14
Enjolras would have liked nothing more than to lie on that soiled mattress and wait to be shot or run through by a ruthless bayonet. Grantaire's words echoed through his mind – "I love you… do it for me… a dying man's wish…." It was all he could do to keep from retching, the guilt he was feeling causing him physical pain.
"Do it for Éponine."
He knew he had to; he had agreed, he had promised. As soon as his breath returned, Enjolras shifted slowly to survey the area. Fortunately, the soldiers were focusing their attentions on dismantling the barricade and counting the bodies – the fighting was almost completely over; only a few insurgents were left alive, and they were being swiftly taken care of. Nonetheless, no one had thought to check on Enjolras and those who had seen him had assumed he had died from the fall. The blood that covered his shirt front, none of which was his, gave Enjolras an accidental disguise.
Enjolras flipped over onto his stomach and, on shaky legs, slowly raised himself to a crouching position. He took care to wait until no one was looking at his corner of the street before slinking to the shadowy corner of where the alley met the barricade. His eyes never left the soldiers swarming the little street. Instead, Enjolras stretched his arm behind him, palm open, searching for shelter as a blind man would. When his skin connected with the smooth wood of a dining table, Enjolras reluctantly shifted his gaze to the barricade, staying hunched over and trying his best to cloak himself in shadows.
"If I could just find an opening…" he mumbled, his attention split between searching for an outlet to freedom and the ever present danger a few yards away. Enjolras scanned the wall of furniture, but in vain. His friends had done a fantastic job in securing their position, much to his present chagrin.
The shouting of soldiers coupled with the pounding of blood in his ears was making it difficult to think. At any moment someone may notice him, and with every loud noise Enjolras' heart stopped. He crouched behind a table which had slipped from the stack and fallen on its side, creating a welcomed cover that eased his nerves enough to allow for clearer thinking.
"Think, damn it. Think," whispered Enjolras, crouching behind the table to bide his quickly diminishing time. He rubbed his sore leg, the last of the stitches ripping and the blood flowing more freely.
Shifting his stance to alleviate the throbbing pain, Enjolras' boot came down on something that was both hard and supple. The sensation was followed by a nauseating crack. He looked down and found himself face-to-face with a dying soldier. The man could not cry out, blood was clogging his throat and dribbling from the corners of his open mouth. He simply looked back at Enjolras with pleading eyes, begging.
What should I help you for?
The man's eyes flicked pointedly at the pistol he held limply in his hand. He was unable to lift it himself, having been shot in the back. The poor bastard had been paralyzed. Enjolras looked between the man and the gun at his hip, perplexedly.
Could he do it? The idea of killing was abhorrent, but so was the idea of this poor man's fate. Was it justified? Perhaps; the man would no longer be suffering, but the shot would draw attention to his position.
This man could have been the one who shot Prouvaire. Maybe he was the one who shot Éponine, thought Enjolras with a snarl. His lip curled viciously and the soldier's eyes widened in confused fear. At the sight of the man's distress, Enjolras' heart softened slightly. He checked himself, resuming his calculating mask of calm, a look of apology in his blue eyes. The soldier remained anxious; his eyes unblinking even through the pain, meeting Enjolras' gaze in a strange mixture of horror and respect.
Enjolras, while searching those pained eyes for answers to his questions, had already vaguely decided to do as the man was asking. Only one question remained: how would he escape? The sound of the gunshot would certainly bring at least one enemy to his safe haven, and they would recognize him. He looked down at his red coat, the tricolor, and the blood on his hands and back up at the soldier. There would be no use in trying to sneak out now; the red of the fabric or even the blood on his person would call too much attention to himself when all of the other men left standing were wearing the dark navy of the French National Guard uniform.
The memory of Éponine sitting on a park bench at the Jardin flashed across Enjolras' mind. What was it that made her different? Her clothing. Enjolras suppressed the desire to scream "Aha!" Once again, the gamine had saved him and his heart swelled with gratitude while his fingers fumbled with the buttons of the dying man's coat. His eyes had drifted closed and Enjolras wondered if he was dead, but the ragged rise and fall of his chest told him otherwise. He only let out a few soft grunts in protest of the sensation of Enjolras removing his coat, but he was either unable or unwilling to defend himself further. When it was removed, the soldier slumped forward, whimpering in pain.
"Thank you, citizen," whispered Enjolras as he removed his signature red coat and donned the disguise. He draped his old coat across the soldiers' lap, the red of the fabric matching the red of his blood.
With tremulous hands, Enjolras took the pistol. He didn't hesitate long; Enjolras knew that it must be done. Raising the gun, he aimed between the man's closed eyes and pulled the trigger. The report of the gunshot rang out through the now silent little street and he winced at the noise. The grimace of pain that had been etched on the soldier's face was wiped away and was replaced by a peaceful smile. Sick to his stomach, Enjolras crossed himself and put the pistol distractedly in his pocket. He made no motions to rise from his crouching position behind the table.
"What in the hell was that?" called the officer. His angry question came from somewhere very close to Enjolras' hiding spot, and the proximity caused shivers to travel up his spine. He swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat with difficulty, waves of hatred breaking over him while the fires of revenge threatened to consume his whole being.
"You need to play this right, m'sieur. Be careful."
Éponine's voice was becoming his conscience, his guide, his Combeferre. He nodded mutely and, quickly grabbing the dead soldier's clunky hat, tried to hide his face as best he could before standing up.
"Nothing, sir," he responded, his usually commanding voice coming out meek and uncertain. He thanked God for the table he was standing behind that hid his shaking knees. Enjolras met the officer's hard, unfeeling stare and shivered once again. He cleared his throat before continuing, "I was simply dispatching the last of those bastards."
"Right. Good job, boy." The officer's praise was as cold as his gaze and Enjolras clenched his jaw against the curses he longed to fling at the monster. He surveyed Enjolras from head to foot. Taking note of his bloodied shirt and the wound in his left leg, he ordered, "Get yourself out of here and have someone dress that wound of yours before you bleed to death."
Nodding mechanically, his tight jaw twitching with the effort of his restraint, Enjolras stepped from behind the table. He took care to step over the dead soldier, out of conventional respect for the dead but not out of remorse; he couldn't feel that for this man, not yet. The officer, satisfied that his peon was obeying orders, turned and went back to screaming at the rest of the men.
Before he could make it more than three feet away from the barricade, Enjolras saw the torn flag out of the corner of his eye. It was still lying where he had landed with it on the blessed mattress. The National Guardsmen hadn't made it to this side of the street yet. Painfully, Enjolras hobbled over to the little pad of straw and, bending over at the waist, picked up the tattered red cloth. Swallowing down a sudden surge of emotion, Enjolras tore a thick strip of fabric off and tied it around the newly reopened wound in his leg. How right that Patria should save me, when I could do nothing for her, he thought bitterly.
He was no Joly, but his makeshift tourniquet worked well enough and the throbbing in his thigh eased a bit. Once satisfied with his handiwork, Enjolras resumed his walk towards the exit. His progress was slow but steady. Keeping his eyes fixed on an invisible target directly in front, Enjolras limped proudly through the throngs of his enemies unnoticed. He truly had become a wolf in sheep's clothing so to speak, and he might have smiled at his ingenuity had circumstances been any different.
After a few minutes, Enjolras found himself standing at the end of the Rue de la Chanverrerie. He dared not look back, lest the tears that were poised on the brims of his eyes give him away. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the air of the barricade for the last time, and began to shuffle once more in the direction of the Quai des Augustins. Enjolras knew he only had a few hours until the soldiers realized they were one body short, and that would mean they would form an investigative team that would eventually come to his house. If what he had in mind was going to work, he would have to pick up the pace to make it back to his flat in time to leave again by nightfall. As he limped along, his thoughts continued to linger on his promise to Grantaire, and what Grantaire could've meant.
"Do it for Éponine."
Marius caught Éponine's tiny hand in his, tugging lightly, playfully. She turned to face him, abandoning her ruse of anger at the moment his skin met hers. Raising her brown eyes to meet his, Éponine couldn't help but let out a coquettish giggle. Marius shook his head with a smile – her smile – and tightened his grip on her hand.
"'Ponine," he whispered, pulling her into his chest. She leaned against the warmth of his body, hiding her face in his shoulder. It was a warmth that felt better than the first few rays of the summer sun on Éponine's cold cheeks. Marius ran languid hands over her exposed and bony shoulders, trailing his cool fingers in odd patterns in the holes of her old dress. Éponine shivered in ecstasy at the sensation.
Timidly, she raised her eyes to look up at Marius' face again. Éponine looked at him through her lashes, the way she had sometimes seen Cosette look at him as they sat side by side in her garden. He returned her questioning look with one of tenderness, his soft brown eyes seeming to caress her face with a love she knew he didn't have for her. Nonetheless, the intensity of his gaze caused her heartbeat to quicken.
Marius bent his head slowly, his eyes still locked on Éponine's and the corners of his mouth pulling his voluptuous lips upwards in a crooked smile. After what had seemed like an eternity, those full lips found their place against her ear and Marius was whispering words of devotion and desire. It felt as though the softest velvet she could imagine was being passed across that sensitive skin and Éponine couldn't help but let out a soft mewl.
The powers of speech and all control of her limbs fled Éponine, her mind going blank. She once again recognized, only an ethereal awareness that came from her very soul, that these words were not meant for her, but the heat of his breath on her ear set her limp body aflame. The fires of her awakening passion burned away that nagging thought, her inhibitions, and her near perpetual sadness. Impulsively and with a swiftness that surprised her, Éponine wrapped her frail and shaking arms about Marius' neck. He pulled away from her ear in expectance and shock and Éponine used the change in orientation to her advantage.
With her usual boldness, she tangled her frail fingers in Marius' dark hair and, standing on her bare tip toes, pulled him towards her. Their mouths met, lips parted. The velvety soft caresses of Marius' lips felt like molten lava to Éponine and her stomach knotted pleasurably, her body buzzing with desire. Deepening the kiss, Éponine arched her flimsy body against Marius'. As her tongue darted out to battle with his, Marius moved to cradle Éponine's head in his right hand while his left explored the sharp contours of her waist. The holes in her old green dress allowed for skin-to-skin contact that sent electric shocks of longing from head to toe, and it took all of Éponine's strength to keep her from collapsing at every evanescent touch.
The sound of someone calling her name drifted to her ears and, mildly intrigued and fiercely annoyed, Éponine broke the kiss with reluctance. She let her lips linger against Marius' and kept her eyes closed, afraid of opening them and breaking the spell. The sound came again, more persistently the second time. At the repeat of her name, Éponine pulled back from the embrace entirely, disentangling herself and whirling around to search for the destroyer of her happy moment. There was no one there, but she heard her name once again. This time she thought she recognized the voice. Éponine shuddered, out of fear and not desire. She shook her head, wanting nothing more than to turn back around and finish what she had started with her Marius. It was finally her chance to be happy.
Slowly and with a lingering glance over her shoulder, Éponine turned to face Marius again. Only, it wasn't Marius Pontmercy standing before her.
"Enjolras!" she gasped, her eyes searching his in confusion.
He didn't seem to hear or see her, his expression its usual mask of blank indifference, and Éponine took a step closer in hopes of catching his attention. Enjolras made no sign of recognition and he continued to stare expressionlessly over her head. She was once again only inches from his face as she had been that night on the Pont Neuf, and Éponine couldn't help but admire his features: the strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, immaculate brow, and soft lips. Her eyes lingered on those lips, a knot of something akin to longing forming in the pit of her stomach.
"What would they feel like?" breathed Éponine, taking another involuntary step forward. Almost trancelike, she raised herself on her tip toes as she had to stand before Marius, only this time her boldness had fled. With trembling hands, Éponine steadied herself against Enjolras' shoulders, their bodies almost touching. He still hadn't noticed her, and that gave her hope. She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath before beginning to lean in.
"Éponine!" the voice came again. She paid it no heed, too engrossed in her mission to notice anything else.
"Éponine, wake up!"
"Éponine, for God's sake, wake up!" The voice belonged to Enjolras. He was kneeling beside Éponine's sickbed, his hands cupping her face and his blue eyes brimming with concern.
She opened her eyes slowly, timidly. Had it really all been only a dream? It felt so real, Éponine thought sadly. Had she any heart left to break, she was certain that realization would have caused a few cracks. Her sadness was quickly replaced by embarrassment when her eyes were fully open and the proximity of Enjolras' face set in. She lingered only momentarily on his eyes, not bothering to wonder why he looked so worried, and her gaze moved down to his lips. Before she could stop herself, Éponine thought about her dream and an embarrassingly deep scarlet blush crept across her cheeks.
"M'sieur Enjolras!" she croaked. At the sound of Éponine's voice, Enjolras leapt up from where he was crouching by her bed and made a jumbled apology at the impropriety of his actions, and explained that he had been afraid that she was worse than when he had seen her last. With an inexplicable amount of regret, Éponine followed Enjolras' now pacing figure with her eyes.
What would they feel like?
A/N: I WILL EXPLAIN HOW ENJOLRAS GOT TO EPONINE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. I was getting tired of the lack of Eponine, so I'm going to go back and have him explain it, don't worry.
Anyway: Sorry for the wait! It took me an unbelievable amount of time to write that dream scene. Ugh, I'm not practiced at that kind of stuff at all. Sorry if it's, y'know, awkward and stuff, and my deepest apologies that it was with Marius. Anyway, tell me how I'm doing so far guys! Suggestions are always welcome, and harsh criticism is also fair - especially in this particular chapter - so bring it on. Have a lovely night!