(AN – Hi all, sorry again for the delay, things are just hectic here. Hope this chapter makes up for it. Also for those of you who asked about it my Tumblr a link is now in my profile.)

Chapter 17 – Discoveries

Joly grimaced, looking at the palms of his hands. Moments before, they had broken his fall when two prison guards had thrown him none too gently back into his cell. His hands were now grazed and covered in dirt, and he mentally listed the different kinds of infections he could get from his scratches.

The metal door of his cell slammed behind him, and Joly kept his gaze focused on his hands as he listened to the guards' retreating footsteps. He heard another door slam in the distance and risked a peek over his shoulder. The guards definitely out of eyesight, Joly finally allowed the triumphant grin he had been holding in to spread across his face, although he regretted it slightly as it caused his newly swollen eye to sting.

Now he finally understood why they had been interrogating him so thoroughly for the past week. They had let slip that the bodies of an old man and two students had been unaccounted for. There was only one old man at the barricade, the strange Monsieur Fauchelevent, and Joly was glad to hear he had survived. The thought, however, that truly gladdened him was that of the two missing students. Although he had no idea which two they were, the very fact that two of his friends were alive, when he had spent the last week thinking that he was the only one left, was an unprecedented delight.

"My friends," he muttered to himself, "hopefully you have had the common sense to get out of Paris." Joly had refused to give out any of the names of his friends when he had believed them dead. Now, he realised, he had been protecting more than just their memories—he had been protecting their lives.

Joly had resigned himself to the fate was in store for him. They planned to make an example of him, to portray him as the leader in order to put others off of following in 'his' footsteps. His natural inclination to worry had not left him during his time in captivity. He had barely slept the past week, stressing over the unsanitary conditions in which he was kept. Several times, he had asked for a mirror so he could examine his tongue, but he had been refused. So the fact that he was certain he would shortly be executed was a blessing in disguise, really. It would be quick, at least, in comparison to one of the many illnesses he was certain would take him anyway if he stayed there much longer. On top of that, he would wear their accusations like a badge of honour—proud that anyone could believe he was as fearless and brave as Enjolras, who had truly led the revolution.

His only hope was that Musichetta would never know—that she would live out her days believing he died at the barricade. If she knew—if she came to visit him or in anyway associated herself with him—then she would be made to share his disgrace, and he could not bear that. He loved Musichetta wholeheartedly, he wished he had told her more often, and his only prayer until today had been that she would forget him and find someone else to have a family with and be as happy as she deserved. He would pray for this and he would also pray for his two friends.

Joly looked up, snapping out of his thoughts, to see a different guard at his door. He was a young man, perhaps only a year or two older than Joly himself, who—although he would never admit it—held similar sympathies to the young revolutionary and showed him kindness when he thought no one else was looking.

"Come along Monsieur, it's time to go," the guard said.

"Another interrogation? I have told them I know nothing. I joined the barricade on a whim that morning and do not know anything of the other men there."

The young guard shook his head, knowing that Joly was lying. "No Monsieur, no more interrogations. It is time for your trial."

~X~

Eponine rushed through the streets, weaving in and out of the crowds as she had used to, although today her hurry was due to her reluctance to leave Enjolras alone for too long.

Her mind kept replaying the moment Enjolras had kissed her hand. It had taken her by surprise; he had never been one for affectionate gestures, even when they were young. She supposed, though, they were currently in slightly extraordinary circumstances.

She found herself unable to supress the giggle that bubbled through her at the thought. Her laugh was instantly snatched away by the image of Marius's broken body abandoned on the barricade. You are selfish, Eponine Thenardier, she mentally reprimanded herself, how can you be laughing? Have you forgotten Marius, who died loving you?

Eponine's eyes were cast to the floor in self-reproach, and she did not see the man in her path until she crashed into him.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, reaching out with one arm to steady her.

Eponine's jaw hung slack as she stared at the man who blushed under her scrutiny, and she quickly decided to hurry on.

No one had ever apologised to her before, she realised. In Musichetta's hand me down dress, she must have looked like a grisette and not a gamine. What a strange turn of events, she thought, as she continued on with her task.

She entered Enjolras's flat and was hit by the smell of paper and wood mixed with faint hints of soap. Stepping into the room, she found it untidy enough to prove it belonged to a bachelor. Books and papers were strewn across every available surface. She tutted to herself, wondering if her serious boy had ever spent five minutes of his life not working. Somehow she doubted it.

She ran her fingertips along a bookshelf that was situated above a desk. Most of the titles were beyond her comprehension. Her fingers stopped as she noticed one with words she recognised: 'Epponina et Sabinus.' The discovery spread a warmth through her chilled heart. He must have forgiven her at some point and to some extent to have purchased this book.

This time allowing the faint smile on her lips to linger, Eponine began stuffing Enjolras's listed items into the portmanteau she had brought with her. On impulse she grabbed a couple of books from his shelf, including Epponina et Sabinus, and some papers from his desk before securely closing the Portmanteau. Perhaps if Enjolras had something to spend his time on, he would return to his old self.

She made for the door but paused and looked around once more. Seeing a discarded letter on the side, she grabbed it and stuffed it into her pocket to give to him also.

Her task completed, she was once again on the Parisian streets moving as quickly as she could, the portmanteau stuffed under her good arm. The late June sun was warm and she felt a few beads of sweat develop on her brow. She hurried her steps, longing to return to the cool shade of Musichetta's flat, when a figure in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Eponine had spent most of her adult life on the streets. She knew when she was being followed. She also knew how to lose someone.

She dove into the centre of the crowds of people, blessing her small size for once—she made sure that she changed directions several times. By the time she reached the quieter streets near Musichetta's, she felt certain she had lost her follower, until he stepped out in front of her.

"Eponine," he leered, his cold grey eyes looking her up and down. "What is going on here?"

"Montparnasse," she spat.

He grabbed her wrist, and she tried not to wince as it jolted her bad shoulder. Surprisingly, Montparnasse looked vaguely concerned. "You're hurt." He let go of her and Eponine took a few steps backwards, putting distance between them.

"Your father has been looking for you," Montparnasse sneered, the coldness returning to his eyes. "He was worried."

"I doubt that."

"Well, I was. I feared the worst after that rebellion. I knew that you were always mooning about after those students. I thought you might have done something foolish and gotten yourself killed."

"I am as you see me," Eponine said plainly.

"And I am glad of it. Now, you must return with me," he commanded.

"No."

"Excuse me?" he demanded.

"I am staying with a friend at the moment. He is… unwell. I cannot leave him."

"Him? So that is why you have dressed yourself up so fine. I'm not good enough for you, then, am I? Decided to go behind my back and get yourself a fancy Bourgeois to look after you?"

Eponine stepped away as he advanced toward her threateningly. "Calm down, 'Parnasse," she said, attempted to sooth him in hopes that she could make a clean get away, "there is nothing untoward going on. I am just helping out an old friend who needs me."

"I need you, 'Ponine. What about me? Do you have any idea what I had to go through in order to buy you from the Patron-Minette? I own you, Eponine. I bought you with blood."

His words sent a chill down Eponine's spine in spite of the hot weather. She turned on her heel to make a quick exit, leaving the injured Montparnasse behind her.

"If you don't care about me more than your friend, what about Azelma, then?"

Eponine froze in her tracks, and Montparnasse grinned triumphantly. He knew exactly what buttons to press when it came to Eponine and her conscience.

"She's in jail because of you."

Eponine turned slowly round to face him, watching the smug smirk that spread wider across his face. "She's where?"

"She's in jail. You weren't there to be look out, and your father decided to use her. Turns out she was useless. Nearly got us all caught..."

Eponine did not listen; she was running in a direction she unfortunately knew far too well. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she thought of a thousand things at once. The last thing she heard was Montparnasse's taunting remark.

"Run all you like Eponine, you won't get her out without my help. You know where I am when you need me, and you will need me! You can't escape me 'Ponine—we belong to each other."

~X~

Soon after Eponine had left, Enjolras retreated back to his room. He had heard Musichetta return from work, and he wondered if he should perhaps inform her of Eponine's whereabouts, but he felt uncomfortable to be left on his own with her. With the exception of his mother and Eponine, he was always uncomfortable around women, having not really interacted with any but those two since his childhood. Ironically, considering how well he spoke publicly, he did not naturally possess the ability for small talk with women, and always seemed to fail at the kind of delicate speech he had often witnessed Courfeyrac use to charm ladies.

Enjolras made up his mind to stay in his room; Musichetta did not sound like she was too worried by Eponine's absence. He could hear the faint clinking of pots and pans accompanied by the girl's own soft humming as she prepared their tea.

Perhaps Enjolras was projecting his own emotions onto Musichetta and expecting her to feel them also. The length of time Eponine had been absent had begun to worry him half an hour ago. His list was not a long one—he had not expected her to be absent for over an hour, and it had already been two. He consulted his fob watch for the third time in the last five minutes; he would give her another half-hour before he went looking for her.

However, before ten minutes had passed, Enjolras was drawn from his reflection by Musichetta's cry and the sound of a pan crashing to the floor. He was across his room in two firm strides. As he reached down to grab the door handle, he heard the reason for the commotion.

"Eponine. Eponine, calm down. What's wrong?" came Musichetta's worried voice.

The words caused him to pull the door open with such force that it crashed against the wall behind him. The resulting bang alerted the two girls to his presence. Their startled eyes focused on him as each remained frozen in position. The pan in which Musichetta had been preparing broth lay where it had fallen, its contents spilt across the floor and up the skirts and apron of her dress. She scarcely seemed to notice as she stood with her arm around Eponine's shoulders. Eponine's own dress was similarly ruined. It was splattered with mud, and he may have wondered how it got there if it was not so obvious that she must have been running and splashed through puddles in her haste. Her cheeks were severely flushed and her chest heaved in breathlessness. Her hair, which had been pinned up when she left, was now hanging wildly in all directions.

He approached her, quickly removing the portmanteau that she still clutched tightly in her arms. Musichetta guided her to the sofa and sat beside her.

"Oh, Musichetta... however shall I tell you!" Eponine cried in obvious distress, her breath hitching in her throat.

Enjolras crouched on the floor in front of her so that his face was at her eye level. "Take a deep breath," he commanded, holding her gaze, careful to hide the concern from his own face as she took deep breaths as he had instructed.

"What happened? Who upset you?" he asked in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

"I... he... I was—Azelma! Oh God I forgot all about Azelma!" Eponine cried, breaking her gaze away from his.

"It's ok," he reassured, coaxing her brown eyes back to his. He saw some of the tension release from her face. "Just start at the beginning."

He didn't allow his eye contact to drop away from hers as she informed him what had happened. He saw the way she hesitated before saying she had bumped into a 'friend'.

"Montparnasse informed me that my sister had been caught being look out for my father and was now in prison."

Musichetta rubbed Eponine's arm reassuringly as Enjolras frowned. He knew that name—he was sure of it. Wasn't he the one that had made him jealous all those years ago?

"...So I rushed there as fast as I could," Eponine continued, "but, I suppose your clothes must make me look respectable, Musichetta, because the guard wouldn't let me in. He said that if I wished to lodge a complaint about my sister being in there, I must lodge it with a magistrat at the Court. So, naturally that is where I went next—only, before I could speak to anyone, I saw... and I forgot all about poor Azelma... because..."

"What was it?" Musichetta asked. Eponine looked away from Enjolras for the first time since she had started telling the story and looked at the girl beside her.

"It was Joly," she whispered. "They have Joly."

(AN2 – I just want to give a quick shout for Calisgirld99's story Crimson - it's such a good and a very different take on E&E can't recommend it enough!)