They depart with less good cheer than hoped, more than feared, and still with a tinge of worry.
Wounds were not exactly expected, but though their possibility was expected, it's evident the Amis cannot be entirely satisfied with the outcome. Even still, there's a growing sense of pleasure born of the pride of success, one that she shares as she watches the Diadem fade from view.
The sky is losing the last traces of azure and rapidly fading to indigos and ultramarines, and she thinks she has enough time to ask Jehan about that particular line from the book of poetry – left behind after the flight attempted by she and Cosette – that he recommended, and which she cannot make heads or tails of, or to spar with Grantaire, if her shoulder scabs over quickly enough, when a hand is laid against the uninjured one. Even there, and with fairly minor pressure, it makes her jump from the sudden pain that crisscrosses across her back.
"Éponine."
She looks into the face of their captain as she turns. He appears tired, and certainly less jubilant that the others, and she sees why as he inclines his head to her shoulder. "You need to take care of that."
"I am perfectly well, you will see," she responds, "and there is no need to worry." This is undermined by an involuntary wince as she finishes her words with an attempt at a shrug, out of reflex.
He raises an eyebrow and gives her a very pointed look, and her mouth turns down. "Your definition of 'perfectly well' and mine appear very different." She begins to shake her head, but he takes a step, and as he does not remove her hand, she is urged to follow. "Joly can see to it."
"No, monsieur, I do not – do not need the help," she argues. Her protests grow in both volume and ferocity when he actually angles them to intercept Joly, deep in conversation with Courfeyrac and Bossuet, and she realizes he's serious.
He does not believe her capable of dealing with it on her own.
He thinks her weak.
But despite her insistence, he will not give, and this is how she now finds herself perched on a table before Joly, with only her bindings to cover her.
She is too angry to be embarrassed by this breach of modesty, if she would have even cared under more normal circumstances – honestly, she's not sure.
There is wine, and little else, to numb the pain if she would accept it, but she will not.
She straightens her back and curls her fingers around the edge of the table and says, "I think you will find I do just well without the help, monsieur."
Joly, thankfully, does not argue with this stubborn statement.
He plucks splinters with practiced hands, pulling out bits of wood broken off in the wound with minimal pain. He dabs at the edges with wet squares of cloth, dampened and redampened in a bowl of water set nearby. Occasionally, he will let it drip down in order to clear it out, and ensure he is not pulling at skin instead of obstructions.
Enjolras remains, and she holds her gaze throughout this. If he thinks her unable to bear it, she will show him otherwise.
Her grip tightens occasionally, but it's nothing she can't handle; it is necessary, and she will hurt far worse later on, and for far longer, if she does not subject herself to this now. This, at least, she would have done on her own. It's when Joly runs a thread through the skin, knitting together the flesh, that she is momentarily unable to remain in silence.
Her response is a high, brief note of pain, and with her gaze still locked on Enjolras, she sees his jaw tighten.
When it is finished and her shoulder is loosely bound, he leaves with a nod and without another word, and she is left to hop from the table and give Joly her own thanks.
She follows along after him once she sees that it is dark enough to require the use of lanterns, and suggests helping prepare food – a repayment of sorts.
He gives her simple tasks, seeming grateful for the help, and so she is free to be lost in her thoughts. She tries to conjure up the words she will say, mixtures of explanations and accusations, and falls short each time.
When all is finished, she steals away only long enough to slip on a chemise, tying its ruined top around her chest – still bound, in the event that it should slip – rather than her shoulders, and calling those she sees on the way back to gather.
She is not quite so distracted as to refrain from eating – a dangerous habit to assume, she learned early to avoid it – but enough that she is a poor conversational partner. This is made worse when, throughout the meal, Enjolras is the only one of the Amis who fails to make an appearance.
So, when she emerges from her thoughts, from trying to puzzle out what she could done for him to think she needed protecting – it really wasn't that terrible of a mistake, was it? She'd mucked plans up worse before – and finds herself nearly alone, she offers both to take a portion to him and to do the cleaning up.
Joly looks about ready to drop from exhaustion. She knows he has been on his feet for the entirety of the day in preparation, and, even after the Diadem, for the entirety of the night; he has been checking over those he can, and has still worried over any injuries he may have missed.
Something to do to show she does not need to be coddled, not by anyone, eases a bit of her frustration, but her walk is still clipped from the kitchens to the captain's cabin.
But when she opens the door, tray balanced on her hip, Enjolras is asleep, his head cradled by scattered papers, and a curl dangerously close to bobbing into an inkwell with each exhalation.
Her exasperation is pierced by a growing sense of fond amusement. She sets the tray to the side atop some papers (no way to avoid that here) as she wonders at how to rouse him.
"Monsieur," she murmurs, and then, when this receives no response, "awake, mon capitaine," This, too, does not succeed, nor does nudging his chair or lightly shaking his shoulder.
She huffs and, still slightly frustrated, hops up to sit on the edge of his desk – an action first taken simply to test the waters of what he would allow, and repeated the many times after because it a surprisingly comfortable position – and, hesitating only a short moment at the proximity reaches to tugs on a curl gently, but enough to, hopefully, be felt.
This, at last, produces a response, and he eases back into consciousness.
Pleased, she beams brightly at him when he raises his head. "Ah, now that's done it."
"Éponine?" His voice still contains a hint of sleep, and she hums her assent. "How long have I–?"
"Long enough that everything's cold now." She inclines her head to the tray, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Though, really, you should eat."
He nods, but makes no move towards it, instead asking, "how is your shoulder?"
She crosses her arms. "Fine. And that was unnecessary." She doesn't have to forgive entirely.
She reaches over to pluck his distinctive red jacket from the back of his chair, toying with the seams as a way to avoid his gaze for a moment as she decides whether she is angry still. She is not, she decides finally, beginning, "but thank you, I suppose. I've been through worse, but I –"
And she cuts off.
When he realizes her silence – and it takes her a moment – he lifts his hands to the sight of her hands wrapped deeply in the fabric of his distinctive red jacket.
"How did it happen, monsieur?" she asks quietly.
There is anger building, anger out of distrust not of her own strength but at what is seeming like his desire to cover up weaknesses. She indicates an area of the coat where the fabric is abruptly parted and faintly colored in tones of rust.
Now that she knows to look, she takes note of what she missed before, and sees that there is indeed a ragged line on his shirt town through, and that seems faintly damp, at that. She frowns. "You are bleeding still, monsieur." She places a hand on her hip, surveying him. "Didn't you check it over properly when you were fixing yourself up?" And then her frown deepens. "Did you even fix yourself up?"
Éponine has her answer in the way he runs a hand tiredly through his curls rather than speaks.
She is scowling now. "You would have me coddled while you suffered?" She tosses the coat aside, uncaring of whether it falls to the floor or finds somewhere better to rest. "I can bear it just as well, you know, and you – you shouldn't – you shouldn't –" She stops there, unsure of where to continue, or even of why, exactly, she is this angry. It's something to be upset about, to be sure, but to this extent?
Of course, even if this wound is not life-threatening, it can have lingering, damaging effects if not taken care of.
He frowns, leaning back from the table, an argument in his eyes before it is in his voice. "Éponine, I am–"
"Fine? Your definition of 'fine' and mine seem to be very different, then," she snaps. "No, if you are hurt, then I will go and get–" She pauses. She cannot, in any semblance of good conscience, go to wake Joly, and yet she cannot let Enjolras just continue to bleed, and as she thinks of her options, she comes to a decision.
Unfortunately, Enjolras is unaware of this. He folds his arms, and lifts an eyebrow, and she has the distinct feeling she is now supposed to be embarrassed about the whole thing. "It's minor; nothing to worry about."
"Enjolras." It's the first time she has addressed him as such, and it startles him, at least enough to give him pause – it startles her, too, but she presses on.
"If you will accept anyone else's help, then – then – then I'll do it for you."
She places her hands on her hips, and hopes that her tone shows she will brook no arguments – or, at least, will argue back just as vehemently. "Now, you hold on just another moment, monsieur, and I'll be right back, I will."
And with that, she is out the door, thinking back to earlier as she looks to find something suitable.
He is leaning against the desk, arms folded, when she returns, and she loops around the desk to stand before him. She purses her lips and, after a moment of deliberation, directs him to sit once more.
"Shouldn't take but a moment," she says, as she settles back on the desk, bowl of water placed carefully at her side, though close enough to actually reach him.
She dabs the cloth in the water, but stops, hovering it just above the wound – wordlessly he tugs up his shirt to allow this – and asks quietly, sending a look up, "how did this happen?"
"They were armed," he says simply, face turned away. She catches the meaning in his voice: 'I should not have allowed myself to be caught unaware.'
She can imagine it now, then. The cut is shallow at his side, but less so as it winds up his stomach. He would have turned in response, and unconsciously shifted to a position that allowed the blade to travel deeper.
She takes idle note of a few, faint freckles as she works, fingers moving slowly, gently, carefully so as not to cause undue pain.
"It's not terribly bad," she comments as she dabs away. Her voice sharpens, even if only slightly. "Still not good to let it sit."
"Which is not what you wished for yours?"
"I would've done the same for mine," she answers cheerily, "even if it didn't need to be stitched up."
She dips the cloth in the bowl, and watches as the water gains a tinge of pink.
Éponine moves closer as she goes, out of necessity. It does not bother her – in fact, she barely even takes note of it – until she reaches the point where the gash turns shallow again and happens to glance up.
She should not have.
For when she does, her eyes meet his, half-lidded and fairly burning with something, and she feels captured, or captivated, or – or any number of words that escape her.
He is something almost unearthly in his sort of beauty, his strength made not from assumptions and, but from quiet confidence, conviction, honesty, and her breath catches in her throat.
Éponine thinks, almost absently, that they are so close, it wouldn't take but the slightest of movements to be rid of even this slight distance. If she would only lean in and give a little push, she would have him for a moment, a moment she has never had, and perhaps another more – despite herself, despite her doubts, she does not think him one to chase after the first woman he laid eyes on once they reach port, nor the second, nor the third – would he chase after her?
And then she blinks violently, startled at herself. Where had that thought come from?
She draws back abruptly, nearly unbalancing herself, and casts her eyes to the floor when she speaks. "Your wounds are mended, monsieur." And sparks not fully buried, embers below the surface incite her to add, "take care not to do anything to make me re-mend them."
And with that, she slips away, unable to do much more than nod to Combeferre on watch, fearing what she would say if she chanced to speak.
That night, Éponine dreams of swirls, of ideas curling past her too quickly to figure them out, swirling softly around her until she cannot tell whether she wants them there or not, wisps fading away into patterns of raindrops, into loopy lettering, into golden curls.
A/N: So… yes. This has been… a chapter. Ha ha. Ha. …leave me alone to wallow.
(But hey look continuity works out pretty well for me with Joly and I am still not proud of this)