The Marble Man

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the idea. Surprising, I know.

AN: I know you all hate me a little bit for that cliffhanger. Sorry not sorry.

This chapter is dedicated to my awesome friend Lily – just keep bothering me hon. Love you!

Chapter four:

She blinks a few times; just to be sure that what she is seeing is actually there.

In the place where her statue is supposed to be now lies a half-naked man, with his eyes wide open, his arms held up in a defensive position, and breathing heavily. Her instincts tell her to run, and as a woman who firmly believes that one's instincts are always to be followed, she very nearly bolts into the office to lock herself in. But then she notices him huddled on the ground, staring at her in fear and desperation.

He is blinking rapidly, obviously not used to the light from the overhead lighting, and he holds his hands over his head as if he fears an attack from her – even though she has done nothing but look him in the eyes. He looks terrified of everything, but she seems to be the source of most of his fear, as he occasionally glances at her but looks away as soon as she notices. Shivers are wracking his body so heavily that she is starting to get really worried about his health as well as his state of mind.

His form is almost animalistic, reminding her of a feline trying to protect himself from the dangerous predator cornering him. She almost thinks that he will start hissing soon, blowing himself up to appear more threatening, just like she has seen cats do.

Though, him being a cat does not quite fit at this point; no he is not trying to make himself scary and intimidating like a cat does – this is him cowering in fear like an attacked dog. She had to rescue a dog once, and she remembers this well. The poor creature was being attacked by the neighborhood children, and the little shits were actually throwing stones at the stray. She stopped that in its tracks – those kids are scared of her to this very day – and took the dog home. She had to hide the poor fellow while she made sure he got healthy, and her Strider was gone before her father could find him. She took home her stray, but she did not get to keep him for very long.

"Hello," she is really trying not to spook him too much. "I am not trying to hurt you. Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?"

It changes nothing; her words only make him shiver more, and he seems to be trying to get more distance between him and her. This guy is really afraid of everything about her, and she tries to inspect herself from head to toe to attempt to figure out just what about her is scaring him so much. Her long dark hair should only serve to remind him that she is a woman – but she doubts that he has a deep-seated fear of females.

"How the fuck did you get here?" she finally asks.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he starts talking, his voice hoarse as if he has not used it in ages. "Please! Can you tell me where I am?"

Is he just tripping balls? There is something seriously wrong with this guy. He still seems disoriented and she is getting kind of impatient with this little act when it is starting to seem more and more likely that alcohol or drugs are the cause of this ridiculous behavior he is exhibiting. She has not heard a lot of stories about criminal activities in this town – not even drunk and disorderly behavior. Perhaps this will be the first case.

"You've obviously broken into the museum," she is still debating running for the office.

"Yes, this is a museum," he sounds out of it in a way.

That is when she realizes that her statue actually appears to be gone – and she is quite sure that this asshole has somehow taken it. Sure, she was vaguely aware of the disappearance of her friend, but she has not been focused on that, rather on the unwashed idiot who might be under the influence of something really potent. This fucked up dick has actually taken her only friend away.

"What did you do with my statue?" she is interrogating him.

"Your statue?" he speaks in a rather pensive manner in response. "I was not aware that I was yours, mademoiselle. You might not believe this, but I am the statue."

Now she has decided: this guy is not right in the head. If this was the big city she would be calling the police and telling them a guy escaped from the psych ward – but here in Musain, the nearest hospital is about three towns over and to get from there to the museum on foot this guy would have to be really dedicated to finding this place. Also, there are museums on the way there, just none as interesting as this one.

"You're a psychopath, right?" she is thinking hard, trying to figure out where the nearest weapon is. "You destroyed the statue and now you're here to kill me."

"No, mademoiselle Éponine, I actually am the statue," the guy proceeds to freak her out more, voice hoarse. "I am he, your friend."

Her theory about him escaping from the psych ward seems about as likely as him just being high on something at this point, but the creepiest part of all of this is that he somehow knows her name. This is starting to seem somehow personal and with her background that is never a good idea – there are too many people who could hate her for really stupid reasons and she can't defend herself endlessly and hope for the best. So yes, she might be a little scared and more than a little wary, but she'll power on.

"How do you know my name?" she questions, poker face on.

"You told me your name," he looks at her tentatively before quickly looking away.

How could she tell him her name since she does not even know him? He is beyond crazy if he actually believes that he is her missing statue. She knows that this is what he is alluding to, but she also knows just how ridiculous the mere idea of it is.

"You obviously heard someone mention my name," she says. "Statues don't come to life."

As she is a self-respecting student of art history, she is fully aware of the myth of Pygmalion, but she is also very much aware that the story of Pygmalion is a myth and that none of the lessons from myths have bearing on real life. Otherwise there would be more trouble with godlike creatures and people fucking swans and other animals or inanimate objects. The gods be crazy – just about as crazy as this guy.

"Normal statues do not come to life, indeed," he corrects her gently.

Well, they can agree on that part, but she doubts that there really is any kind of statue that can't be considered normal because it comes to life! That shit just does not exist, no matter what he is saying. There is no magic in the real world, and there are no fairy godmothers that exist solely to grant wishes and make everything better. There is no such thing as magic and statues do not come to life in the real world.

"But you're not a normal statue?" she is skeptical of that.

"I was a flesh-and-blood man once," he keeps saying weird shit, "before I was cursed."

And there are curses too now? Curses are not real; they are just superstitious stories that people believe because they are desperate for an explanation – something that her father would always use to his advantage. She despises talk of curse.

"You don't actually think that I believe that curse bullshit?" she raises an eyebrow.

"You use such foul language, mademoiselle Éponine," he appears to be chiding her.

Oh, honestly, this psych ward escapee thinks that he gets to lecture her about stuff when he is the one claiming that he is a cursed man who was an actual marble statue until about ten minutes ago. This is not her friend – this is just another piece of evidence proving that – because her friend would be kind to her instead of lecturing her about her use of profane language at this point. There is a half-naked dude in the museum after dark claiming to be a cursed statue and she is supposed to say "shoot"?

"And you talk like you have a stick up your ass," she has no patience for this. "Now could you please either try to kill me or get back to the psych ward? I have plans for the night."

Those plans are really just hanging out on the couch with Jehan and watching yet another ridiculous movie while drinking a bottle of wine each and pondering about why movies appear to be so much more interesting than real life. They will curse at R and why he still has not come back, but it will never change anything.

Because that is just what life is like.

Oh, she sounds so tough with her talk of her plans and making him into less of a thing to be feared – really she can almost hear her heart pound over the sound of her own voice, and her feet are poised to run away with any kind of sudden move from his end.

"Are you going to call your sister back?" he asks, and it's like everything stops.

"How do you know about my sister?" she approaches him, still so wary.

How could he possibly know about her sister? She has not told anyone about her except her statue friend. It is possible that this jerk was hiding somewhere getting ready to make his move when she got Azelma's call – but the pained look on his face at her refusal, that look seems so very familiar to her. It is the same look that the statue was wearing back when he was just made of marble and just her friend. Still, just the idea that this mess of a man is her statue come to life is unbelievable to her.

"Mademoiselle Éponine, please," his voice cracks with those words, sounding like he is at the end of his rope, and she finds herself reaching out for him.

She is standing in front of him now, as he is still sitting in a crumpled heap on the floor, as if he has not quite figured out how to work his limbs. Her hand is inches away from his shoulder, and just when she has finally decided that he deserves comfort, no matter who he turns out to be, he flinches away from her touch for a second.

"I'm sorry," she is quick to apologize.

"I am the one who should apologize," he looks up at her with his deep blue eyes.

So she tries again, gently placing her hand on his shoulder and trying to see if he is okay with this, hoping that he will at least accept this small gesture of comfort.

"Who are you?" she tries again, not knowing what else to say.

"I really am your statue, mademoiselle Éponine," he speaks with those blue eyes still boring into her, unnerving her greatly, "and I don't know how to prove it to you. I can tell you about your siblings; you do not remember how old they are exactly. I was awake for that. I heard everything you told me."

The odds of him listening in on all of her conversations with the statue are so very slim that she is almost starting to believe him, and she has to physically shake her head to stop herself from telling him that she will believe this outlandish story. Because believing this story goes against everything she told herself ever since she figured out that fairy tales were not real and just would not come true.

"I cannot think," she tells him.

Shivers are wracking her body and for a second she thinks that the madness of the night has finally gotten to her – until she realizes that the tremors originate from her left hand, the one on the man's shoulder. He is actually the one shivering, and it is getting worse from what she can feel. This man needs help, because it is obvious that something has happened to him – at this point she thinks that if he were a statue less than an hour ago, he would be suffering from some serious aftereffects. Nothing in him would be used to being a living and breathing human. But no, those thoughts are stupid.

He is just a man, nothing supernatural or magical about him, just some weirdo – who happens to know everything about her. God, is it really true?

Her breaths are coming in quick spurts, half stuck in her chest and half desperately trying to throw out the stupid thoughts with each and every breath. The hand that is not touching him fidgets and she cannot seem to control it, so she looks for a distraction to focus on instead. She finds it in him, still huddled on the floor with only her hand on his shoulder to stabilize him. He is trying to move, but it looks like it is hurting him.

"Do you need help?" she sees the pained look on his face, even though he tries to hide it.

"I do not think I can stand up unaided," he admits.

She has absolutely no idea how to go about this, and she is sure that shows, but he does not chide or deride her. He gently places her other hand on his other shoulder and places both his hands on her shoulders in return, hoisting him up until he is on his knees. They are not touch in any kind of personal places, which she suspects is his intention.

"You can hold on a bit more if you want," she breaks it to him gently.

"It would not be proper, mademoiselle Éponine," he slowly shakes his head no.

She slings his arm over her shoulder anyway, and prepares to hoist him up.

There is a creak in the distance – the old doors just do that sometimes, but it still freaks her out so much, and it makes her think of the possibility of them being discovered like this and the amount of terrible things that would lead to. They will get arrested and they will lock her up for being an art thief and she will never be able to get near a museum again. Just because this guy claims he's a cursed statue and he cannot seem to move fast enough for the two of them to make a decent getaway.

Or maybe the creaking sound was just the door, but still.

"Just think of me as a nurse," she tries to make it better for him somehow. "We have to leave here. People might come in and see us, and I still have no reasonable explanation for the missing statue. We have to be gone when they find out!"

Somehow he is starting to understand the urgency here, because he is slowly raising himself up on shivering legs, all the while holding on to her and leaning on her. He is almost her height now, and now he is her height, and he has passed her, and he is still getting taller – about four or five inches taller than her ends up being his full height. He is just about six feet of half-naked chiseled male and this is not what she should be thinking about, but holy shit he looks pretty good without a shirt. Pretty good is actually an understatement – she is really going to need to find him a shirt to wear.

"Can you walk?" she pleads, looking around in every direction.

"Not very fast," he says, taking a first hesitant step in the direction of the exit.

Oh, they make quite a pair like this, especially with her moving to walk next to him, keeping him moving from the side. She knows that he will not let her carry the brunt of his weight – even though that would be wiser – but she is still helping him so that he can keep walking. They are moving inches at a time, but at least they are moving and at least they are going in the right direction.

God, she really wants to be out of here already, but she cannot leave him behind!

"Are you really my statue?" she blurts out as they exit the gallery.

"I really am the statue," he stops to look her in the eyes.

Those eyes, those deep blue eyes that convey the same amount of emotion her statue as always done. He is flinching at shadows and trembling pretty hard, but he is trying to make her listen by staring into her eyes and showing her how many other feelings are hiding underneath his terrified exterior.

"Don't stop walking," she admonishes him.

Never stop walking, never blink, and never let them catch you – she is sure that her mind has mixed up some of her fathers lessons and some random things she has heard over the years, but she is beyond the point of caring. She is somewhat scared and really paranoid about absolutely everything and reason has pretty much left the building. She wishes she and her statue could move away as fast as reason abandoned her.

"Do you believe me?" he questions. "Do you believe that I am he, mademoiselle?"

Why would she believe that? How can she believe that? How can she even be thinking about this when she should be thinking about getting away from here? Honestly, her first priority should be to dump him on the lobby chair a few steps away while she locks up and gets him a damn shirt to wear. His bare chest is really fucking distracting.

"I don't know what to believe," she tells him. "I do know that I am going to need you to sit down in that chair while I lock up and find you a shirt to wear."

Her new stray – damn it, that comparison is a bit too apt – sits down like a good boy and she practically runs away from him trying to get herself under control before having to face him again. It is not just the bare chest on display; it is also the confusion that surrounds his appearance in her life. He cannot be the only friend that she has; and the idea of it is ridiculous and appealing at the same time. Her head hurts.

She throws the lost and found box onto a random table and starts digging through it, hoping to find a shirt that is big enough for her stray – finally finding a deep red shirt that should hopefully fit him. Most of the clothes left behind belong to the school kids who come on excursions, so this shirt is an exception to a rule. And even this shirt might be a bit of a stretch – pun not really intended, but reluctantly accepted.

After tossing the box back where it belongs she starts locking the office – which is the only room that she had not yet locked when she found the statue. Now she no longer has an excuse to stay away from him and that makes her very nervous.

"I found you something to wear," she speaks softly when she reaches him.

He still jumps at the sound of her voice, sounding so suddenly in the silence surrounding the both of them. It seems as if he has withdrawn in on himself again in her absence, and she curses herself for leaving him alone in this unfamiliar environment where there is nothing that he can recognize. Wait, does that say something about her believing him in this idea that he was cursed years ago? She somehow has started to believe that he is actually from another time and he needs her help right now.

"I'm so sorry," she is quick to apologize to him for startling him.

"It is quite alright, mademoiselle Éponine," he reassures her. "Now, you have something for me to cover myself with? I find that I would quite like to be covered up."

The formal talk still throws her a little, but she knows that she is just going to have to teach him some excellent street slang and watch him trip over the unfamiliar terms because he has never seen those words before. She does not think she will have lived until she has heard him either cuss or use contemporary slang.

After a few seconds of fumbling, he stands up from the chair on his own.

"I hope this fits," she hands him the red shirt.

"This is a lovely color," he remarks before turning away from her.

Oh, he probably wants some privacy while he gets changed, but she is going to keep ogling his bare chest for the few seconds that she can still do so. The play of the muscles on his back is particularly interesting as he sticks his arms through the unfamiliar shirt and attempts to quickly pull it over his head. There is no quick about this, because the tight shirt does not have much give to it, leaving it just about big enough to fit him. The fabric clings to his skin in an almost indecent way – really, now the universe has just decided to start torturing her. This guy is unfairly attractive.

Still, that is not what she should be worrying about at this point in time.

"I am as decent as I can be at this point," he does not sound pleased.

"It was all I could find that would fit you," she tries to form some sort of apology even though she has absolutely no regrets about this. "Now, I think we should leave the museum before someone finds us here. We really don't want to get caught."

He nods with a ridiculous amount of gravitas and starts shuffling in the direction of the exit, displaying the typical male symptom of being too proud to ask for help even though it is very much necessary. She knows he will never ask, but when she catches a tremble in his legs, she walks up next to him, slings his arm over her shoulder and helps him walk as if there is nothing wrong with it – which is the honest truth.

"Where are we going, mademoiselle Éponine?" he asks in a soft whisper.

"We are going to my attic," she does not know where else to take him. "I officially rent the place from my friend, but I have a separate bathroom and there is enough room for you to stay there without them having to find out about this immediately."

The two blocks to Jehan's place has never felt like such a huge distance before, but she has never been this paranoid before, and she was never carrying around a former statue before. No, she still does not believe that it is actually he.

"How will we enter without your friends noticing me?" he whispers.

"You'll have to be really quiet," she tells him. "I'm going to check if Jehan or R are in sight and we will go upstairs together so you can hide. I can always tell them that I am not feeling well and that I need to get some sleep. The excuse won't be the problem – the creaky stairs are going to make it very clear I'm not the only one going upstairs."

Oh, she is going to get some seriously invasive questions about that, but she can deal with that when it actually happens. Right now she just needs to find him a safe place to hide, and her attic room is the only place that she can think of to hide him. It is the only place that only she has access to and that she can lock behind her when necessary.

Now that they are only a few feet away from their destination, she is getting more and more worried about being caught, taking quick looks all around her. Her new friend has hardly even noticed how paranoid she is at this point, being too busy frowning about their future living situation. This is definitely making a case for him being out of his time.

"It is not proper for us to share a room," he argues.

"Honestly, times have changed," she gives him a quick eye roll. "I could always tell them I'm having a guest over. They're going to assume I'm doing you, but I am not going to care too much about that. Doing you means fucking you, by the way. Having sex."

He appears to be fighting a blush at her last words, which just makes her even more interested in thoroughly embarrassing him by always mentioning this very topic and using her filthiest vocabulary. She is going to remember this for the future.

"I'm going in," she warns him, unlocking the front door. "Anyone home?"

"I'm in my office," Jehan shouts from his basement lair.

If Jehan is in the basement, it means he is writing, which is supposed to be a good sign, so she can proceed upstairs without any guilt for not checking up on him. She has too much to think about already without adding Jehan's R-related troubles – and she knows that sounds selfish, but she is freaking out already, and she would rather do that behind the door to her room. Until then, she takes deep breaths and takes the occasional looks at her stray, who is now confidently walking on his own.

"I'm going straight to bed," she shouts, motioning for the guy to keep quiet.

She tiptoes up the stairs and waits for him to follow her. There are few creaks from the old stairs but there are enough sounds to make it obvious to Jehan that she is currently less than alone. She wants to kick herself for it, but there is nothing else that she can do except to be as quiet as she can and to just keep moving. She has to keep moving, keep moving, there is no stopping and no blinking and no more looking back.

The attic room is just a few steps away and she can already feel herself falling apart, but she forces herself to hold it together for just a little bit longer, if only for those few more steps until she reaches her safe haven.

"Almost there," she mutters almost under her breath.

Judging by the presence she feels moving behind her, her new friend is still following right behind her. Good, because she does not want to be the one to explain to Jehan why the stranger who looks ridiculously like one of the statues in the museum has found his way into their house. That cannot be explained, because she still does not understand it herself. She still does not believe it, because it just cannot be.

Statues do not turn into people and curses are only superstitions. Statues do not turn into people and curses are only superstitions. She moves her lips to her new mantra, and she just keeps going. Statues do not turn into people and curses are only superstitions.

"Are we going inside?" the not-statue speaks, shaking her from her thoughts.

"Any second now," she clenches her teeth and unlocks the door.

Her hands are shaking, but she is refusing to let the not-statue see that, so she holds the key for a little bit longer than necessary before finally pulling it out of the lock and opening the door. Her hands still shake but at least now she can cross her arms and hopes that this hides just how much all of this has affected her.

There is a man in her room who claims to be a cursed statue and she just helped him escape the authorities. Oh God, this could ruin the rest of her life.

"There is only one bed," he announces when he is done judging her lodgings.

Seriously? This is what he chooses to focus on?

AN: Damn straight that happened. This actually happened. Now tell me how you feel about it and what you loved most about this!