A/N: I returned after a short little spurt. That didn't last as long as I thought it would, but I got a good enough amount done that I think I'm fine.

After I got some strong (and rather feisty) pleas for Enjolras' life, I changed my original ending. Totally kidding. I didn't change my original ending. (insert evil laugh because you don't know whether it's a sad or happy ending.)

The story is nearly finished; this chapter, one more, and then the epilogue. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.


The Jacket

Three days had past and still no word from Enjolras.

Éponine was starting to get worried.

At first, she thought about going after him. There was no way she was just going to let the man she had fought for die; not without putting up her own fight, or at least dying beside him. But as she thought about it more and more, the more and more the idea sounded terrible.

She had Amelie to think about now. And Victoria and Claude. Victoria had come to the house two days after Enjolras first left. She was frantic, like Éponine was trying to hide herself. So, Éponine invited her in and she had stayed.

Now, Victoria was finally resting, as was Amelie. Éponine picked up Claude from the quilt in the center of the room and went into the kitchen. She quickly explained the situation to Vipond and he took charge of Claude.

Éponine was going to those barricades. Even if it was the last thing she would ever do.


He was disoriented, dizzingly so. The world was spinning and bile continued to rise in his throat, but he refused to let it come up. Everything burned: his eyes, his head, his legs.

Enjolras could hardly remember anything. Something things stuck out in his mind: the gun fire that sounded like hail, the blood that splattered onto the side of his face and neck, the unforgettable screams.

Somehow, dear God, he'd gotten out. He'd lost his jacket in the process, he'd lost everything that he stood for, all of his friends. As far as he knew, he was the only one left. He had a vague memory of someone pulling his shoulders back too far when he was on the lower floor, then everything went blank and he had woken up by the side of a small stream outside of the city. His wounds were bandaged up and his chest hurt greatly.

He'd stood up and meandered toward the city, passing many-a-people chattering about the pasts days' events. They had stared at him for fleeting seconds, confused by the blood and the hunched position he took, but he would not be deterred. He had to get home.

So, he kept wandering and wandering until he stumbled upon the remains of the café.

Blinking in the early sunlight of the day, Enjolras shielded his eyes. He could barely make out the words Le Musain anymore. Everything was covered in blood and was now falling apart. The bodies had been removed and the river of blood he slightly remembered stumbling through had been mopped up.

He walked up to the front entrance and realized there was no longer a door, so he stepped over the threshold and sniffed once or twice. He hoped no National Guardsmen were on the prowl for him, but he knew they were; they wouldn't have found a body and he was the leader. They wanted him more than anyone.

He couldn't stay long.

Not that he wanted to.

It hurt too much. It was all his fault: their deaths. But who had died – really? He could remember Jehan dying on the other side of the barricades, alone.

And Feuilly, stabbed right on the barricade.

And Bahorel, Bossuet, with each other like it should be.

Marius. Marius had died right beside him; a bullet through his forehead.

Enjolras had lost track of Combeferre in all the haze and smoke, as had he lost sight of Joly. Courfeyrac seemed to stay by his side the whole time. That was until.. Until it had all gone dark.

Enjolras stumbled back, hitting the wall behind him, clutching his forehead. No, no, no, no! Courfeyrac; that's who had done it!


Courfeyrac wasn't really thinking about much of anything at the moment. He was caught up in all the buzz of the fighting. It was slightly morbid, really. He felt a rush when he caught his first officer and an even bigger one with the next.

But when they crossed the barricade, and with each step they took, he was pushed farther and farther back, the adrenaline began to turn into dread. He knew what was coming; there was no way to fight it.

Suddenly, he regretted everything. He regretted marrying Victoria, being the cause of her new child, he even regretted Les Amis. He should have just listened to his mother and become a banker, like she wished. But then that faded away and turned right back into devotion and love.

As the bullets flew past his head, and the men beside him continued to fall, he saw a flash of red and blond in the corner of his eye. Enjolras. The men were closing in on him, too, and he only had a limited supply of ammo and empty wine bottles.

So, Courfeyrac, on a stroke of genius, devotion, and courage, did something he would have never done if it was for anyone else. While the National Guard was distracted with killing off yet another of his friends, Courfeyrac jumped behind Enjolras and tore off his coat. The man turned around, confused. But Courfeyrac was already shrugging the coat on; Enjolras protested greatly, but it was like cotton in Courf's ears. He took Rogier's elbow and dragged him roughly through a hidden door that led to a small cupboard. Pulling a bottle out of his back pocket, running out of time, he bashed it over Enjolras' head.

The other man slumped down onto his haunches, his head lolled to the side.

"Thank you, mon ami," Courfeyrac whispered, turning around to face the foes.

The National Guardsmen stared at him, slightly confused; he didn't really resemble what they thought the leader looked like five minutes ago, but in all the commotion, they could have gotten his looks wrong. Still, they had him, the leader, in their grasp. They did the most natural thing then: they shot him, right through the heart.


Enjolras wiped a tear from his cheek. Why in all of heaven and hell did Charles Courfeyrac sacrifice himself for him?!

The first thing he thought to do when he remembered was scream; but surely someone would hear. He stood up slowly, rubbing his chin, as the tears poured down his face. He gasped for air and tried to make sense of it all, but nothing would come clear. Just as he stumbled to the door and fell to his knees, a pair of shoes fell into his line of sight, then a set of knees. Hands cupped his face and pulled them up to look into his eyes.

"Enjolras?" Éponine whispered, running her hand over his sweaty, blood stained forehead. "Rogier, what on earth.."

Enjolras wrapped his arms around her middle and buried his head in her stomach, his shoulders shaking from the sobs. Éponine felt an immense sense of serenity at the sight, though. He was okay, he was safe, he was alive. She breathed a large sigh of relief and let him cry; it would be cruel if she did anything else.

The café, as she took a glance, was so different then from when she had last visited. Of course, the windows were shattered and the door was knocked down, as were the stairs, but it more than looked different: it felt different.

Men – her friends – had died there. Enjolras had nearly died there.

They needed to get out of there!

Éponine didn't think any of the National Guard would be coming back to the site, but apparently she had been wrong. She could hear heavy footsteps and whispers behind her, so quickly, she pulled Enjolras' head up and wiped away the tear stains, putting a finger on his lips to muffle the unintelligible noises coming from them.

"Hush," she whispered, then planted a kiss on his forehead; she turned around and faced the men behind her.

They stared at her, confused and slightly angry. "Madame, you cannot be here."

She nodded and stood, quickly jerking Enjolras up beside her. He seemed to be getting a grip on reality; he wasn't babbling anymore and he only stared venomously at the National Guards. Éponine kept her hand firm on his.

"What is the problem, monsieur?"

"Don't you know?" Éponine stared, her eyes empty and waiting. The man in uniform sighed. "This place is condemned, under investigation."

"Why?" She turned her head to the side, further infuriating the man. But she was trying to buy time: Enjolras continued to grow more tense with each moment and she both wanted him to get out of there and just give him a moment to breathe.

"The revolution that took place a few days ago. A few men are still at large; it is not safe here, madame."

Éponine felt her husband take a step forward. She countered with a step to the side, slightly in front of him. "A – a few men?" She swallowed. "Like who?"

One of the Guards rubbed his forehead. "We are not sure, madame. But, I must ask you leave once again."

Éponine nodded and took one last look around the café. She tugged on Enjolras' hand and whispered, "Let's go, amour."

They then left Le Musian for the last time, the broken leader right under the nose of the Guard.


They arrived home, Enjolras half draped over Éponine. She called out for Vipond – anyone really – and the elderly man came around the corner, quickly, taking Enjolras from Éponine. She wiped her nose and eyes and breathed deeply.

He was safe; he was safe; he was safe.

Upstairs, she heard a door open and Victoria rush to the top of the stairs. She looked at Éponine expectantly, but Éponine could only frown slightly and shrug before following Vipond into the kitchen. There, she found him trying to coax Enjolras into eating a little bit of soup, but the man was too busy cradling his head in his hands, groaning slightly. She thanked Vipond quietly and then took a washcloth from nearby and drenched it with warm water.

Éponine stood beside her husband. "Enjolras?" she whispered, touching the back of his neck. He looked up slowly. "What happened?" She began to wipe the blood from his face and neck.

Finally, after a few moments, he leaned back and ran a hand over his fresh face. "I got away," he said hoarsely. "I got away – scotch free – and they all died."

"Not all of them," Éponine reassured, frowning. "Didn't you hear the Guards? Some of them are still out there."

He shrugged and sniffed. "Maybe."

Éponine decided not to push that subject any further; he was already hurting enough. "I'm so glad you're safe."

He gave her a half-smile and pulled her in for a soft kiss. He laughed coldly. "Me, too, I suppose."

"But how did you get away?" she whispered against his lips.

Enjolras kissed her again. "Courfeyrac. He saved me."

A plate crashed behind them and both jumped and turned to look at the doorway. Éponine bit her lip and Enjolras groaned. "Victoria.."

"Charles.. What do you mean, he saved you?"

Enjolras stood up slowly, his legs shaking. "He.. He took my coat from me while we were inside the café and then he shoved me into a closet. He saved my life; I don't know why, but he did. He died shortly after. I am so sorry, Victoria."

She sneered. "Sorry! Don't tell me you're sorry! This is your fault. He – he would have been alive if, you hadn't-"

Éponine stepped forward and frowned. "You can leave now, Victoria. Go." Victoria sighed and nodded, leaving the room. Éponine turned back around and put her hands on Enjolras' shoulders. "I'm sorry; she had no right."

Enjolras looked away and shrugged. "What she said was true, you do not have to apologize for that."

Éponine blinked rapidly, trying to clear away her own tears. "I love you," she whispered.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I love you, too."