A/N: So I updated two days in a row... Just clarifying in case you didn't get the chance to read the last chapter and went straight to this one. Thanks for all the support! I loved reading your reviews! Enjoy!

I was so cynical, just inconvincible, nobody seemed worth trusting

But sure enough just when I'd near given up you appeared there among the destruction

Now it's official I've lost my initial suspicions and skepticism
You got me caving in; feeding the craving, I see now what I've been missing

-Kate Voegele, Might Have Been

Éponine was lying horizontally across the mattress, facing the wall opposite the door. She had been told to lay on her side, and she did so, but her face was half-covered by the pillow. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but it was how Marius had left her after cradling her in his lap. That was something Éponine had always wanted, and when it happened, she wasn't sure what to make of it. Because it wasn't real, it wasn't because Marius loved her. It was because he felt sorry for her.

She had told him that she had once thought she might have been in love with him, and his response was shock. Like it hadn't been obvious, the way that she trailed after him the past several months. And then he said he had to go, which was probably for the best.

Maybe a minute after Marius had left, there was a knock on her door. She didn't have the energy to protest, as much as she wanted to. So she remained silent, hoping that once the intruder saw her state they would leave her alone.

"Éponine? Can I come in?" she heard the voice through the door. It was Enjolras.

Still she didn't respond. She heard the door behind her creak open. It was dark enough that the light from outside her room cast an unpleasant beam of light that hit her face. "Are you awake?" he whispered.

"Hmmm."

"Can I come in?"

"Hmmm."

"Is that a yes?"

If Éponine could move from that spot, she would've hit him in the eye. "Come in or get out, just close the effing door."

She heard him enter her room and close the door behind her, and then she saw his shoes at eye level, just a few feet away from her. "Sit down," she said, not because she was being polite but because her mattress was on the floor and she couldn't find the strength to tilt her head and look at his face. She felt no desire to look at his shoes.

"I was actually just coming in here to... nevermind."

He sat down across from her, and she regretted her offer immediately. Because now she could see him, she could see his eyes looking at her. She could count on her hands the number of times he had actually looked at her, and those were usually just glances. But now his eyes weren't moving from hers.

"You look better… than before."

"Come to take pity?" Éponine couldn't help but grumble.

"I would never." Éponine raised her eyebrows, because maybe Enjolras wasn't as clueless about her as she had thought. "I have questions that I need you to answer. First… I want to know… is it okay for me to ask why?"

"Why I used? You think you deserve an explanation?" she defended.

"No, of course not. But I still would like one. Because there's ten people in your living room wondering the same thing. I might not deserve one, but they do."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? "You're angry, aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because with me, you're always angry. When you're not ignoring me."

He looked offended. "I'm not angry at you. I'm furious at the situation, but I'm not angry at you."

Éponine didn't really comprehend the difference. Enjolras scratched his eyebrow, unsure of what to say, and Éponine saw his swollen knuckles. "What happened?"

"You're trying to change the subject."

"No, you just don't want to answer the question."

He sighed. If he wasn't annoyed with her before, he was now. "How are you so argumentative when you're barely awake?"

"Still not answering my question." She was nauseas, irritated, covered in sweat. Worst of all, she felt weak. It didn't help that there were a handful of men she only sort of knew sitting in her living room right now. Enjolras was just lucky she couldn't move her arms.

"Fine. If it's so goddamn important to you, I ran into that guy at the café, the night I walked you home."

"Claquesous? Christ, Enjolras!" She tried to push herself up, but couldn't find the strength. He moved to help her, but she stopped him. She finally managed to at least move so her head and shoulders were against the wall, where she was almost (but not quite) in a sitting position. "He was alone, I assume, or else you'd be in worse shape than me. Did you punch him in the jaw?"

He gave her a How did you know? look.

"Your hand. It's really swollen. You wanna break your hand, you go for the jaw. You want to do some actual damage, you go to for the throat."

He didn't reply, but he gave her another look. "Are you ever going to answer my question?" he said after some time.

Éponine took a deep breath. "Because I could. Because I can't help my sister. Because I thought I was in love with a man who would never be mine."

"You thought?" Enjolras repeated, although she could tell he didn't mean to do so aloud by the expression that followed.

Éponine nodded half-heartedly. "I thought," she confirms. "But maybe I am—was—in love with the idea of him. Something you can relate to, loving ideas."

He furrowed his eyebrows, but otherwise ignored the comment. This wasn't the first time she had tried to disguise an insult as a compliment. He made a mental note to address it later, though, when she might be able to focus on such a discussion. For now, he decided to stick to the topic. "But why Marius?"

"You don't like him, do you?" Éponine said, a bit defensive.

"The boy means well, he's just seems so oblivious."

"He was the first person who saw me as a person, and not as a criminal—or worse, a charity case."

"Éponine, you should know that the guys… and I…" he cleared his throat and started over. "You should know that we consider you a member of Les Amis by now. I know I told you that a few days ago, but I wanted to make sure I'm clear."

Éponine nodded. "You're clear." She decided to focus at a stain on the wall so she didn't have to face him. After a moment, Éponine added, "You don't think I gave up, did you? Because I didn't want to give up. I wanted it to stop hurting. Does that make me weak?" What do you expect, Éponine? For this man to comfort you? Why him? She would later blame this on her ill health, on the convenience of his physical proximity. For the time being, she stared at her dirty feet.

"No one could ever accuse you of being weak, Éponine," he told her. She gave him a sideways glance.

He waited a minute before asking his final question. "Combeferre said you were going to ask me for help, something about your sister?"

"I talked to Combeferre and Joly about it, I never said I was going to ask you for help."

"Why are you so defensive?"

"Why are you so persistent?"

"Éponine—"

"I needed help getting custody of my sister. They said I should ask you, but I didn't want to. I figured you'd just say something like, 'We have a higher cause to serve. We'll fix your personal problems as soon as we overthrow the French government, okay?'" She made her voice go lower as she imitated him, which might have been amusing had she not—perhaps rightfully so—been accusing him of insensitivity.

Enjolras couldn't think of a reasonable way to deny the claim. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry. If there's something I can do now—"

"There's not," she interrupted. "Azelma's gone. She's with my parents. And Montparnasse."

"But isn't he—"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't."

Enjolras stood up. "I should let you rest."

"Enjolras, I have something to tell you," Éponine said, so quickly it sounded like one word.

"What?"

"I… I stole your wallet." Apparently it was a night of confessions for Éponine. Just as well, since she could blame it on her health.

He patted his pockets subconsciously, as if checking for the missing item. "What are you talking about?"

"The day we met. At the school. I tripped, and I grabbed it. I didn't mean too; it was an impulse."

"Earlier, when I punched Claquesous? That was an impulse. You steal wallets and I punch people. What does that say about us?"

Éponine saw a rare grin. It looked rather boyish for such a serious man. "You have a good smile," she said boldly. "You should do it more often."

His face fell to its usual pensive expression. "And you should sleep," he said. As he was turning to leave, she could have sworn she saw his lips curl upward again.