Disclaimer: Yepp, still don't own it.

Thanks again to all who reviewed and followed! I really appreciate it! So this chapter is actually kind of heavy. I wasn't sure exactly what direction I wanted to go with it at first, but I'm actually pretty happy with how it turned out.

Grantaire was careful the entire walk back to his flat, cradling the girl against him and making sure the blanket did not fall from around her. The cold wind was cutting through even his own coat - how had she managed to walk around the way she did? Her eyes hadn't opened once since they left, and he was not sure why. Figuring she may be trying to rest, he didn't speak. He didn't want to disturb her. She had every right to be exhausted.

How could this be allowed and accepted? Sure, most Parisians didn't love the idea of poor walking the streets, but most ignored them, pretending as if they didn't exist. This girl, this gamine... She was broken and it was the fault of everyone who ignored the problem. He wondered if it was a result his semi-sobered mind or the girl in his arms, but he was starting to take Enjolras's words more to heart. Maybe he was right, after all. There was still the fact that they would probably all get themselves killed, but maybe it was worth it, if others truly did rise to take their place. Then Marie wouldn't have to live this way anymore. She would get help whether she wanted it or not.

"You'll sleep in my bed," Grantaire spoke as he carried her into his flat, leaving no room for argument. He had a couch he could sleep on, and honestly he didn't sleep much anyway. His head was starting to ache, which he knew must be from a lack of alcohol, and he was not so sure he wanted to get as drunk as he usually had to in order to fall asleep that evening. So, he probably wouldn't be sleeping anyway. The young man didn't explain any of this to the young woman, however, and instead carried her into his room.

Her eyes fluttered open as soon as he spoke, "No, monsieur, I will sleep on the couch," she insisted. "You are already being far to kind."

Grantaire shook his head, gently setting her on the floor, keeping a steady grip on her until he was sure that she was standing. "Call me Grantaire," he insisted, "And no, I will take the couch. You need to rest."

Inside the flat, it was warm, much warmer than her own dingy little apartment. She let the blanket slip off of her shoulders, she wouldn't be needing it in a moment anyway.

Grantaire's eyes flashed briefly to her as he heard it fall to the floor. Her dress was visible again, as well as the cream colored skin of her neck, shoulders, and chest. Mentally, he scolded himself. He was no Marble Man, like his leader who seemed to be able to ignore the fairer sex all together. No, Grantaire realized that the young gamine was beautiful, even with the dirt, scratches, and bruises that marred her delicate skin. However, he quickly forced himself to turn his attention away from her and to the bed, pulling the sheets and blankets back so that she could climb in easily.

Marie felt like a small child being tucked into bed, but she let it happen. It was strange - how one could go dragging themselves around day to day, just going with the motions no matter how exhausted one truly was. Marie had been doing just that for months now, and in the past days, it had only been getting worse. Yet still, she had been able to drag herself through it. But now, all of a sudden, when she found laying in a bed with actually blankets and a comfortable mattress, in a house that was actually warm, with someone who genuinely cared, she could not even bring herself to sit up, or even pull the covers over herself.

"If you need anything, just shout," Grantaire told her. She nodded, her eyes fixing on him for a moment before she let them drift shut as he left the room.

Grantaire had been correct to assume that he would not be able to sleep. He found himself lying on the couch, staring up at the dusty ceiling above him - he didn't take much time to clean his house - and frowned. It was late, he was tired, but he was actually happy. He should not want alcohol right now. Yet, he did. His head throbbed, and his stomach twisted. He hadn't had anywhere near enough to drink at the Musain.

Don't get up, he told himself, trying to force himself to stay on the couch.

But, of course, he found himself standing up slowly and making his way to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet, his eyes fixing on a bottle of wine.

You don't need it.

His hand closed around the neck of the bootle.

Yes you do.

He pulled the bottle from the cabinet, uncorked it with expert fingers, and tipped his head back, nearly sighing with relief when the familiar drink touched his lips. He didn't bring the bottle away until it was nearly gone.

His head was already spinning as he made his way back to the couch, bottle still in hand. He felt like shit, but at the same time, he felt better.

This was why Enjolras hated him so much, he knew. He just could not give up the bottle. It was impossible. The man, the marble lover of liberty, could not understand Grantaire's reasons. He was overwhelmed by everything going on around him, and the only way to turn off his thoughts was this. The numbness that came over him was what allowed him to sleep. It was painful, so painful to be scorned for something that he could not change.

The thoughts circled his head, though they were less painful to think about now. They were muddled, in a sense, and didn't seem as real.

Soon, he was asleep, the bottle still in his hand.

He awoke barely an hour later to the sound of footsteps. For a moment, he was entirely confused. He was sleeping on the couch, which was strange. Sure, he often woke up in strange places, but why could he be on his couch? He looked down momentarily, seeing a wine bottle on the ground - or rather the shattered glass of what used to be one. It was still dark, meaning he couldn't possibly have been asleep for too long. Though, it seemed like quite a while.

He pushed himself up, pinching the bridge of his nose a bit, trying to clear the headache he knew was forming as if it was at all possible. Then his eyes caught sight of her and everything came flooding back.

"Marie!" he exclaimed, trying to push himself off the couch but stumbling slightly. "You're 'spose ta be in bed."

"I heard something fall and break," she explained, eyeing him carefully.

"I must 'a drop th' bottle," he slurred.

"I can see that," she said. She would almost be amused with his behavior if she didn't realize what it meant. He did not only get drunk with his friends, but clearly, he got drunk to live. She knew plenty of people who were the same way, and she knew how it could affect a person.

Not wanting him to hurt himself stepping over the shattered glass, she made her way over to him, "Come on," she coaxed gently, grabbing his arms to help pull him up. It hurt her side to strain so much, but she ignored it, helping him around the couch and toward his room.

"Buh you're sleep' there," he protested.

"I don't want to rolling off the couch and landing in a pile of glass," Marie said with a shake of her head.

Grantaire knew this wasn't how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be taking care of her, but he'd gotten drunk, and now their roles had flipped. He tried not to lean on her much, knowing the pain he must be causing her. However, his eyes focused solely on her as he stumbled toward the room. She was so tiny, but she was capable of so much. She was a gamine, but very beautiful. His drunken thoughts took a turn he wished they wouldn't, but he couldn't stop himself.

He was in awe of her, this Patria. Her strength and resilience. After all, how else would she be able to get by the way she was? Walking around with a bruised face and fractured ribs. She was beautiful, and sweet, and she deserved so much more than that.

He stopped in his tracks, just outside the door to his bedroom, and before he knew what he was doing really, he placed a hand on either side of her face and pressed his lips to hers.

There was a brief moment of shock, where she didn't move at all. She should push him away, she should feel uncomfortable. But his lips, even in their haste, were soft and warm and inviting. She answered the kiss, pressing herself up closer to him, her arms wrapping around his neck out of instinct.

But as soon as it had began, it was over. Grantaire's eyes widened.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" he said quickly, backing up, stumbling only slightly. Apparently, the shock of what he had just done brought him out of his haze at least a bit.

Before Marie could do anything to stop him, he continued to stumble back, back into the living room, she assumed. It seemed wrong to follow him, so witha racing heart and confused mind, she turned and laid back down, not knowing what to make of the situation at all, and still feeling the ghost of his lips on her own.