A/N Heeeeeyyyy! Wow, that was an enthusiastic greeting. Anyway, just wanted to say thank you to all of you who have reviewed, followed and favourited, I love you guys! Sorry for the wait, I was distracted by the Les Mis kink meme.

Disclaimer: Would I have killed all of the gorgeous Amis and left Marius (Marius?!) alive? No, therefore I am not Victor Hugo.

Chapter Twenty-one

Aimee was rudely awoken the next morning, shaken into consciousness none too gently by Eponine. "Hey, look, sorry for the early wake-up call," her friend apologised, "but I needed to tell you that you're going to have to look after yourself this morning."

Aimee struggled into a sitting position, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders. "No problem. What time is it?"

"Just before seven," the other girl replied, "but I have to go into work early because some idiot didn't finish a dress that was due to be delivered today so I'm going to have to finish it. I'll be back at around one, so then we can go and pick up all of your things, alright?"

She managed a sleepy nod. "No problems, you go and put the fear of Eponine into a piece of fabric."

With a quick glare and a wave Eponine barrelled out of the apartment, slamming the door behind in her haste. Aimee flopped rather ungracefully back onto the straw pallet that was serving as her bed, shivering, and proceeded to snuggle back down under the blankets, missing the warmth and comfort of her bed in Enjolras' apartment.

'No,' she forcefully reminded herself, 'that part of my life is done now, so I need to face up to that fact and get on with living life. Living life without him.'

Now that she was fully awake, the possibility of returning to sleep was impossible, so Aimee instead set about making herself useful. After redressing in her clothes from the day before – the only attire she had – she tidied away the straw pallet, tucking it into the corner to free up some floor space of the slightly cramped apartment. She then set about coaxing the embers in the kitchen stove back to life, a feat that took no time at all thanks to some dry and resin-filled pine logs. Eponine had acquired them for nothing, explaining that the wood came from dead Christmas trees that the rich threw away once the trees began to turn brown and shed their needles.

Once the fire was crackling merrily away, Aimee swept the kitchen and living area of the apartment, even going as far as to gather up the dust and dispose of it outside instead of sweeping it out onto the landing outside the door.

She stopped briefly to eat a russet apple she found in a bag, but found her mind wandering back to the night before and therefore to Enjolras. To distract herself further, she tackled the kitchen, boiling several kettles of water and thoroughly scouring the surfaces and table until her hands were red and wrinkled, the myriad of scars standing out in thin white lines on the heated flesh.

She traced the white lines carefully, a flood of emotion striking her in the chest.

The alley was dank and dark, the walls coated in green slime and black mould. She glanced behind her, fear hammering in her chest, seeing only the student she had knocked into picking up his papers. He was there though, he was coming, and she had to get away.

The rag she had been using to clean with hit the floor with a wet slap.

Hands clamped down on her shoulders, spinning her and slamming her back against the uneven brick. She lashed out blindly, felt a white hot burst of pain on the back of her hands before her nails briefly met the skin of his face. A growl of rage, a thud, nothing…

Forcing herself to breath, Aimee threw herself back into the task at hand, forcing the memories down and away to the back of her mind.

I am stronger now. I can do this.

Sometime later, when she had just set another kettle of water to boil, a knock sounded at the door. Aimee paused momentarily, a wave of nerves washing over her, similar to how she had felt the night before when alone in the street, and realized the vulnerable situation she was in; alone in an unfamiliar part of the city where no one knew her. The knock sounded again, but this time it was accompanied by Eponine's voice.

"Aimee? Can you let me in? None of us have free hands!"

Intrigued by Eponine's choice of words, Aimee hastily complied and opened the door. Outside, she found not only her roommate, but also Annette and another woman she didn't recognize.

"I got the dress finished early so the Madam let me go for the day." Eponine placed a basket of food down on the table. "Oh, and also, Annette will be joining us from now on." She gave a mock scowl, "I used to have this place to myself, now it's being overrun by romantically challenged women!"

Annette flushed slightly, ducking her head, not recognizing the teasing for what it was. "Feuilly wouldn't countenance the idea of me living with him, but I hadn't exactly thought out where I would live when I left home..."

The third woman clucked disapprovingly. "Nonsense, 'Nette. It was incredibly romantic what you did, and very, very brave. If you had stopped to think about it, you probably would have talked yourself out of it and then where would we be? Feuilly would still be moping and you would be stuck at home with nothing in your future but an arranged marriage to an overweight, bald rich man twice your age with a drink problem!"

"That's maybe a little over dramatic," Aimee grinned, instantly taking a liking to the dark haired woman before her was. "I'm Aimee Lyon, newly acquired roommate of 'Ponine's."

The woman reached out a hand. "Musichetta, the one and only." Her whole face lit up as she smiled, her silver eyes gleaming, "I'm Joly's mistress."

"He talks about you a lot." Aimee subtly scanned the other woman's hand for a ring, remembering Joly voicing his intention to propose to her before Christmas.

Musichetta noticed her scrutiny, but instead of being insulted, she simply laughed. "He's had the ring in the back of his drawer for nearly a month, bless him. I'm going to give it another three weeks before I get the ring out and do it myself!"

Aimee laughed, "He's been fretting about it for weeks. He says he just manages to get up the courage when he realizes he is displaying symptoms of a deadly disease – it changes every time – and decides to wait to see if it's terminal or not before he declares his intentions. He wails that he doesn't want to give the chance of happiness only to have it snatched away by the cruel clutches of Death."

Eponine gave a very unladylike snort of laughter, remembering several meetings where Joly had announced he was dying, only to change his mind an hour later. Annette giggled uncomfortably, as she didn't know the group that well and still felt awkward about her relationship with Feuilly.

Musichetta, however, gave a peal of tinkling laughter. "As much as I love that boy, even I have to get away from him occasionally," she sank into one of the kitchen chairs by the fire with a sigh, "hence why I'm moving in with Eponine for a few days."

"We're going to be quite the full house," Eponine said, laying out a couple of loaves of fresh bread and a small crock of butter.

Aimee moved to make the pot of coffee, following Eponine's directions to where the correct utensils were kept. With the coffee made and the bread torn into good-sized portions, the four of them set to eating, a comfortable silence falling over them. That was until Musichetta settled her chin in her hand and asked Aimee, "We were just wondering…what is it like to have no memory?"

Annette gasped and coloured and Eponine slammed her forehead into the palm of her hand. Musichetta shrugged, "What? It's a simple question and there's no point tip-toeing around it if we really want to know."

Aimee couldn't help but smile at Musichetta's blunt approach. She felt at ease with these women. "It's an honest question, and a question that no one has actually asked me before." She rested her chin in the palm of one hand, drumming her fingers thoughtfully, "It's…frustrating more than anything, like when you know the answer to a question but can't quite find the word, or when you recognize someone or something but can't remember where from." She removed her hand and instead looked down, tracing patterns on the stained wood. "It's painful most of the time though, knowing I have a past, and memories and a family, but not being able to remember all of it," she smiled sadly, "but then I think that it is better to be alive with no memory than dead in an alley as I was intended to be."

Annette started slightly and Aimee realized that the younger girl hadn't been told of the circumstances in which she had met Amis.

"If I'm alive, at least I get the chance to regain the memories I have lost." Warming to her point, she continued, saying, "If I was dead I would be gone forever, with no chance of understanding why that fate had befallen me or what became of my family, which is something that I must know. I won't give up until I've found them, or at the very least discovered what has befallen them."

Musichetta shrugged. "Questa è la vita*."

Aimee nodded. "Come al solito**."

Musichetta raised an eyebrow, "You know Italian?"

Eponine frowned. "I've never heard you speak it before."

"My mother was Italian, I think," Aimee shrugged, "I only remembered yesterday that I knew it at all."

"Isn't that a bit…strange," Annette asked, "not knowing a language one day and the next just…knowing it?"

Aimee smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "It is," she agreed, "but when you've spent any serious length of time with the Amis, nothing feels particularly strange anymore!"

The other women laughed, Eponine and Musichetta nodding in agreement before launching into their favourite anecdotes about the boys, Musichetta's ones about Joly and Bossuet being the most amusing. Aimee joined in a moment later, feeling her heart lift, glad for the change of company. As much as she loved the Amis, there was a dynamic between them that Aimee couldn't ever quite understand, one that was distinctly male. Even Enjolras, as unsociable and serious as he could be, always fitted in. Involuntarily, her thoughts flitted to him, and in turn, the events of the night before. Something had changed between them, their own dynamic shifting into something different. If only she knew what it was.

"Aimee?" Eponine snapped her fingers in front of her friend's face. "We lost you for a minute there."

"Yes, sorry." Aimee blinked, "What did you say?"

Eponine shared a pointed look with Musichetta that Aimee couldn't quite decipher. "I asked what time Enjolras' classes were. We need to go and pick up all of your things, and I take it you don't what him to be there?"

Aimee kept her face blank, not allowing herself to entertain the scenario of seeing Enjolras again so soon. "He's out of the apartment until after two, so we have plenty of time."

"I can get us a fiacre to carry everything," Musichetta offered, and waved off Aimee and Eponine's protests. "Nonsense, I just got paid and Joly spoils me something rotten so it's not as if I need anything." She rose in a manner that could only be described as majestic. "Ladies, let us depart."

Enjolras raised his head from where it had rested on his arms as he slept, yelping in pain as his spine cracked and popped in several places. He rolled his neck, grumbling as he did so, massaging the aching muscles, a strange sound reaching his ears.

It was quiet; far too quiet.

Still working the kinks in his neck loose, he wandered out into the main living room, the space lacking the noticeable presence of another person. The familiar scent of coffee was absent, there was a distinct chill from the lack of fire in the kitchen, and no hummed melody filled the air. All was still, cold, and silent. He took in his silent apartment, shivering from the chill that had pervaded the air as he slept. Was this truly how he had lived before Aimee had entered his life?

Four sharp, staccato raps sounded on the door, jolting Enjolras from his melancholy musings. Becoming suddenly aware of his rumpled appearance, he attempted to straighten himself out as best as possible in the short journey to the front door, tucking in his shirt and fastening the buttons on his burgundy and gold waistcoat. He reached for the door knob as he ran a perfunctory hand through his messy curls, feeling frustrated as he discovered they were flattened all down one side from where he had laid on them. The thought that Aimee had returned crossed his mind briefly, but that theory was disavowed when the open door revealed Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

"You look like hell!" Courfeyrac greeted cheerfully, flouncing into the apartment as only he could, hooking his cane over the back of a chair and balancing his hat jauntily atop it. Combeferre followed at a more sedate pace, scrutinising his best friend as he did so.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't feel a need to pointlessly flatter me," Enjolras re-joined dryly, scrubbing a hand across the fine layer of stubble gracing his jawline. "How's Aimee?" He hesitated before asking the question, but found his need to discover about her wellbeing over ruled his pride.

Courfeyrac frowned slightly, "How would I know? I haven't seen her since last night."

His words, spoken so casually, made Enjolras freeze in his tracks. "She didn't spend the night at your apartment?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice calm, the dread begging to leak through.

"No," Courfeyrac answered almost flippantly, looking around the room. "Don't you have a fire going in here? It's freezing!"

The panic hit him full force. He was such a fool! Ignoring his friends' concerned faces he bolted from the room and clattered down the stairs to hammer mercilessly on Margo's door. She answered it a moment later, still clad in her nightclothes, a concerned look on her face.

He didn't give her a chance to speak. "Did Aimee stay with you last night?"

Margo shook her head, worry appearing in her eyes. "She didn't come back? I thought she would come back after she'd been for a walk to clear her head."

"Enjolras," Combeferre's hand came to rest gently upon his shoulder, "you can calm down. Aimee came to the Musain and was offered a place to stay by Eponine."

Enjolras felt the panic subside from his body. He apologized to Margo for so rudely disturbing her so early and trudged heavily back upstairs with Combeferre. There he found a fire newly lit in the grate and Courfeyrac pottering around the kitchen in search of food. Combeferre pushed him gently onto the sofa and sat down opposite him in the armchair, regarding his friend over steepled fingertips.

"From the beginning if you please," were his only words and Enjolras knew better than to protest. These two men were his oldest and dearest friends and he could tell them anything…almost anything. He might omit the part about him being in love.

He reluctantly told them the story, only stopping once he reached part where he had kissed Aimee, if the brief brush of lips could even be called that.

"You were saying?" Coufeyrac urged, his legs crossed elegantly in front of him, looking far too amused by the tale for Enjolras' liking.

"This isn't some cheap romance novel, or a trashy stage show!" he snapped. "I've just destroyed my relationship with the only woman in my acquaintance, so please give me some time."

"So she asked you why you cared and then…?" Combeferre prompted him.

Enjolras felt a flush colouring his cheeks. "I may have kissed her slightly," he mumbled, knowing that his ears would be turning a particularly flamboyant shade of red, as they were prone to do when he was embarrassed.

Courfeyrac manage to inhale a good portion of his coffee and began to choke, while Combeferre didn't look at all surprised.

"We expected as much," he said levelly. "Pat Courfeyrac on the back please, gently mind you. You don't need to bruise him."

"You said we?" queried Enjolras. "Judging by Courfeyrac's reaction he wasn't expecting it at all."

"I was expecting it," choked out Courfeyrac, "I was just expecting some slightly better timing on your part. Even for you that was pretty horrendous."

"What do you mean 'even for me'? – oh, never mind, I don't even really care - the point is, I have completely ruined my relationship with her, even if it is in some ways for the better."

"Better? How so?" Combeferre's eyes were calmly piercing behind his spectacles.

Enjolras took a shaky breath. He had never been good at talking about matters of the heart and he wasn't getting any better at it, despite his recent outpourings. "If she does not wish to be around me because of this…incident… then she will distance herself from the group somewhat."

"And this is a good thing?" Courfeyrac asked, incredulous.

"Yes!" Enjolras felt his confidence returning as he spoke. He had had time to think things through now and knew his own mind better now. The fact that he was resolutely ignoring anything his heart was telling him was immaterial. "A revolution is no place for a woman, especially a woman as damaged as Aimee. She needs to keep away."

"She is our friend, Enjolras." Courfeyrac's tone had turned decidedly cool. "Not only that, but we are the only people in Paris, in the world, that she knows. We cannot simply cut her off because you don't know how to handle being in love with something other than Patria."

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, the irises turning an icy blue. "Don't be a fool!" he hissed. "A kiss, and it was barely that, means nothing, as you so often tell me. It is not a devout declaration of love!"

Courfeyrac snorted, ignoring the placating gesture Combeferre sent his way. "Keep telling yourself that, and maybe one day you'll believe it," he snapped scathingly, "but until then, let me tell you that I think you are being an imbecile. You need something to fight for and sometimes 'the good of the nation' is just a little too broad."

"Think on what he says, Julien," Combeferre interjected, before Enjolras could begin ranting at Courfeyrac, "we're not asking you to marry the girl, but you will do more harm to everyone involved if you cut her out completely. Not that I think you would, for you are not a cruel man."

Enjolras felt his anger deflate at those words. Combeferre was right. To sever all contact with Aimee simply because he felt awkward about what had happened would be cruel and everyone would suffer. He gave a watery smile. "My guide and my centre," he stood and clapped them each fondly on the shoulder, "where would I be without you?"

"Hanging out of a window?" Courfeyrac drawled. He shrugged at their questioning looks, "First thing that came to mind."

"You two have classes," Combeferre pointed out, "and I have to get over to Necker and I'm half an hour late already."

"Give me five minutes to change," Enjolras begged, flipping his watch open to check the time. Quarter to eight. By seven minutes to he was washed, shaved, had managed to tame his hair into something vaguely presentable, and had changed into fresh clothing. He emerged from his room, slinging his book bag over his shoulder and checking his tricolour pin was fixed appropriately.

"This came for you while you were changing." Courfeyrac handed him a thick piece of folded parchment.

Enjolras checked the sender's name and address as the three of them descended the stairs and exited onto the street.

For: Mademoiselle Aimee Lyon, 13 Rue Victoire

From: Jacques Chavenage, Théâtre dela Reine.

Ah, the details Monsieur Chavenage had promised. He thrust the letter into his bag hurriedly, mentally reminding himself to find a way to pass them on to Aimee. Should he do it personally? Or was it too soon after their…fight. Send someone else with them? Or would that seem like he didn't want any contact with her at all.

He felt a headache beginning behind his eyes, a sign of his rising stress. He shook himself, as if to shake off the feeling and stepped out with a more resolute stride, ignoring the immature way Courfeyrac parodied the movement. He would rise above these romantic entanglements and confused feelings and act like a leader should; with purpose and certainty. He would give her the letter and allow things to progress naturally from there.

Despite his determination, the letter sat heavy and conspicuous in his bag all day.

A/N I know it was a bit of filler, but this transition period is going to be a bit bumpy for everyone, myself included. Oh, and yes, Musichetta is Italian.

*Roughly 'That's life.' Sort of like the French version of 'C'est la vie'

** Roughly 'Oh well.' Or 'As usual'.