Disclaimer: Yep, still don't own Les Miserables.
Okay, thanks to all of those reading! Also, I'm thinking of writing another story as well that would sort of tie in with this one, but it would on Enjolras. Probably E/É. If anyone has any opinions on that, let me know, so I know if people would want to read it or not. :). Also, there will be more action coming up in these next chapters!
Grantaire was actually surprised that the young woman stayed, and Prouvaire was clearly delighted. Of course for him, this was just something to make a poem out of, romantic that he was. Grantaire was happy too. In a way he saw her as a way to redeem himself. Not only that, but he just saw her as the one person that made him really want to fight for anything. Perhaps it was just pity, but he wasn't so sure. Either way, even if he couldn't fight for Patria like Enjolras, Combeferre, and the others could, well, he could at least fight for this version of Patria.
"Well, I'll just leave the two of you alone," Prouvaire said with a smirk, eyeing Grantaire as he stood up, walking back over to the others. Grantaire noticed too late that he had snatched his bottle off the table and carried it back with him. He could have gone to fetch it, but that wouldn't exactly make the greatest impression on the girl, so he made no move to get up.
His hand was still lightly closed around her wrist. At first it had alarmed her, but now it felt comforting. She was no longer used to gentle contact. No, the men she knew now were always rough, leaving scratches and bruises. Here dark eyes stayed fixated on their hands until his voice drew her out of her thoughts, their eyes locking once more.
"May I ask you your name?" he asked her cautiously. She was like smoke, or a small bird, quick to disappear. He didn't want her to disappear again.
"Marie," she told him.
"Pleasure to meet you, Marie," he told her. "My name is Grantaire... They all call me R," he motioned to the others at the table.
His voice was soft and smooth and so beautiful. She would have laughed at herself for even thinking such a thing if it wasn't so comforting, such a welcome relief.
"Why are you being so kind to me?" Marie blurted out a moment later.
Grantaire looked at her slightly puzzled. "Mademoiselle, I'm only treating you as everyone should be treated..." He trailed off. How horribly must the poor gamine be treated if this was her definition of kind? He hadn't missed the way she flinched when his hand closed around her wrist. And, in a moment of panic he realized he was still holding it lightly. Apologetically, he let go.
"I'm not meant to be treated like everybody," Marie mumbled, "I don't get it... You're rich. Why do you bother with gamines like me?" she asked. "You don't have to care."
"Don't say that. You don't deserve to be treated any other way," he told her, leaning closer to her, elbows resting on the table. "Everyone deserves to be cared for."
He knew what it was like, not to be cared for. Or at least for it to feel as if you weren't. He knew his parents cared plenty, the way they paid for university and everything. But the way they ignored him, the way they seemed to judge him for everything he did wrong, every choice he made. It was enough to make him feel worthless. Then, meeting his friends at school - Well, things had been better for a while. Until he opened his eyes to the horrors of the streets, and he started drinking.
"Grantaire, look at me!" she exclaimed. How could he be serious? When she was a noble, she was looked down upon for being a woman and having opinions. Now, she was looked down upon for her awful choices, looked down upon by the same men who snuck out late at night to pay for her services, who stood in dark allies by night, leering at those who walk by, then smile by daylight and pretend that they are better than everyone else. In any case, she was not deserving of respect. She couldn't pretend she lived some honorable life.
"I am looking at you," he assured her. He could see just in her eyes how broken she was. Did this girl know any love at all? Subconsciously, he pressed his palm to her cheek gently, his thumb moving over the bruised skin ever so lightly. She didn't flinch away this time. He felt her lean into his hand slightly, her eyes closing, blinking small tears over her cheeks.
His touch was soft and gentle.
He cared.
She cried.
Even the Amis, ready to turn any situation they possibly could into a joke, silenced as they looked on. They had all grown attached to this stranger, this Patria. Marie. And, even though none of them knew her, or anything about her, save Grantaire who knew her name, it was a heart-wrenching sight. He knew that the girl was growing uncomfortable, and that she probably did not want all of the eyes on her, he had gathered that much about her personality.
Looking for approval, he glanced back at the others, his eyes landing on Enjolras who simply nodded. That was all he needed to stand up, pulling the girl up with him.
"Come, Marie," he told her. She did not protest. He led her down the stairs and out of the café, his arms wrapping around her to protect her from the cold, and because it seemed whatever invisible thread was holding the girl together had snapped and she seemed as if she might fall apart at any moment.
He was never good at comforting people, and he had little to no experience with women, but somehow he knew what to do. He let her bury her head in his chest and gently stroked her hair with the other. Despite the dirt and grime, she was soft like the petal of a flower - an analogy he had probably learned from Prouvaire - and he didn't want to let her go.
The two stood in the night, Grantaire holding tightly to his Patria, Marie crying silently in the arms of the first person to show her kindess in as long as she could remember.