TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter does contain abuse, domestic violence, drug withdrawal, and flashbacks. If you're easily triggered, skip over everything in italics. All withdrawl information came from google.
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo.
She flinched before the belt even struck, anticipating the hot flash running across her once more. The man paused when he saw her twitch, a sinister smile creeping along his lips.
"Don't touch the face, Gueulemer, the customers won't like her with a scarred face," her father instructed lazily, reclining in his chair. She could only glare at him, hatred excreting from her every pore.
She crumpled as the leather slapped her shoulder, falling face-first onto the cement floor. Pain pounded through her, the sharp hit dulling to a constant throb drumming through her muscles. As she tried to push herself up, the steel toe of a boot kicked her swiftly in the stomach, forcing her to the ground once more.
She could feel the sticky trail of blood as it oozed down her skin, crawling down the back of her neck. She bit down her lip hard to keep herself from whimpering; she would not cry, she would not groan, she would not scream. She would not give him the satisfaction.
The belt curled around her ribs as it lashed against her once more, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips before she could stop herself.
"You like that sweetheart?" Gueulemer sneered, causing bile to rise in her throat as he winked at her.
"She's off-limits, Gueul. She belongs to Montparnasse now," he father warned, finally raising his eyes to the scene before him.
"Then why you still whorin' her out?"
"You pay for her, you can get her. Until then, I'm giving her to him."
"I am not yours to give," she gagged, her voice thick with blood. Guelemer's boot held her down, shooting blinding flashes of pain through her as he put his weight on her broken ribs.
"Shut up, Éponine," her father barked, diverting her attention to her for only a moment before snapping back to Gueulemer. "You know the arrangement, Gueul. Don't screw it up for me."
He stood up from his chair purposefully, giving Gueulemer a curt nod before exiting the room. She knew what that nod ment.
'Finish it'
Gueulemer sneered down at her, making her shiver with disgust as he raised his arm high above his head, the belt curled menacingly around his fingers…
Éponine bolted upright in her bed as her eyes flew open, heart hammering in her chest. She gripped her hair in her hands as she tried to slow her breathing, her ragged gasps the only sound in the darkness of the house. Before she could stop them, tears began streaming down her cheeks, the taste of salt dripping onto her tongue.
"It's just a dream, 'Ponine," she whispered to herself, roughly wiping away her tears. "It's only a dream."
She flung the covers off herself and stumbled from the bed, clumsily making her way into the kitchen of the safe house. A thin sheen of sweat covered her skin, though she couldn't stop herself from shivering. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to collapse as she clung to the table to keep herself steady, and her head drummed with pain with every breath.
The moonlight filled the room even with the curtains shut as tightly as possible, giving everything a silver glow. She didn't know where she was. They wouldn't tell her. They figured if she didn't know the place, her father wouldn't either, but you can't trust a drug addict to keep a secret. They knew all her father would have to do would be offer her a hit, and she'd tell him everything. As the withdrawal was beginning to grip her, she wondered why she wasn't rushing out to find him now.
The track marks felt like tattoos against her skin, loud and obnoxious, calling to everyone as she walked. She saw the way one of the men had been looking at her, not daring to take his eyes off the marks as he spoke. They said he was a doctor. Maybe that was why he looked at her so pitifully; he knew what she was about to go through for them.
Her fingers shook as she took a mug from the cabinet, letting the ceramic slip from her hands and shatter against the linoleum tiles. The sound pierced her ears like a siren.
You need help, Éponine, a voice in her head nagged. You know withdrawal can be deadly.
Éponine ignored the voice, flopping into a chair as she tried to ignore her nausea. Her hand creeped towards the phone as if it were separate from her, aching to dial the button she knew she needed to.
You can't let them see you weak, she reminded herself as she snapped her hand back, cursing herself.
She had to prove that she could do this. She had to be able to be more than just some junkie nineteen-year-old street urchin. Half of the agents Enjolras worked with didn't think she was worthwhile, and she knew it. She's a risk, a loose cannon, but she also knew she was all they had.
Éponine tried to slowly raise herself from her chair, holding onto the table for support as the room spun around her. The safe house was small, but for her it was a mansion. The kitchen was little more than a wall of appliances, but it was stocked with food and up-to-date. The linoleum was polished, the floors hardwood and well-structured. The family room blended into the kitchen to make one just-bigger-than average room, outfitted with an old but plush sofa that Éponine could be swallowed by, the soft velveteen cover heavenly against her calloused skin. A small television set sat across, small, square, and basic, but it played the small pile of DVDs that had been left for her and kept her occupied. Combeferre had left her with stacks of books from his own personal library, which he left in piles nearly as tall as herself.
Éponine jumped as she heard the bushes outside rustle, adrenaline overriding her dizziness as she rushed to grab a pan to defend herself. She heard the rustling get closer, followed by a thud and the sound of ceramic breaking.
"Oh, shit," muttered the intruder from outside the door. She stepped tentatively towards the door, making her way down the narrow entrance hallway. It wasn't a voice that she recognised, and her faher's men were marginally more competent than to be so loud, but that could hardly be a source of comfort for her.
She flung the door open at the same time he was reaching to push it pen, leaving him to fall down at her feet. Shock overcame instinct and she hesitated to hit, barely stopping the pan was slipping out of her grasp. The cold air rushing in made her pre-existing goosebumps multiply, her hair standing straight up on her neck.
"I'm with the FBI!" the boy promised, fumbling to retrieve his badge. He eagerly shoved it up to her, terror in his eyes. "Please don't hit me."
She grabbed the badge from him, scrutinizing it for forgery. It seemed real.
"Prove it to me," she demanded.
"What?"
"Prove that you're FBI. Something that can't be forged."
The boy looked up at her frantically, racking his brain for information.
"I was told to parol the area," he finally admitted, eyeing her nervously. "Enjolras and Combeferre, they said to keep an eye on you. But I saw that you were awake and then I saw you weren't looking great, holding onto furniture to move and such, so I thought I'd just get closer and make sure you're okay. They had said that if you aren't okay, I should say…oh God, what was it, I can't remember now, but I promise I'm FBI!"
Éponine bit her lip to hide her laughter at his look of pure terror, taking pity on the boy. As the adrenaline faded, nausea was creeping back in and she couldn't stand to stay in the doorway like this. She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside, shutting the door and half-collapsing against it.
"You're very pale," he observed as he pushed himself up. He grimaced after a moment, realising what he had said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," she assured him, a small smile curling around her lips. "I know. They tell you about me?"
"Well…yeah," he admitted sheepishly, trying to gage her reaction.
"Then you know I ain't gonna be pretty for a while," she winked, using the wall to steady herself as she walked back to the kitchen, motioning for him to follow her.
"You really shouldn't have let me in," he said as they walked. "I mean, I'm glad you did, but seeing as I'm supposed to take care of you, I kinda have to criticise you for that."
"No offense, but I know my father's men, and you don't quite make the cut," she teased, fighting to keep the smile on her face as bile rose in her throat. Do not throw up in front of the cute boy do not throw up in front of the cute boy I swear to God Éponine you are so not throwing up in front of a cute boy.
He had the pride to be offended, a small frown replacing his nervous smile. He looked younger than he must have been, with his dark hair flopping into his green-grey eyes. It was only a few shades lighter than Éponine's own ink-black locks, contrasting sharply against his pale skin and red lips.He kinda looks like Montparnasse, Éponine thought. Only…softer.
"So, why didn't I meet you?" she asked him, racking her memory for a glimpse of him through all the boys Enjolras worked with. As hectic as the day had been, she would have remembered someone like him.
"I'm new, he explained. "Just got in today. They actually picked me up like an hour ago, assigned me my first job. Seven hours late to get me and they shove me with a parol immediately."
Éponine tried not to be offended by the comment.
The phone rang before she could further the conversation, the shriek resonating in her ears. Talking to the boy had distracted her from her headache, but the high-pitched chime felt like a pickaxe in her skull.
"What's wrong?" she asked, not bothering with formalities. The only people with the ability to call her were Les Amis.
"Where's Marius?" Enjolras growled from the other end.
"Who?"
"Irritating kid with the bad haircut and freckles," he sighed. "He was supposed to do a quick check up, and he's still not back yet."
"Relax, he's here with me. He nearly killed himself trying to look in my window and I invited him in."
"Are you serious, Éponine? All he was supposed to do was circle the block, not draw attention to yourselves or invite him in. I knew not to trust that kid with anything."
"Hey, this kid isn't any younger than you," she argued, though in truth she had no idea how old either of them were. She turned to Marius and mouth 'sorry', her heart dropping when she noticed he was preparing to leave.
"Tell him I'll be back in ten minutes," he grumbled as he swung his coat around him. "Good night."
"He's on his way back," she muttered half-heartedly, hanging up before Enjolras could say another word. Marius slipped out of her door without a sound, obviously being careful with his every step.
Éponine stumbled her way back to her bedroom after he left, laying on the impossibly soft bed and trying to will herself to sleep. Her head still pounded and her stomach churned menacingly with every breath, but her brain buzzed with just enough energy to stop her eyes from closing. She lay in her misery until dawn, sweat soaking through the thin cotton sheets.
The last words Enjolras had spoken to her when he dropped her off echoed in her ears, the image of him as he spoke burnt behind her eyes.
"I'm trusting you, Éponine. Because you deserve to be trusted. Don't make me regret it."
A/N: Little to no e/e in this one. I'm sorry. I wanted to do an Eponine-centric chapter, and I thought it was a good time to introduce Marius. Yes, this is a more vulnerable side to Eponine, but this story will not become Enjolras-Saves-The-Poor-Girl-Who-Can't-Protect-Her self story. Thank you to the reviewer who pointed about the grammatical errors, I've been experimenting with other tenses in different fics and I've been making a habit of not editing carefully enough in between them. If there are any more spelling errors or grammatical flips, feel free to point them out, I noticed I made some seriously stupid mistakes after I posted it on tumblr (reasons why you don't write while exhausted, kids).
And since I post .001% of what I write on , you can find all my fanfiction writing on tumblr (linked in my profile) and some others on my ao3 (eponinethenardiers)