Thank you so much for all the interest in my story. I hope I do your expectations justice.
Disclaimer: The characters were never mine to lose…
The entire café falls silent when he walks in. Enjolras is late. Even if their revolution doesn't make it into history textbooks, this surely will.
Courfeyrac smirks; Joly won't meet his eye.
Finally, Combeferre speaks up. "It's nearly eleven. We were meant to start half an hour ago, remember? Saturday, ten-thirty in the morning?"
"Yes, I know." He's gritting his teeth as he always does when he's annoyed. Charlotte used to tease him about it, just as he would joke about her habit of digging her nails into her palms in anger. "Ich habe mich mit dem neusten Problem auseinandergestzt und habe die Zeit vergessen…" His German's awful, but it's sufficient for him to slip into whenever he wants to annoy his less fluent friends. Marius is off gallivanting with Cosette, no doubt, and can't translate.
There's a general chorus of "Speak French, idiot." He translates—"I was wrestling with our newest problem and forgot the time"—and the meeting commences.
Dusk is falling when they finish. "Joly—stay a minute," Enjolras says quietly. Something about his clipped words demands obedience.
Joly accepts Enjolras' explanation without question. "I wouldn't think you capable of it, mon ami, and you're safer from diseases this way."
The only response Enjolras can summon is a sort of choked splutter. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "I'm not sure if the bleeding's stopped. I need you to see to her."
…
She's curled up in his armchair, bent over almost double as she studies one of his textbooks. There's a deep crease between her eyes attesting to the thoroughness of her concentration.
A few hours ago, he would have been surprised to know she could read at all. He knows better now. It was her story, tumbling and tearing its way past her lips, that made him late.
He wanted so badly to touch her, her shoulder, her cheek. Bonds formed by words are far too breakable. He wants to tie her to his papered walls and rough-hewn floors, but she's a free spirit and he won't cage a bird just to hear her sing. He can't quite decide if she's more ghost or angel, but either way she's insubstantial, and he's relieved to see she's not yet turned to smoke and shadow again.
Her rueful smile turns polite when she sees Joly, whose exaggerated character makes her strangely ill at ease.
"Eponine, Joly is a medical student…" He stops when he sees her smile vanish.
"You brought a doctor?"
Joly steps forward slowly, palms up. "I'm not a doctor. Yet. I just want to help you."
She is about to protest, but her hand snakes to her ankle of its own accord to touch the fresh blood marring her skin. Her nod looks like a death tremor.
"I'll step out."
…
It's mere minutes before Joly comes out. "She'll be fine, Enjolras, she's been through worse. Just feed her. Keep her clean and hydrated."
He's torn apart, it seems to him, by a mixture of rage and relief, all sharp corners and tearing edges and a phantom warmth cradled in his arms.
He just nods. But the gesture is late, and Joly is gone, filled to the brim with news.
…
By the time he opens his door, he's decided to throw caution to the winds and wrap her in his arms the instant he reenters. But he's greeted by an empty room, a gently waving curtain in front of an open window.
…
He runs after her, but for all his trips to the slums he doesn't know the streets like she does. He's hopelessly lost by the time the stars come out.
Every city is simple until you start to trail your finger down its cracks and discover the worlds in-between and below. Paris is multi-dimensional. He loves it with a fervent and sleepless passion. But he does not understand it, and he never will.
Sometimes it's best to admit defeat. He learned with Charlotte that a girl is not like a country—resilient and able to survive one, two, a thousand deaths because millions more still live. He learned that either you let your iron grip on a love go, or you have her ripped from your hand and get your fingers broken in the process.
He's not quite sure what he would have done if she hadn't chosen that moment to appear.
…
"You came after me," she states simply. Is it wonder in her eyes or just the reflection of a distant star?
"You left."
"I don't like owing people."
"I don't particularly like loving people, either, to tell the truth. Not if they're prone to disappearing." He pauses. "How about you stay with me, and in repayment, you warn me before you leave?"
"Loving," she murmurs.
Never before has he had to regret letting a word slip out.
"Loving," he confirms.
…
She seems afraid of him now, but she walks right beside him, her shoulder almost touching his arm, almost as if she's afraid to let him go.
…
Feed her. Keep her clean and hydrated.
He gives her food and water and watches her dig in, fascinated by the way she eats, the odd delicacy to her quick, bird-like movements, the base elegance that could almost make an ignorant observer believe she hasn't been starving for who-knows-how-long.
He's making her uncomfortable by watching. He knows how to read people, and this one is a strange mix of an enigma and an open book. But her nervousness is clear, as is the way it fades only slightly when he picks up a book.
"You should probably…wash off the blood," he says quietly.
She isn't offended, interestingly enough. "Two baths in two days. A miracle."
Again, he draws the water, and then he goes looking for clothes. He kept many of Charlotte's things in a trunk in his bedroom—a hand mirror, a carved wooden bird, a half-finished piece of embroidery, her favorite books and pens. A brown wool dress that should fit Eponine.
He's imagined her in it from that very first day. But this is the first time he admits it. He wants to take care of her.
He takes all of the clothing from the trunk and heads back to the bathroom, only to stop short.
Her skirt and belt lie discarded on the floor, and she's slipped her arms out of her chemise so that it hangs from her waist. She's standing with her naked back to him, the steam coming from the bathwater a halo around her form, only half-present.
She trails her hands through the water. When she straightens again, droplets hang from each nail like diamonds, and water splatters onto the floor when she turns.
She presses both of her palms against his chest, and the water soaks through his thin shirt. He shivers.
"So warm," she murmurs, and he knows not whether she speaks of him or of the water. "So full of fire," she continues, and he has his answer. "Burn me up, Julien. Turn me to flame. Ethereal and glorious."
What a big vocabulary she has for a street rat, he thinks detachedly.
She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth before translating her request into more mundane language. "Bathe me."
She kisses him, her lips parting slightly, and he's lost—
No. He's home at last.
To be continued. Reviews are welcome.