I own nothing.

As if from far away, he hears the front door open—Valjean returning from one of his endless walks, no doubt. Julien is prepared to ignore the sound, but Eponine breaks away from him, flushing. She's smiling, though, if faintly. The watch looks so right cradled in her hand. He glances down at its polished face and curses quietly.

"I'm expected back at the café in thirty minutes. I'll come back tonight, all right? I promise."

"Can I come with you?"

"No," he says sharply, and she flinches away. He remembers her history of being a victim of violence, remembers what she told him about being her father's daughter, and abruptly hates himself.

"It's no place for a pregnant woman," he explains, more gently this time. "And I need to focus."

She gnaws at her lip. "Your revolution…"

"Yes?"

She seems to be struggling with what she wants to say. "You might risk your life for an ideal, but my people won't. And you can't defeat an army of thousands with fifty men and a pile of furniture."

"I don't want to hear this."

"You have to!"

"No, I don't. We've spent months planning this, Eponine, we can't fail now."

She reaches out and grabs his wrist. I don't want to lose you, not now that I've finally been found, she wants to say. What comes out instead is "You can't free a people who don't want to be freed."

…

Once Julien has left with a few polite words for Valjean and a smile for the young lady of the house, Cosette rushes into the kitchen and throws her arms around her friend. Eponine shrinks away from her exuberance.

"Congratulations!" Cosette beams.

"Eavesdropping is rude."

Cosette sniffs. "I was coming in to check on the bread, which you seem to have completely forgotten."

"Sure you were," Eponine tosses back, rolling her eyes. Cosette ties an apron around herself and plunges her arms into the abandoned dough.

"So let me see what he gave you," Cosette singsongs, still smiling.

"Cosette!"

"What? I wasn't spying, I swear! He must have given you something. What is it?"

Eponine grunts in defeat. "A lady's watch," she says, showing it to her, then quickly tucking it into the pocket of her borrowed dress as Cosette's father appears in the doorway.

"Everything all right, ladies?" he asks. Eponine has come to love his gentle smile.

"Fine." Cosette smiles sweetly, barely holding in her grin. "How was your walk, Papa?"

"Lovely. The weather is perfect in June."

"Yes, Father." Cosette is practically bouncing in place as she waits for her father to leave. Once he does, she bursts out with "We have to talk about the wedding!"

"On day one of the engagement? Can we take things a little more slowly? Concentrate on getting through the barricades first and all?"

Cosette goes white. "The barricades?"

Eponine glances up. "Didn't you know?"

Mutely, Cosette shakes her head, still deadly pale. "When?" Her voice is no more than a whisper.

"Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"I most certainly will not…"

"Cosette. We were talking about the wedding." Eponine jerks her head towards the kitchen doorway. The walls of the Fauchelevent home are thin, and Cosette's rising voice will scare her father. "I was thinking in autumn. I don't like the summer…"

…

The setting sun, trailing through the west-facing windows of the guest bedroom Eponine has spent weeks in, finds Eponine pretending to brush her hair while really waiting for a knock at the door. Enjolras promised he would return. She believes him the way she has never believed anyone since early childhood.

It comes as quite a shock when she hears scratching at the window. She stumbles back, her mind instantly going to her hated father and his fearful gang. But it's Enjolras, tapping on the windowpane.

She throws open the window and helps him climb inside, grateful that the house is only one story and that the overgrown garden keeps him hidden.

"Couldn't you have just come through the door?"

"And alerted Monsieur Fauchelevent that I'm visiting you after hours? No."

She smiles. "How did it go today?"

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his tangled curls. "Let's not talk politics."

"I wasn't! I asked how your day was."

"My day is politics. Come here." He sits down on the edge of her bed and pulls her down beside him. "I assume Cosette has already planned every detail of the wedding?"

The sound she makes is something between an indulgent laugh and an irritated groan. "Can you tell her to back off a bit?"

"On the contrary, I'm quite partial to the idea of her doing all the work. Has she decided on a date yet?"

Her smile widens at his eagerness. "I told her I want to wait until late autumn. I don't like the heat."

"And that would give me time to recover from any injuries."

She jumps to her feet, and he stands with her. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that."

"Then stop me," he whispers into her ear. Once again, he's the one to initiate their kiss, but from then on, she takes the lead, guiding his uncertain hands over her newly developed curves before leading his fingers to the row of buttons down her back. Those are easily taken care of, but he's forced to let out a frustrated groan after struggling for several minutes with the laces of her corset.

"I will never understand women or why they insist on wearing these infernal devices," he mutters around her lips. He can almost taste the bread she baked earlier.

"Honestly, I couldn't agree more," she gasps, tearing through the laces herself. Still hesitant, he slips her chemise from her shoulders and runs his fingers along her collarbones, still too defined to be healthy. He's strangely fascinated by the texture of the scar tissue scattered across her skin, raised, rough, and slightly pale compared to the rest of her skin. He presses a kiss to what must be an old knife wound, and her breathing goes ragged.

She slips her hands under his shirt, and the shock of her cold fingers against his skin makes him start. He steps away from her. "We should wait until after the wedding. But I don't know if I'll get another chance to do this."

"I thought I told you not to talk that way."

"I thought I told you to stop me."

She complies.

...

It's past midnight when he fights his way out of a deep, dreamless sleep and is greeted by the sight of her naked limbs, silver in the moonlight, splayed across the bed. Her head is resting against his chest, her hair trailing across his body.

He stares at the subtle rise and fall of her chest for a long time, fixated by the way her eyelashes flutter in her sleep. She's cold, and draws instinctively closer to his body heat, so he gently ties her chemise onto her slim body and wraps the blankets around her.

The window squeaks when he opens it, but she doesn't stir.

…

Eponine is woken all too quickly by the sound of the bedroom door slamming against the wall. Cosette, pale as death and dressed in white, looks like a ghost framed against the doorway.

"They're gone," she cries. "And we're locked in."

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