A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reads, favorited, or followed! But I especially appreciate the comments, they have all been so kind! I really love writing this story, so my frequency in posting is completely authentic. Anyway, in regards to the chapter, a little more interaction with Enjolras and Éponine! :-)

CHAPTER FOUR | PENANCE

In a curious circumstance of unexpected luck, Enjolras had been given an additional day to return to Clamart. The head of Le Figaro, Henri Dupont, had found himself in a pickle because of how many stories he had assigned, all of which were worthy of printing except for one – Enjolras'. It was for this reason that he was given extra time to complete it, to retrieve another interview, and to fix what had occurred at the factory the day before.

Not that he had any real desire to go back.

It all felt very familiar to him, though; parking his car, showing his pass to the security guard outside the mill, entering the premises, and making his way up to the office of Louis Aimè. He was yet again granted permission to use the mill as he liked, but was jokingly warned to not go making habits of snooping. At least, he thought it was a joke.

Enjolras arrived at the bottom floor once again, the metallic smell hanging in the air so thick he could taste it. He tipped his head to the guards, who smiled at him and nodded, remembering. Beliveau did not accompany him this trip, as he had partially assumed would be the case due to his his previously showcased chauffeuring skills.

Just get an interview and be done with it, he thought rationally. You can be out of here in a half an hour if you can get some decent material.

The floor of the mill seemed dirtier today, which was littered with scraps of metal, grime, and spilled liquid (he assumed this to be chemicals, and so avoided stepping in with utmost concern). People still met his gaze as he passed, but they didn't seem as aggressive today. Perhaps this was because they had seen him before and knew that he was not a threat – at least, that's what he hoped they thought of him.

"Make way!" someone called loudly, to which Enjolras spun around instinctively on his heel to see what all the commotion was. A large man carrying an equally large, steaming, metal bin came barreling down the aisle as though he were headed straight at Enjolras.

Immediately, he leapt out of the way, knocking into someone in the process while narrowly avoiding being hit with whatever hot matter was being held in the basin. He sighed gratefully, regained his composure, straightened his crimson tweed jacket, and turned back around to apologize to whomever he had knocked into.

But as soon as his eyes caught hers, his stomach began turning to knots.

"You again," she said, narrowing her eyes.

He swallowed hard, thinking exasperatedly, Why am I so intimidated by this girl? "Sorry for bumping into you," he sputtered, then inwardly kicked himself for acting like a scared little schoolboy in front of her.

"No need to apologize," she spat. "We wouldn't want to dirty poor Monsieur's lovely jacket, would we?"

Enjolras pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a habit of his that he had picked up years ago. He coughed into his hand, feeling suddenly embarrassed to wear anything remotely nice in front of the girl who still wore the same dirty old shirt underneath her smock.

When he said nothing in return, she shook her head in annoyance and turned back around to begin her work again.

Suddenly, the words came, and as though compelled by their immediacy, he reached out for her upper arm and grabbed it. The girl, who had clearly not been expecting it, yanked away from him and looked up with hostility ablaze in her eyes. But there was something else there, too – fear?

The men standing around her at the station looked up at him, that same anger in their own eyes.

He raised his hands up to his chest in acquiescence. "I don't mean any harm," he started again. "I wanted to apologize for the other day. If I made you feel-"

"You didn't make me feel anything," she said. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I just meant," he pressed on, "that I know I don't know you. I don't know anything about you, and you certainly don't have to show me any sort of kindness. I don't need it, and I don't expect it." He looked to her, taking note of the way she stared off in the distance, the gears in her mind turning. The pause he took was long enough for her to snap out of it and meet his gaze once again. "Again, I apologize for any offense, Mademoiselle." He tipped his head to her and turned around, leaving on what he thought to be a good note.

This is the second time Enjolras thought to be free of this girl who he knew nothing of and did not much care for – but, yet again, she stopped him in his tracks.

"You apologize far too much," she called out simply.

He haulted, slowly turned around, and examined her carefully. Her dirty fingers were laced together at her chest and one foot was pointed at the floor. Something about her suddenly seemed different; her stance, her voice, the way she looked. Enjolras had to shake his head and remind himself that this girl was the same girl who had shoved him the day before, who had fought against the security guard, and who had spat angry words at him before coercing him to leave the mill.

There was something about her that intrigued him.

Before he could stop himself, Enjolras took a step back toward her and pulled the tape recorder out from his bag.

"Would you mind?" he asked.

A look appeared on her face similar to one he had seen before – the same expression that dashed across the face of Jérôme Reynaud, the worker he had previously interviewed in the stairwell. A familiar sinking feeling ached inside of him for no apparent reason, as if knowing by that one small flash of a look that she would not agree to an interview.

But, yet again, she surprised him.

With a tight smile, she took a step toward him. "Okay."

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They were alone in the stairwell. Enjolras was equipped with his tape recorder, which he had made sure was not left on through some accident or fluke of judgement. The girl, who seemed paler in the clear light of the stairwell, sat on the steps with her arms folded atop her knees, bunched up to her chest.

Enjolras was not sure whether to stand or sit down as well, so after a moment, he sat down. She didn't look at him strangely, so he assumed this was the right choice.

"Are you ready?" he asked lightly.

She nodded, still not looking at him. Enjolras decided that it was now or never, so he clicked the button indicating a small red circle and took a deep breath.

"Let's start with your name," he said objectively, extending the recording device toward her to get a better sound quality.

She cleared her throat, then leaned toward the recorder uncertainly; it was clear to Enjolras that she might have been a little nervous and even a bit confused. No one had ever asked her for an interview before – or anyone at all like her, as it were.

"Éponine," she said sharply. The word came out both familiar and foreign in her mouth, as though she had spoken it a thousand times but still didn't know if it belonged to her. "Éponine Thénardier."

"Alright, Éponine," he said slowly, as if she might be offended by him calling her by her first name. She didn't seem to appear any sort of way, so he continued. "How did you find yourself here?"

She straightened her shoulders, speaking with much more certainty this time. "I was referred to the job by a friend of the family. They clipped an advertisement out of the paper and told me I should inquire about it. We needed the money, so it only made sense." Pause. "Neither of my parents have proper jobs, so I wanted to start out right."

What does she mean by 'proper'? he wanted to ask, but fought the urge.

Instead, he opted for a bit of small talk – even if it wasn't really his style. Maybe she liked small talk. "You pulled the ad from the paper? If it was in Le Figaro, I might have been the one to place it. I worked in advertising for a bit."

She shrugged. "Cool."

Oh-kay. Guess small talk isn't really her style, either.

So he tried veering off onto a different approach, refocusing. "What do you do in the factory? What is your position, your job?"

"I work with the chemicals," she said. Her voice was a little shaky, and she kept looking back down at the recording device as though it were about to bite her. She went on to talk about the process of adding certain alloying elements to the compound so that it would strengthen the steel enough to be formed into sharp sheets. "It is one of the easier jobs at the mill, although it might not be..." she trailed off, her eyes suddenly very alert and wiry. She coughed and forgot to finish her sentence, looking anywhere but to him.

"'Might not be,' what?" Enjolras asked.

"It's nothing, Monsieur," she replied. "Let's talk about something else."

He stopped, looking down at the recording device and then back up at her. "Is it this?" he asked quietly, holding it up just a little. "If I turn it off, would you be able to say it better?"

"You can't use it if it's not on the tape," she said, aggravated. "Keep recording."

He complied and did not flick it off. Éponine was still a bundle of nerves, which she tried very hard to mask but it was nearly impossible for her to keep a constant straight face. She kept fidgeting and looking at the small box with contempt.

"Could you tell me about your family?" he started again.

She snarled. "Why do you want to know about my family?"

"It is just for the paper, Mademoiselle," he replied simply, but in the knotting sensation in his stomach, he could tell that he had lied; a part of him wanted to know, too, and not just the reporter version of himself that he tried to carry into the factory.

Sitting there beside her, he was simply a curious man – nothing more.

When she was silent, he sighed and turned off the tape. Almost instantly, she turned to him, angry and confused. "Turn it back on," she said. "Ask me something else."

"It won't help," he told her, not sure as to why he was being so openly honest about it with her. "It isn't your fault, but I can see that you are not well because of it."

She stood immediately at the finality of his words. "You are unfair," she shouted, but only because there were no security guards in the stairwell to hear her. "Talk of interviewing me, apologizing even – and why did I listen? Why did I agree?"

Enjolras had not realized how much this interview was affecting her; she was furious – not at him, but at herself – because she could not control herself long enough to talk rationally. At this thought, he too stood, facing her at above her eye level.

He nearly reached out to her again, but thought better of it when remembering how last time went. "You are not at fault here – perhaps another day-"

"There won't be another day," she hissed. "We both know that."

"There could be," he said. "It may not get published, but there will always be another day."

Her voice rose, throwing her hands up in the air. "Well, then what's the point? And, even if I told you, you'd probably just change what I say in the paper. Even if I told you what was happening, you'd just ignore it and write about how grand this place is for opening its doors to the rats of France like it's some sort of charity! This is not a goddamn charity, okay?"

How easy Éponine could snap, growling and lashing out and trying to scare him. Like some sort of wolf, she protected herself and those she knew, and because he was an intruder, he could not be trusted.

But he had seen that fear inside of her before, so he knew it was there. This made him ready for it.

"You don't need to be afraid," he said quietly.

She was quiet, too, folding her arms across her chest defensively. "How do you know? How could you know if I should be afraid?"

It suddenly dawned on him that this girl was beginning to crack. He had seen all sides of her – from the day before, in her jokes and anger and frustration, and then today in the way she showed her fear.

Enjolras was impartial. He was stoic, he was objective, and he was marble; there wasn't a part of him that felt cracked, blemished, or attached to anything besides his work. Still, there was something about this girl – not in the feeling of butterflies or hopeful, budding romances, as he simply did not have time for women and, besides, he would make a terrible swain.

But there was certainly something there when it came to this girl, who was equal parts confusing and infuriating.

"Éponine," he said, tasting her name on his tongue as he said it, for the first time really hearing it. It tasted sweet and bitter, all at once. And, as he said her name, she looked up to him with wide brown eyes shaped like two little almonds. They were glassy, and a thought crossed his mind that she might start to cry. "Listen, if there is something going on here that needs to be accounted for, I want you to not hesitate in contacting me."

So this is it, he thought, stopping to think after already having spoken.

Éponine didn't say a word. Her face was rigid, but it was so rigid that Enjolras felt it forced.

He stuck a hand into his bag and pulled out a small white card with tiny black font on it. On it was a name and number – his – and it was as straightforward as business cards came.

"Take this," he said, holding it out to her. "I am still interested in an interview, but perhaps at a time when you are well."

"I am well now," she said. Her voice shook again. Looking straight at him, she took the card in both hands and ripped it straight down the middle, then flung both halves onto the floor. "You're a terrible reporter." The words stung with conviction, and with one final look, she left the stairwell.

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Enjolras obtained two more interviews before returning to Le Figaro to finish his story. It was everything he thought it would be – a story of redemption, a town with gutters full of poor and broken people that had a place to go for work – and was praised by Dupont for his hard work and extra trouble he took to make the piece what it was.

But even though he should have been happy, over-the-moon, or even joyful, he wasn't completely. It was then he realized that there is more than being either happy or sad, because he certainly wasn't sad, but he wasn't happy, either. He felt halfway there, in between joy and darkness.

He couldn't shake those glassy eyes from his mind.

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Éponine worked the rest of the day, fury on her face for the first few hours before easing into a strange emptiness. The bell sounded that it was the end of the day and the hoards of people flinging off smocks and rushing to the exists began once again.

But this time, she was not as eager to leave. Instead, she stalled at her post, taking her apron off slowly, thinking hard as she did so. She looked across the crowd of people, then looked back to the door at the base of the stairwell where that boy – whose name she still did not know – had taken her earlier in a failed attempt at an interview.

She balled up her fists, that lingering fury taking over her for an instant. But after a minute had passed, she released her hands and let them fall to her sides in defeat.

Before anyone could stop her, she was heading toward the stairwell. She looked around before opening the door and closing it tightly behind her.

The card was still there, in two pieces on the floor with bent edges.

Sighing, Éponine bent down and picked it up, holding both halves with sad and careful hands. She evened them out so that they appeared whole again.

"Enjolras," she murmured aloud.