place, but I believe that the human race should be brought into accord with its destiny gradually."

Aimee had watched the exchange with interest, not quite sure what it was that they were arguing over. It is at this point important to note that although Courfeyrac had told her about the political leanings of the group, he hadn't explained just how far they would go to achieve their goals.

"We made more of an impression in '32 when we were on the brink of revolution than we have in all the years before or since." There was a hint of anger in Enjolras' tone that she didn't understand.

"What do you mean 'revolution'?" Her book was forgotten and a hint of worry gnawed at her gut. "I thought you just talked, discussed ideas of how the country could change, made a nuisance of yourselves through letters, and….," she trailed off.

"We are willing to use violence if that is what it takes to change this country for the better, and are willing to die if necessary for the cause." Enjolras' voice held a flare of passion and he glared around the room, unwillingly noting how some of his friends looked unsure.

The tension in the room following Enjolras' blunt statement was palpable. As ever, it was Courfeyrac who brought it upon himself to steer the conversation into safer territory.

"So, what are the rest of you doing over the holidays? Marius? Eponine?"

Eponine shrugged, "I've got a friend from the dress shop I work at who wants to go to the theatre. I'll probably go with her."

"I've agreed to an invitation from my grandfather," Marius said softly. His face was a strange mixture of emotions that nobody could quite fathom.

"I'm glad your relation with your grandfather is getting better, Marius." Marius smiled at Combeferre's words and said, "It's not much, and it will probably end in either angry words or blood, but it's a start. He may not agree with me, and may have done some unforgivable things, but he did raise me. I can at least be thankful for that."

"Here, here," Courfeyrac rejoiced, "Grantaire?"

He shrugged loosely, "My sister said she wouldn't mind seeing me and baiting her husband is not a bad way to pass the festive season."

"Bahorel?"

The fighter's smile was feral. "Let's just say I've got female company."

When the wolf whistles died down Courfeyrac asked, "Feuilly? What about you?"

Feuilly gave a shy smile, so unlike his normal self, and looked at the floor as he spoke, "I've been invited home for Christmas by the girl I am courting and… maybe if it goes well… I might ask her father… for her hand." His ears tinged a delicate pink as the room descended into appreciative hollers and cat calls.

"The first of the Amis to move on in life," Courfeyrac patted Feuilly firmly on the shoulder, not listening to the other man's protests that he hadn't even asked yet. "I always thought 'Ferre would marry first if I'm honest. Hey Joly, when are you going to kneel for 'Chetta?"

"I'd say he already does," Grantaire insinuated, setting everyone off yelling and shouting and arguing good naturedly. In the pandemonium, nobody noticing Enjolras' expression, a strangely vulnerable one of something close to despair. He didn't know how he felt about not being asked about his plans. Not that he had any, he never had any, but it was nice to be asked.

As the rest of the group was preoccupied with teasing Feuilly and Joly mercilessly, he was the only one to see Aimee sway dangerously as she stood, all colour gone from her face.

She walked over to his table in the corner, "I think I want to go home… back to the apartment I mean." She reached for her coat and scarf and he did the same.

"We may as well say goodbye now," Jehan said, overhearing their intentions and coming over to give her a hug, "We're all leaving tonight or early tomorrow."

Aimee clung to him, surprising him slightly. She did the same for all the boys, even Joly, despite his protestations that he was infectious and that she would catch something off him.

That then led to the question of why he was going home in such a state, which led to Bossuet reassuring him that he wasn't going to infect his family with any lethal diseases.

She led the way out of the room, her face still too pale and her eyes clouded. Courfeyrac caught Enjolras' gaze, his face concerned.

The blond shrugged. Aimee's emotions and moods were all over the place at the moment, and until she was ready to ask for their help, there was nothing he could do.


With a strangled sob of despair Aimee jerked into wakefulness, tears flowing freely down her cheeks, her mind full of the images of her latest nightmare. What made this one so distressing to her was that it wasn't her confusing and dark memories that were haunting her. Instead it was visions of what could happen. Smoke and blood, the screams of her friends echoing through empty streets, no one coming to help them as they died for a cause they alone believed in, empty chairs at empty tables, the rooms of the Musain ringing with their voices, voices that would sing no more.

She trembled, panic washing over her. The Amis were her life, her anchor points, her world. Nearly everything she knew of this world was from them; she was alive because of them. Without them, she was nothing, she was lost.

She was a ghost. A ghost with no past and, without them, no future.

She wished she could go back to before the nightmares started, when she was only focused on healing her body and getting to know the group of unique, loyal, and lovable boys, because that's all they were essentially, boys. Not a one of them was over thirty; many of them were only twenty-four or twenty-five. What would happen if they did feel that they needed to fight? Felt that they had to go up against the might of the French National Guard?

She wished this wasn't real, that they hadn't told her the full extent of their beliefs. She wished they were here, all of them, even Grantaire. At least his drunkenness and crude comments were a certainty. But they weren't here, they were gone for two weeks, they had left her.

Except Enjolras.

She scrambled out of bed, desperate to reassure herself that she wasn't alone, that she still had a human anchor, even if that anchor didn't seem very fond of her. She had to reassure herself that she was real, that she wasn't a ghost.

A ghost with no past and no future.

Although it was dark outside, Aimee guessed it was close to dawn. She shivered in the cold of the apartment and carefully pushed open Enjolras' door, searching for his sleeping form in the dim light thrown by the candle she carried.

He wasn't there.

She felt as if the floor had fallen out from beneath her.

He was gone; she was alone, floating free without an anchor. She stumbled into the room, her legs giving out as she fell to the floor. Every scrap of certainty that she managed to hold onto up until that moment disappeared.

Maybe she was a ghost. She had no memories, no past, no future. She felt nothing. Ghosts didn't feel anything did they? A thought sprung into her confused and panic filled mind. Ghosts didn't bleed, ghosts didn't feel pain. She spotted Enjolras razor sitting by his wash basin, the candlelight glinting off the bright metal. If she bled, she was real.

The razor was in her hand, hovering over her skin. Shakily, she brought the metal into contact with her skin, savouring the cold before pressing down gently on the pad of her right thumb. A red bead swelled from the cut, growing before running down to her hand. She was real. Just to be sure, she pressed harder, a gasp of pain escaping her lips.

She must be real, she bled, and she felt pain. But she was still alone. She moved to the next finger, searching for the pain that stopped her from remembering that.

"Aimee!"

A familiar voice jolted through her thoughts. A figure came into her blurred vision and warm hands carefully eased the razor from her grasp. She looked up from the blood, no longer needing it to prove she was alive. Enjolras' eyes were filled with panic and confusion.

"You didn't leave me," she whispered, gasping as the pain from her hands hit her, "I thought I was alone."

His hand reached out and cupped her cheek, the most intimate gesture he had ever shared with her. "I would never leave you," his eyes met hers, brimming with gentleness, "You will never be alone, not while I'm here. Understand?"

She nodded, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. He must have noticed because, to her surprise, he carefully picked her up and carried her through to the kitchen where the stove was throwing out a little heat.

He set her down on one of the kitchen chairs which he had pulled closer to the warmth, and began to rummage around for the medical supplies that Joly insisted all of his friends kept at their homes. Armed with a bottle of medical alcohol that had somehow escaped Grantaire on his last visit and a handful of bandages, he sat on a chair opposite her and began attending to her bleeding hand.

Aimee gasped a little as the alcohol stung her cuts and he glanced at her apologetically. She gave a ghost of a smile as if to say it was okay. Pain was good, pain meant she was real, meant that he was real. She must have said something of that effect out loud because his face fell into the frown that she was coming to know so well and that he wore far too often. She studied the little lines and kinks that formed in between his eyebrows and the way his nostrils flared slightly. He looked handsome, but it was a harsh handsome as opposed to the stunning beauty of that time in the café after his speech.

It wasn't until he tied off the bandage and moved her to the comfort of the sofa that he called her out on her statement. "I don't understand why you did this, Aimee. I was right here, in the kitchen, working. I'm real, we're all real. I don't understand." There was note of uncertainty and confusion in his voice that took them both by surprise.

Now that the panic was gone and Enjolras was there and everything was all alright again, Aimee felt as if a floodgate had opened. She hadn't talked to anyone about anything she'd been experiencing, and suddenly she just wanted to let it all out. But she couldn't look him in the face, with those all seeing blue eyes boring into her soul, those angelic features contorting in exasperation, so she turned slightly and rested her head against his shoulder.

He tensed slightly, uncomfortable with the intimate contact, but after a moment he relaxed and she began, her voice faltering occasionally.

"At first, it was so overwhelming. I woke up in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, with no idea who I was. You can't even begin to understand how… terrifying that is. But it was alright for a while; I was getting better and was getting to know this strange little family I found myself in. Then, I began to remember things, snippets, like when you know something and it's on the tip of your tongue and then it floats away again. I would get bits and pieces, some good, some bad."

She paused, trying to find the right words. "The night I sang that song, it was like a door in my mind opened when before I had only been looking through the keyhole. Only, it wasn't a nice room. That first nightmare… I was so scared," she whispered the last part, as if ashamed, "These horrible things, screams, blood…somebody that I know being hurt, horribly hurt, and I couldn't do anything."

She remembers the words whispered in her ear by the ice cold voice and shudders. "Courfeyrac and Jehan helped me that day; they distracted me from it and made me safe for a while. But now…as soon as I close my eyes, the images are there. People I don't know, terrible things happening, and after a while I began to wonder what parts of the nightmares were real and what parts weren't. It was so… disorientating and so unnerving, not being able to trust your own mind, your own memories, but I thought that everything would be alright because I had all of you. And then everyone was talking of leaving, of going home to their families or spending time with someone, and then Feuilly saying he wants to get married and Courf saying about people moving on…," her voice broke and she vaguely registered that his arm was wrapped gently around her shoulders. When it was placed there she wasn't sure

She bit back a sob and tried to continue, "… and I panicked because what if everyone does move on, but without me? I tried to tell myself that I was being silly, that the Amis would never leave me alone as long as they had breath in their bodies, Jehan said that to me once, and then you started talking about revolution and dying for the cause and I felt like I'd been hit with a sledgehammer because I realised you could die, all of you. Where would I be then? I'd be alone with no idea of who I was, without a friend in the world, and honestly, I don't think I could live without all of you. I wanted to see everyone, to reassure myself, but they're all gone. So I wanted to see you, to prove that I wasn't alone and…and you weren't there."

A sob forced its way out of her throat and she felt Enjolras pull her closer, his hand carefully stroking her hair, a comfort that she hadn't expected him to bestow. "Everything got tangled up in my head to the point that I wasn't sure if I was real or not and… I don't know; I felt like I had to prove to myself that I was real, that I wasn't a ghost, and that I wasn't alone…," she finishes in a whisper, utterly exhausted by the events of the night and finally managing to verbalise her inner turmoil.

The fire was warm and so was Enjolras, his arm was a comforting weight around her. She was now laid with her head practically on his leg and she distantly remembered that Enjolras doesn't do physical contact and that this should be really awkward, but it wasn't for some reason. She felt safe, like she did when Courfeyrac hugged her or Bahorel travelled the streets with her or Combeferre assisted her with her self-schooling, but this felt so much better, so she succumbed to the gentle touch of Enjolras' hand upon her hair and fell asleep.

For the first time in a long time, she didn't have a nightmare.


A/N Phew! That was… intense. I hope I got all of her emotions out well and that you guys enjoyed this. Tell you what, why don't you leave me a review and tell me. ;)

Until next time mes amis!

Libz