Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing, I hope you enjoy the next chapter!

Disclaimer: Still don't own Les Mis.

The knife pressed to her throat was cold like ice, but feeling it there burned hot as fire. She wanted to scream but honestly what would be the point? She wished Grantaire would turn and leave. He shouldn't be mixing himself in things like this – she should have stayed away. She was stupid to think that just because of a few perfect days, her life was going to change. No. It was always going to be the same hell hole she was always stuck in.

Grantaire, however, did not have any intention of leaving.

"Come on now, put it down," Montparnasse coaxed again. "We wouldn't want anything bad to happen to the gamine, would we?"

Marie pressed her lips into a tight line, she could not think of a worse fate than being returned to Brujon. Grantaire simply clenched his jaw, racking his brain for any sort of idea that might save her. Things could not end this way.

Time seemed to have slowed down, and for a moment he caught her eyes. They were wide and dark, as usual, but they were not fearful. That was, perhaps, the most concerning thing. She did not look scared – only sad. She looked as if she had expected this all along. Did she not trust him at all? Or had she stupidly put too much trust in him only for him to let her down, as he let everyone down in the end.

But he could not let it end this way. He refused to let the man take her.

"Fine," he said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Montparnasse smirked this time, pulling Marie tighter against him, the knife pressing into her skin. She whimpered despite all of her attempts to mask her fear, and the man laughed.

Grantaire could not bear seeing her in pain. Slowly, he began to lower the gun. He would only have one shot.

Montparnasse was holding Marie in front of him, but she was quite small in comparison, and there was still plenty of room to hit him. It was not the best plan, but it was the only plan he had at the moment. The knife was pressed hard enough to Marie's neck that small beads of red appeared there. He was squeamish at the sight of blood, but seeing hers made him want to be sick.

As he lowered the weapon, he pulled the trigger. Montparnasse realized too late, as he had intended, and the bullet grazed his shoulder – not much damage, but enough. He let out a yell as Marie fell from his grasp. She fell forward, still slightly drunk and now completely drained.

Montparnasse gripped his shoulder in pain, dropping his knife in the process. Grantaire stood with the gun still held in his hands. He had clearly won.

"You couldn't kill me, boy," said the man – not much older than Grantaire himself. In fact, he seemed just around the same age.

"I don't need to kill, now get out of here."

"You're really going to let me go?" he asked, mocking laughter in his voice. Grantaire could not imagine how he could be laughing in such a powerless situation.

"I almost killed your little girlfriend."

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, holding the gun in front of him.

"I was going to bring her back to Brujon."

Grantaire had to fight not to pull the trigger once more.

"Brujon is quite fond of her, thought I don't know why..." he said with a smirk, "A little street urchin like that. But then again, it doesn't matter in the dark."

Grantaire tried to ignore him as he stepped closer, snatching the knife quickly and helping Marie up, gun still pointed at Montparnasse. Lifting her up was a bit of a struggle due to the fact that he had to keep his eyes trained on Montparnasse the whole time, and the criminal continued to talk all the while, clearly trying to anger Grantaire. What his purpose for that was, he had no idea. Make Grantaire kill him? What would that solve? Or was he so confident in his little games that he knew Grantaire would not?

"It's been quiet without her – no screaming… I almost missed her." Marie's hands clenched into fists, remember what it was like those days when she was stuck in that disgusting flat, thinking she might never escape. It smelled of alcohol and sweat. It was too hot. When she was there the first time, she thought surely she had died and gone to hell.

Sensing her discomfort, and being extremely upset by the conversation as well, Grantaire narrowed his eyes at the man. "Be quiet or I'll shoot you," he threatened. Marie was standing now, leaning against him for support. She seemed to be in a sort of haze that did not seem to be entirely brought on by alcohol.

"No you won't." The statement was matter-of-fact.

Grantaire scowled, backing away with Marie clutched tight to him. They could not go back to his home, now. They could not risk Montparnasse following. The bullet had only grazed his shoulder, so there was not much more damage than a bit of blood.

"You don't have the strength to do it," he said.

"Killing someone does not prove you are strong," Grantaire challenged. In all honesty - he was scared. He hated himself for it, he truly did. For he knew he would kill for Enjolras' revolution. He would kill for that, but he would not kill for Marie? It was simply the timing... He could be arrested, and then where would Marie be? Then, he would not be there to help his friends. He could not let that happen. Letting the rat go was his only option.

"Did you learn that in Philosophy class?" the man teased. Grantaire just continued to back up, lowering the gun as not to draw attention as he stepped out of the shadows.

As Grantaire moved farther and farther away, Montparnasse finally fell silent. Until he shouted what was apparently his last farewell.

"I'll see you agains soon, Bourgeois Boy," he yelled.

Grantaire shuddered as he held Marie close to him as they stumbled back to the café. He hid the gun once more. To anyone walking by, it would probably be assumed that the pair was just drunk.

...

Grantaire was a panicked mess when he arrived back at the Musain, pushing open the door just as Jehan and Joly were on their way out. Combferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras and the girl were still sitting. Marie had not so much as spoken a word the entire walk. She had barely kept up with him, he'd practically had to drag her back. She was nearly limp in his arms, and her head hung. Her eyes stared straight ahead, and despite the slightly cool air, her face was covered in sweat.

Joly's eyes widened first at the blood on Marie's neck, then at the expression on her face. "What happened?"

"Montparnasse... We ran into him and... She's fine but... She won't say anything!" Grantaire was breathing heavily and too panicked to retell the story in detail, but at Montparnasse's name, both Enjolras and the girl stood up quickly.

Joly frowned, sit her down, get her some water," he ordered no one in particular.

It was Éponine who brought the water to the girl, a frown etched on her face as she held the cup out to her. "Drink this, Mademoiselle," she tried. Marie still gave no indication that she even heard what anyone was saying.

"I think she may be in shock," Joly said as he dabbed the irritated skin of her neck with a cloth. She did not even flinch away.

"Marie!" Grantaire begged, taking one of her hands, kneeling on the opposite side of her, across from Éponine, who had a look of such sadness on her face that it almost confused him - she did not even know Marie, but she did seem to know Montparnasse, as Enjolras did as well. Did the same thing happen to her, he wondered? The thought made him sick. How could such a disgusting group of people hold so much power?

Marie didn't know what was happening - everything passed in a sort of blur. She was positive the alcohol had something to do with it, but it was worse than that. Everything was dark, confusing, cold. There was no escape from it - her life. It was destined to be this way forever. She had almost been taken back to Brujon, but Grantaire had risked his life to save her. Montparnasse would be back, and the same thing may happen all over again, though it may not work out this way each time. If Montparnasse did not take Grantaire from her, the Revolution would.

What was the point of trying to be happy, trying to have a normal life, when in the end it would be ruined?

Vaguely, she was aware of Grantaire and Joly crowding her, of the girl she did not know the name of trying to offer her water. She was aware of these things, but she felt as if she were far, far away. She was so scared and so unspeakably sad it felt like a hole had been punched in her chest, as if the knife had not merely broken the skin at her neck but stabbed straight through her chest.

Slowly, everything faded to black.

Judging that it was best not to try and return home that evening, Enjolras insisted that Grantaire and Marie stay with him. Grantaire carried Marie up the stairs and lay her on Enjolras' bed.

"Éponine," Grantaire heard Enjolras speak as he sat on the edge of the bed, holding Marie's hand in his, tracing the skin with his thumb and keeping his eyes focused on her face, hoping she would wake up soon. Joly insisted that she was alright - that the alcohol had merely caused her to black out ("You should be used to that, R!") - but still he could not help but be worried. "You should go sleep on the couch, it is late."

"I'm fine," the young woman answered.

"'Ponine," Grantaire had never heard Enjolras beg before, "Please. This bothers you, I know it does..." His voice was a whisper, but Grantaire could still hear him, after all they were in the same room.

"I can deal with my past, Enj," she told him, "And I can help."

Grantaire finally looked back at the pair then, locking eyes briefly with Éponine before his attention turned to Enjolras. Their expressions matched almost perfectly. The pain of wanting to help but being unable to.

"Let me get her into night clothes," Eponine suggested, practically shooing the two men out of the room.

Once out in the hall, Grantaire stopped. He should walk away, get something to drink, try to calm himself down, but it was nearly impossible. Enjolras seemed to have frozen in his place as well.

The two looked at each other.

Enjolras reached out and placed a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. The marble statue actually showing emotion, empathy. Grantaire would have never seen this coming. However, the two were experiencing much the same thing - the one thing it seemed neither would ever experience. Yet, somehow it had happened.

Love.