A/N Sorry that it has been a couple of days, I had school work to do, then I had work all of Friday, and yesterday I had to exercise our horses (poor me I know). Just wanted to thank all of the people who have viewed! I am stunned at the number of views I've got, especially as this is my first story for Les Mis. Also thanks to the 5 people who have reviewed, the 8 people who have followed and the 4 who have favourited!

On with the story!

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I'm not Victor Hugo; big surprise.

Chapter Six

Following the girl's panicked admission the room had sat in stunned silence. Then, as one, everyone turned to survey the two medical students with probing stares.

"We know very little about the workings of the brain," Combeferre said carefully, "especially if a traumatic incident is involved."

Joly, to be fair, managed to keep a fairly level head, "You, mademoiselle, are taking a small dose of laudanum," he pulled out another bottle from his medical bag, "and I am going to find Dr Dupont."

The strange doctor arrived at the house in record time, a panting Joly behind him, and promptly shut himself up in the bed room with the girl and Margo.

Enjolras retreated back into his room to work, but left his door open. Partly due to the fact that the October sun streaming through his window was surprisingly warm and partly because he wanted to subtly eavesdrop on the conversation his friends were having in the main room.

"Can we keep her?" That sounded like Courfeyrac. Only he could act like a girl with a missing memory was stray animal to be adopted.

"She's not a kitten, Courf." Combeferre agreed with him. Great minds obviously do think alike.

"We still don't know her name, you know." Joly sounded like he was rummaging through his bag for something. The sound of the young man blowing his nose a moment later filled the flat. Ah, handkerchief. "I really don't know if I should be dealing with her injuries, not while I have a cold."

"Joly, you do not have a cold, and she may remember yet." Combeferre again.

"I would not be so certain of that." That sounded like Dr Dupont.

Upon realizing that the doctor had re-joined the group, Enjolras paused once more in his work and returned to the small gathering that was taking place in the living room. Dr Dupont's face was grave as he faced them, obviously not happy with whatever he had found. "The mind is a complex thing that we do not truly understand; we probably never will understand it completely," he sighed heavily, "She has no memory of the attack at all, which is probably a very good thing. However, she also has no real memory of anything before that, which is not so good."

"She doesn't remember anything?" Combeferre asked, his forehead furrowed in thought as he racked his great knowledge for a reasonable explanation.

The older man shook his head, "She has no memory of her name at all, which complicates things somewhat in regards to discovering her identity. She thinks she may be about twenty-one or twenty-two, but is uncertain. She has no idea of where she was born, or where she was living before you found her. As for family," here he paused and wiped a tired hand across his brow, "she has no memory whatsoever and became very distressed when I pressed with my questioning." He looked gravely at each of the young men before him, "At the moment I do not think it is wise to ask her anything about her past. Allow her to heal, both physically and psychologically, before any real attempts are made." He shrugged, lightening the mood, "Apart from the obvious wounds there doesn't seem to be any other physical damage; she has no trouble with speech and her eyes and ears are functioning as they should. I would count it as a small miracle that the blow to her head has not seemed to cause any permanent damage."

Margo crossed herself and murmured a reverent thanks to God. Enjolras noted that Joly copied the gesture, but that Combeferre and Courfeyrac joined him in refraining. It was not that he was against religion, he had been raised a strict Catholic by his parents, as he was certain Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been. It was just that he found it difficult to believe in a God who was supposed to love all people, yet allowed such bad things to happen on Earth and did nothing to prevent them.

Dr Dupont left not long after that, only adding a few instructions to Joly and Combeferre about making sure that her shoulder was kept clean and still so that the skin could knit back together. "She should be able to get out of bed soon, even if it is just to sit in an armchair for the afternoon," he said at the door, turning back to survey the odd group, "She'll have to wear a sling until it heals of course, and so will need someone to help her with washing and dressing. You needn't worry about too much though as Margo seems to have that side of things in hand."

Margo blushed slightly, the colour complementing her greying strawberry blond hair. "I had five children, all boys," she explained, "so I'm used to dealing with injuries," she paused, "Even if I've never had to deal with any injuries as severe as the young lady's."

Touching the tip of his cane to his hat, Dr Dupont then left, wishing them the best of luck and to call him if they were in need of any help or advice. After he had departed, the group stood in silence for moment, simply to process all of the new information that they had received.

"Well this is…um…," Enjolras began, but trailed off.

Courfeyrac perched himself on the arm of the sofa and absentmindedly ran his fingers through the still sleeping Grantaire's hair. "We really can't keep calling her, 'her' or 'mademoiselle' or 'the young lady'," he pondered, "She needs a name."

"Just call her Patria and Apollo here will be more than happy," Grantaire grumbled from the sofa, "Don't stop with the hair thing, Courf, it's doing wonders for my headache."

"Let her pick her own name," suggested Margo, "You student types always make things twice as complicated as they actually are." Her scolding was good natured and the boys knew how fiercely protective she was of them; "I'll make sure she's presentable, and then you can all come in and talk to her. Be gentle with her though, and no prancing around!" This last remark was directed most definitely at Courfeyrac who simply assumed an innocent expression and fluttered his eyelashes beguilingly.

"I have work to do," Enjolras announced abruptly. The thought of going back into the room with the girl unsettled him for some reason, a knot of…something… forming in his stomach.

"We would expect nothing less of you, O Fearless Leader," Courfeyrac chirped, jumping to his feet and leading the way into the little room, immediately followed by Combeferre and Joly. The door shut with a click behind them, leaving Enjolras, once again, on the outside.

He stood for a moment, head bent in deep thought, thoughts that kept wandering back to the girl that lay only a few strides away from him…

"I never thought I would see the day that the marble lover of liberty fell in love." Although his voice was still slurred and his arm was placed protectively across his eyes, the humour was still prominent in Grantaire's voice.

At the provocative statement Enjolras snapped out of his thoughts. "Shut up, wine cask!" he hissed and stalked to his room, shutting his door a little louder than necessary in the hope of aggravating Grantaire's headache.

On the sofa Grantaire winced at the sound, but grinned to himself. Even hung-over he enjoyed annoying the easily riled golden leader. He stretched and yawned, deciding that sleep was looking like a good option right now…

In the next room, Courfeyrac had explained to the girl their problem, and when she agreed, the four had immediately begun reeling off possible names.

"Nicolette?"

"Sara?"

"Charlotte?"

"Alice?"

"Christina?"

"Adriana?"

"Marie?"

She shook her head at each suggestion, and gave an uncomfortable little laugh, "This is so strange, to be choosing a name for myself."

"Colette, Mimi, Louise, Fifi?" Courfeyrac listed, then paused for a moment, "Lovely girls; Louise was my mistress for a good four months."

"Fifi?" she gave him an incredulous look.

"What?" he asked guilelessly.

"You had a mistress named Fifi?" Combeferre asked, the beginnings of a smirk curling at his mouth's edge.

"Of course not," Courfeyrac replied defensively, "It was the name of her poodle."

"Do I look like a poodle?" she asked sardonically.

"Point taken. Ummm, Marguerite, Aimee, Francis…"

"Wait, what was that last one?" she asked, her expression perking up a little.

"Francis?"

"No, the one before that."

"Aimee?"

"Aimee," she rolled the word around her mouth experimentally, "Aimee, I like it."

"It suits the situation," Margo said, "Aimee means 'loved', or 'beloved', and that is what you shall be here… Aimee."

Aimee smiled as her new name was used for the first time and was surprised to find tears pricking at her eyes, "I cannot thank you all enough."

The boys flushed, uncomfortable with her tears, and said her thanks really wasn't necessary, but she continued regardless, speaking over there protestations.

"No, it is necessary. You saved my life, spent money caring for me, and treated me with nothing but kindness. As soon as I am able, I will find a way to repay you."

No one in the room doubted her.

The days began to fall into a comfortable rhythm. Either Combeferre or Joly would come to the apartment mid-morning to check Aimee's injuries and replace the dressings if need be, then Margo would assist her with washing and dressing, a feat made quite difficult by the sling Aimee was forced to wear to support her healing shoulder.

Once she was dressed and comfortable, Margo would often invite Aimee to come and have a chat, but usually Aimee preferred to be left to her own devices in Enjolras' rooms, usually accompanied by a book from his advanced collection. For Enjolras, it was still somewhat of a surprise to exit his room and almost walk into a young lady. The once or twice that it happened he bowed stiffly and hurried out of the apartment before she could engage him in any form of conversation. In fact, he avoided any form of contact with her, taking the meals that were forced upon him by Margo in his room and leaving Margo and Aimee to eat in the kitchen. Once, Aimee asked Margo what she had done to upset him, to which Margo replied, "Nothing. That's just how Enjolras is with most people."

One afternoon, three weeks after her 'naming day', as she called it, Aimee asked Courfeyrac the same question. Out of the small group she had contact with, he was the one she saw the most. He would appear at the apartment most days, ready with a smile and a good dose of quick wit to relieve the boredom.

As for Courfeyrac, well he had very quickly found that his friend's mysterious lodger was in possession of a sharp mind, wit quick enough to match his own and an excellent sense of dry humour, even if she was struck with occasional bouts of silent, withdrawn melancholy. After all she had been through, and what she was still going through, it was only to be expected after all.

On this particular afternoon they were sat reading a book together, a large book of poems sent over by Jehan in fact. Because of her shoulder she was unable to hold the book herself, a task which Courfeyrac found he could help with, resting the book on his knees so she could view the text and turning the pages whenever was necessary. She read the poetry aloud and Courfeyrac was pleased to discover that her reading was excellent and that the elegance with which she spoke the words was really rather soothing…

He was just on the verge of falling asleep (it had been somewhat of a late night, if you understand what he was implying) when she paused from her reading and asked him in an uncertain voice why Enjolras disliked her so much.

"I know I clutter up his life, and that I'm probably upping his rent because there are two of us in here, but I try to help, to make things easier for him, but this thing," - here she gestured impatiently to her sling – "makes everything so damn difficult!" she blushed at her own use of such profanity, and stared down at her lap, the shorter strands of her hair, from where it had been trimmed from round the wound, just brushing the tops of her ears.

Courfeyrac felt his heart go out to her, and not for the first time cursed his friend's social disability. "This is a very serious talk we are about to have, Aimee dearest, so we need the book out of the way," he very solemnly removed the book from his knee, breathing a sigh of relief, "Ah, that's better, my knees were killing me. Firstly, Enjolras does not dislike you, you're not cluttering up his life and it's not about the rent." Courfeyrac knew for a fact that Margo had refused to ask for more money off Enjolras, but in the end, much to Enjolras' and Margo's displeasure, the Amis had clubbed together to pay for the rent of the extra room.

She looked at him sceptically, one eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement, "I suppose it's because he likes me so much that he ignores me?"

"Exactly!" He elaborated, "We call him 'The Marble Man' behind his back, but don't tell him that." He paused to think for a moment, and finally settled on saying, "Enjolras is not good with emotions, hasn't been in all the time I've known him, never has been I don't think. He doesn't trust quickly or easily and he is truly terrible with women."

At this, Aimee looked surprised. She had expected Enjolras to have grisettes falling at his feet, in fact, she had been surprised that he hadn't brought any one home, but was convinced he had only done it so she wasn't uncomfortable. He nothing if not polite.

"He is also ridiculously focused; work is his life essentially."

"Jerome, you're not explaining yourself very well," Aimee sighed, her new friend's first name falling from her lips out of instinct, momentarily forgetting his dislike of it.

Courfeyrac glared at her in mock affront for the slip, coming to his conclusion by saying, "What I'm trying to say is… it's not that he doesn't like you, it's that he finds it very difficult to show that he likes anyone. Don't take it personally, just be nice to him and show him that not all women are trying to get into his bed." This last statement was accompanied by a cheeky wink.

Aimee flushed and hit him with her good arm, "But how am I meant to be nice to him when he will barely look at me?"

"Ah," Courfeyrac wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, "I just happen to have a plan!"

When Enjolras arrived home from the Amis' meeting that evening, he was somewhat surprised to find that Aimee was still awake and sat in the armchair by the window. He studied her for the briefest of moments in the time before she was aware of his presence, taking in the long, dark curtain of her hair and the dusky glow of her skin in the light of the fire in the hearth. So as not to startle her, he made sure he made plenty of noise as he crossed the room, scuffing his feet and clearing his throat.

Upon seeing him she rose, a patterned blue robe over her nightdress, and greeted him politely, "Bon nuit, Enjolras."

"Mademoiselle." He inclined his head, and hurried towards his room, her state of dress making him feel uncomfortable, but her voice stopped him.

"Combeferre said that the sling should be able to come off soon." She stood and walked towards him carefully, like a bird approaching a sleeping cat, her fingers playing with something clutched in her hand.

"That is excellent news." He saw that her hair was growing back from where it had been cut. It just brushed the top of her ear, but the difference in length barely noticeable as Margo brushed her hair in a middle parting, the thick curtain of hair concealing the worst of the damage.

She stretched out her good arm, a neatly wrapped package held in her hand. "Courfeyrac mentioned you were in need of one. I hope you find it to your liking."

He took it gingerly, uncertain as to its contents, and found it soft and pliable to the touch. From her nervous, but hopeful gaze, he felt that she expected him to open there and then, and he found the prospect of disappointing her strangely unpleasant. Placing his books aside for a moment, he unwrapped the package to discover that it contained a scarf, deep claret red in colour, and knit out of soft wool. So touched was he by the gesture that he found himself unable to speak. "You made this?"

She blushed, "Well, no actually, because of my arm…"

He flushed slightly as he realized the foolishness of his question. Of course she couldn't have knitted it!

"Margo knit it," she elaborated, "I just picked out the colour."

"It is very thoughtful of you…Aimee." Her name falling from his lips felt unfamiliar and natural all at once, and he bid her a hasty goodnight before he once more made an utter fool of himself. His discomfort, however, did not stop a small, secret, smile from rising on his lips as he walked to the university the next morning, his neck swathed in the comfort of a knitted, red scarf.

A/N Please note that I mean no insult when I speak of Enjolras' opinions on religion. I myself am religious, but I was simply trying to capture his thoughts and views.

Sorry if this seems like a bit of a filler chapter; I'll try and get Aimee out of the apartment soon. I'll just say this now; Courfeyrac and Aimee are JUST FRIENDS! I will not be pairing them.

I'm back to college on Monday (crying) so my updates may be further apart. Please review!

Until next time mes amis!

Libz