A/N Okay, I know some of this chapter is a repeat of the last chapter, but I realized I made a bit of a mess of the POVs in the last chapter, and I really wanted to do the whole incident from Enjolras' POV and slip in some of his thoughts and angst.

Just want to give a massive shout out to my mum for helping me with this story. My Saturdays are spent racing around the countryside on our horses while I bounce ideas and character development off of her. She really is the best and I couldn't have done this without her.

Also, it could be suggested that you listen to the song 'Suddenly' from Les Mis for a good part of this chapter. It fits really well!

Again, WARNING FOR CUTTING, but it's not as severe as the last chapter.

Disclaimer: Me + Les Miserables = no money for me because I don't own it.


Chapter Twelve

The quiet rustling of the fire was the only sound to be heard in the apartment that night. Enjolras sat alone in the kitchen, silent, his brow lined in thought and not a small amount of worry. For some time now he had attempted to ignore the suspicion creeping into his consciousness, ignoring the sentiment as he did many others. But now, in the solitude of the night and with sleeplessness as his only companion, he could not halt the rush of feeling that overran him against his will, the feeling that his friends, the group that they had been and the aspirations that they reached for, were all slowly slipping out of his grasp.

Feeling tired to the core of his very bones, he jostled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and wearily rested his head in his hands. He had seen their faces in the café; he had seen the uncertainty, the hint of reluctance, the doubt. Were they all becoming more like Grantaire as time went by, becoming less certain of the mark they could make, of the things they could do? Did they doubt him?

He had mulled over this acutely for quite some time, and the conclusions he approached worried him. Every day he felt as if he was losing another little piece of something he was unable to name but felt the disappearance of it acutely. The isolating gloom and the eerie quiet of the apartment was a perfect breeding ground for uncertainty, his own doubts and fears beginning to assault his once stone-hard, but now crumbling, resolve.

'You know that the plans in '32 were flawed; you know how it would have ended,' the cruel, whispering voice taunted, 'All of you would have been dead, and their blood would have been on your hands. Or, as the case may have been, stacked against your soul, for you would have died as well. Only eternal damnation awaits those such as you.'

'I have no care for my soul after death; it is the good that I can achieve here and now that concerns me. We will not fail this time. Plans can be changed, modified, so the same mistakes cannot be made again!'

'That is true, yes,' the doubt answered back, 'but people can also change. Belief can be changed and modified to protect them so the same mistakes cannot be made again.'

'They wish to change the world; they wish to help the people!'

'Ah, but they have also had a taste of life, had two extra years of living, two extra years to study, to expand their minds.' The voice whispered now, wheedling, 'Can you blame them for wanting to put all of that hard work into living a purposeful life…?'

They are willing to fight! They always knew the risks!'

'...wanting to marry, to have a family, to live in their own world and shut themselves off from the idea of violence? I mean, think of what Combeferre said today…'

Enjolras stood abruptly, shutting off conversation with his subconscious. He could not afford to falter now. If he did, he had a feeling the group would collapse like a house of cards that had its base removed from under it.

As he often did when feeling conflicted or when deeply considering an issue, he paced about the room, filling the dark spaces in his mind with facts and figures, tasks to be completed, issues he needed to address. How long he remained in this process was uncertain, but he was returned to the present by a noise emanating from the direction of his room, directly beside the kitchen. It sounded curiously like a gasp of pain. Moving from the brightness of the kitchen into the dull glow of the living room he could clearly see a flickering light coming from his room. He stood for a moment, puzzled. That wasn't right; the only person in the apartment apart from him was…

Confusion morphed swiftly into worry as he stepped hurriedly forwards to push open the door to his room. The well-oiled hinges swung smoothly open, their silence not preparing him at all for the hellish scene that was awaiting for him on the other side.

"Aimee!" His mouth apparently worked faster than his limbs, for he had spoken and yet could not move, still processing the horrific scene. Aimee was slumped in the middle of his floor, her face white and tear-stained, her eyes not quite focused. In one of her hands was what looked like his cut-throat razor, while the other… He drew in his breath sharply and quickly moved to kneel before her. Her other hand was stained with blood and her night dress was liberally dotted with it. Gently, fear for her well-being filling him, he carefully eased the gory tool from her limp grasp.

She looked up from staring at the damage she had inflicted upon herself. "You didn't leave me," she whimpered, gasping as the pain from her hands hit her, "I thought I was alone."

Confusion was the first thing he felt. Why on earth had she thought he had left her? The second emotion was relatively unknown to him; tenderness. 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, steady blue to frightened green. "You will never be alone, not while I'm here. Understand?" He was surprised at his own words, and even more surprised that he meant every one.

She nodded, looking exhausted from the events of the night. Without a second thought he scooped her up and carried her through to the kitchen, the light and warmth of the room so different from the scene they left behind. 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.

His head was in a whirl. Why had she done that, why had she hurt herself? He knew a little of self-harm and the psychology behind it – he had seen the scars on Grantaire's arms, the worry in Combeferre's face when the drunk got too maudlin – but why Aimee? Why did she think he had left her? He glanced briefly back at her, the shocking scarlet of her blood still startling him, although the bleeding seemed to be slowing. He sighed. There was no Combeferre or Joly to ask for advice, no Jehan and Courfeyrac to buoy up her spirits this time.

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.

She 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, then whispered something about pain being good, pain meant she was real, meant that he was real. He frowned, confused at her choice of words, but 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." His voice held a note of uncertainty and desperation, a combination which took him by surprise.

Several emotions flitted across her face; fear, sadness, relief, and strangely shame. After some sort of inner battle, she turned from facing him and settled her head tentatively against his shoulder.

Enjolras felt himself tense for a moment, slightly uncomfortable with her nearness. However, he almost immediately felt himself relax when he realized just how comfortable, and comforting, the position was. Although he was unused to being a 'shoulder to cry on', as Aimee poured out her heart to him, her explanations and admissions of her fears finished the job she had started the moment he had looked into those fascinating green eyes. The cracked and weakened marble shield, which he once kept in such flawless repair, shattered. The warm, sorrowful downpour of her tears soaked through his shirt, the briny droplets eroding any defences that remained and he shifted so that his arm could wrap uncertainly around her shoulders. His discomfort was soon forgotten though as her words tore at his heart in a way that was both liberating and painful. How had she carried this alone for so long? And why?

His hand hovered hesitantly over her head for a moment, unused to giving out such gestures of comfort, but looking down at her with her face nearly buried in his shoulder, her voice soft and shaky he knew that his awkwardness at this moment was not important. Her hair was soft and dark beneath his fingers as he emulated a movement that he had seen other people do hundreds of times, but had never done himself. Somehow his fingers found the shorter strands around her ears from when it was cut back in October and he ran her hair between the digits over and over again, the rhythm soothing them both.

The vulnerability of her words generated a swell of protectiveness towards the damaged but courageous girl laid in his arms, a location he never thought she would fill. They stayed together on the sofa in an unfamiliar yet reassuring tangle until the gentle rhythm of her breathing indicated that she had drifted off to sleep, probably the best rest she had got in weeks. Although Enjolras knew he should probably disentangle himself and leave her sleep alone on the sofa, so as to minimize her discomfort when she woke up to find herself essentially in his lap, he couldn't find it in him to disturb her slumber.

Silence once again reigned in the apartment, but this time Enjolras wasn't apprehensive about the derisive words of his personal demons. He was drinking in every detail of the sleeping girl in his arms, appreciating the high arch of her cheekbones, the way her eyelashes fluttered slightly as she slept, the gentle curve of her mouth; each a balm to his lonely soul.

Is this what love feels like?

The thought brought him up short. Was this love? Did her love Aimee? He felt protective, yes. He found her to be witty, amusing, clever, sensitive, passionate, beautiful…

Maybe love was too certain a word, but he sensed something was different. Something suddenly had begun.


Enjolras' eyes crept open as the smell of coffee enacted a seduction of his senses; a smile slowly curled onto his face. As he attempted to move, however, the smile rapidly twisted into a grimace as he realized he had fallen asleep with his head laid sideways on the back of the sofa, and that his neck was now thoroughly punishing him for the mistake.

Gingerly massaging his neck with one hand, he glanced up to find Aimee stood nervously before him. She had dressed and brushed her hair, but had only loosely pinned the tresses back so that they tumbled down her back in a cascade. As if of their own accord his eyes instantly sought out the bandages on her hand. All of the events of the night before, including his foray into his personal feelings, came back in a rush.

"Good morning," he offered, pleased that his voice remained level.

She handed him a warm mug. "Good morning."

Inclining his head in thanks he took a sip, unable to suppress a sigh of contentment as the warm beverage revitalized him. Aimee dawdled at the foot of the sofa, seeming uncertain of how to proceed and, although he was normally a taciturn conversationalist, he felt somewhat obliged to make her feel at ease. "You really didn't have to make this you know," he said, raising the coffee as an example, "especially with you hand…as it is."

To his surprise, she flushed slightly, the colour staining her neck and cheekbones as she stammered out, "I'm sorry…about last night. I hate inconveniencing you and…"

He cut her off abruptly, "There is absolutely no need to apologize." Realizing that his tone could have been misconstrued as harsh he cleared his throat awkwardly and continued, saying, "To be perfectly honest, I should probably be the one to apologise. Instead of realizing how upset and unhappy you were, I expected other people to notice and take care of you."

She was peering up at him through her lashes, still uncertain.

"It was insensitive of me, and I'm sorry," he released a ragged breath and ran a hand through his hair, "I should have taken better care of you."

Aimee seemed about to protest, but stopped herself and instead smiled widely. "Knowing us, we'll spend half the day apologizing to each other," she jested.

He laughed lightly, partly because he knew it was true and partly because he was relieved to have the Aimee he knew and lov…knew back. Let's just stick to 'knew' for now. An easy silence fell over them as Aimee carried her drink over to the window. Taking a warming gulp she twitched aside the curtain and uttered one word. "Oh."

"Is that a good 'oh', a bad 'oh', or a something in the middle 'oh'?" Enjolras asked, twisting around to look at her.

"Depends how much you like snow," she answered with a wry grin.

He joined her by the window and peered outside, or, at least, as far outside as he could see. The air was thick with a blizzard of snowflakes.

Enjolras stared in amazement. Even though he had lived in Paris for nearly ten years now, his almost snowless childhood in Côte d'Azur meant that the deep, heavy snow that sometimes struck his adopted city still astounded him, at least until he was forced to spend several hours tramping about in frozen temperatures. "This is the heaviest snowfall I think I've ever seen," he murmured before dropping the curtain back into place to preserve the heat, "I do hope that Margo got to her son's home before this hit."

"I should think she'll be fine," Aimee reassured him, "She set off early yesterday and it is only thirty miles on good roads."

He hummed in agreement, draining the last of his coffee.

"I'm just glad I listened to Combeferre's suspicions about the weather and bought some extra food," Aimee said from beside him, "The disadvantage is that we're going to be stuck in each other's company for at least a few days until this eases up."

"Do you consider that a bad thing?" He felt a little hurt, but was mostly curious.

She graced him with a level stare, "You haven't exactly been the most open and friendly type in my company before now."

He felt slightly ashamed for he knew what she said was true. "I intend to rectify that," he promised, an idea springing to mind. Putting down his mug with a thump he crossed to one of the two wooden chests that stood side by side by the wall. After scrabbling about for a moment, he emerged triumphantly holding a polished, but well handled, wooden case. "I'm going to teach you how to play chess."

Interest sparking in her features, she drained her mug and said, "I already know how, my Papa taught me…" The levity of her words seemed to hit her and she froze mid-step.

Enjolras was by her side in a moment and without stopping to think he pulled her against his chest, holding her tightly until she stopped trembling. He released her reluctantly, but made certain to catch her eye. "Small steps," he reminded her, using a phrase he had heard Courfeyrac use more than once, "one thing at a time."

The smile she gave him was watery but genuine, and he found that he liked whatever this new version of their relationship was.

"Now," he prompted, "do you still want that game?"


"Checkmate." Aimee knew she sounded smug, but she really didn't care. The look of stunned bewilderment on Enjolras' face was too good not to exploit.

"How did you do that?" he spluttered, frantically reviewing the last few moves of the game in his head.

"I have absolutely no idea," she grinned, "but…checkmate!"

They had been playing all afternoon, and Aimee had beaten him a surprising number of times. This in itself was impressive for Enjolras was a fairly proficient chess player.

He scowled, thoroughly put out. "You must have cheated."

"I never took you for a sore loser, Enjolras," she sing-songed, twirling her black king between her fingers as she fixed him with a smug smile. His scowl deepened; he turned away and began reading a book with an attitude of bad grace.

Still feeling in ordinarily pleased with herself, Aimee curled up in the armchair she was inhabiting and looked thoughtfully into the fire, quite happy to allow the silence to stretch. Eventually, however, her cheeky nature prodded her to speak, the stillness being too uneventful. "You know," she said slowly, "it really is slightly ridiculous that I address you by your last name."

He glanced up at her quizzically, and, for just a brief moment, her fingers itched to push back the few stray blond curls that fell over his forehead.

"I share an apartment with you, I know all of your friends, I've fallen asleep in your arms," her voice and head dropped a little on the last statement so she missed the look of discomfort that graced Enjolras' features for a moment, "and I still address you by your last name."

"And I'm comfortable with it staying that way, for now." He turned back to his book, obviously expecting her to drop the issue.

Aimee however, had other ideas, tired of his poor conversational skills. So, in an attempt at provocation, she began to call out name suggestions, much to Enjolras' annoyance.

"Well, how about if I call you 'Jolras?"

"No."

"Maybe 'Ras?"

"No."

"Enjy?"

He glared at her, even though he was actually enjoying the banter. "Don't even think about it."

She was silent for a minute and he thought the conversation over. No such luck.

"Apol…"

"For goodness sake! I have a perfectly adequate first name that is by far preferable to any of those ridiculous pseudonyms!" His outburst was met with silence, and he wondered for a moment if he had overstepped another social marker that he was unaware of, but then she spoke.

"Julien?"

He loved the sound of her voice saying his name. "Yes, Aimee?"

"Best of fifteen?"

He allowed himself a secret smile, hidden behind his book, before he turned again to face the chess board and his most pleasant companion. "I seem to remember I'm winning…"


A/N Awwww! I loved writing some fluffy interaction between these two. Their relationship is going to move on a bit now, but it's not going to be a smooth ride. Where would be the fun in that? Hopefully, there will be lots of surprises in the next chapter, when I get around to writing it. Review and make me happy!

Until next time, mes amis!

Libz