A/N: Thank you everyone so much for your support on this story! The way I have it planned, it will be very long. Trust me, the exposition will eventually reveal itself! There's just some build-up to it before you find out exactly what happened to Enjolras and what is currently happening to Eponine. Also, my apologies for the late update, life has been hectic lately.

CHAPER FIVE | ZIPPERED SHUT

Enjolras was up early the next morning, a pot of coffee brewed and steaming the thick, black scent through the warm apartment air. He didn't much care for creamer; if it was strongest without any additives, that was his method of choice.

His desk in the corner of his bedroom faced a single window which let in copious amounts of light. He had his glasses on, but in the haze of morning drowsiness, they had fallen down the bridge of his nose.

Both hands were on the keys – typewriter keys – and they played a melody. Click, clack, click-click-click ding! And then came the sound of the platen's round scroll being zipped back to place with a flick of Enjolras' nimble fingers. Tiny black words changed to long lines, filling the muted, white page. These lines transformed to paragraphs, to rows upon rows of lines that all looked similar altogether but different on their own.

He had been up since four o'clock with that strange longing feeling – but for what he wasn't sure – and a terrible case of anxiety about the predominate, looming future. So he did the only thing he knew he could do at a time like that: made some coffee, watched as snow drifted down upon the city from his second-floor balcony, and wrote.

This writing wasn't for the paper, although he had been assigned a new assignment about petty celebrity gossip. Maybe it was because of the content of his new story that he felt the need to escape its horridness for something of more weight. This new story he wrote was the same as his paper for the paper, but it was full of more truth; the veiled threat of guards armed with clubs standing watch over those in the factory, the scar on the hand of Jérôme Reynaud, and Éponine Thénardier's curious way of dodging his questions. Their secrecy when commenting on how the steel mill was run both perplexed him and shocked him. Could something actually be going on there that no one knew about? And, if there was, no one would know unless you forced it out of someone.

He sighed, his furiously fast fingers finally pausing on the keys. There was no use. What is the good in an essay about nothing more than a theory? A hunch? Enjolras thought.

After a few minutes of staring off into the distance, sleep calling out for him once again, he stood from his chair before taking a long swig of the dark, caffeinated drink.

Wake up, he thought to his physical self. Open your eyes.

xxxxxxxxxx

Everything felt heavy – the air, his footsteps, and the paper in his hand. The name of the paper was printed on the front in large scrawling font, familiar to all those who inhabited Paris. But it felt strangely unfamiliar to him today, because although his own words graced the pages, a gut instinct told him those words were false.

The guard at the front gate didn't ask him for his pass this time. It was almost like they had become friends; the man lifted his chin to Enjolras, to which Enjolras tilted his in return. A sign of acceptance among men.

His feet hurdled up the steps, already anxious to get out of there. It was past seven o'clock, and he wasn't even sure Dupont would be there or not. All Enjolras knew was that he needed to drop of the paper, fulfill the man of his word, and get out; his chest felt as though it were dragging across the floor, weighty and full of something... A strange guilt.

"Bonsoir," a woman sitting at a desk near his office called to him. He stopped, looked at her, and waited to hear the words he could already see forming in her eyes. "Monsieur Dupont has just left for the evening. Did you have something for him?"

She already knew what he would say, too. Her eyes were fixed on the newspaper in his hand, knowing.

"Just this," Enjolras said shortly. "My story, about Les Aciers de l'Aimè. It was printed in Le Figaro, I just came to drop it off."

Holding her hand out, she made no move to get up from the desk. Enjolras decided then that he didn't much care for this secretary.

Grudgingly, he dropped the paper in her hand, bid a quick farewell, and started back down the stairs. Sunset had long-since past, and the darkness of evening reflected in the windows of the fluorescent-lit hall, almost like it wasn't nighttime yet, a simple illusion.

Leaving was easy. He hadn't had to meet with Dupont after all, even though he seemed pleasant enough a man before. It was just that Enjolras wasn't in the mood for talking to anyone. The day had dragged on for so long already, he was ready to retire to his home and finish the essay for the morning's paper. Interviewing celebrities was among his least favorite activities, something he prayed he would not have to do again for a very long time.

Into the freezing cold, the snowy winter air, the parking lot, the car door, to the keyhole – and the car was finally stared. A deep sigh overtook him, forcing his eyes shut and his neck back into the headrest.

He hadn't been there long before the rumble started. He nearly shot up, his eyes flashing open as they focused on the factory. A low shakiness emitted from it, though it only lasted a moment or two before the silence returned. Transfixed, Enjolras couldn't look away. What was that?

That's when he saw the first few people begin to trickle from the double doors beneath a sharp sortie sign, glaring green against the gray of the building. He watched, one by one, as filthy men and women left the mill (although it was mostly men, which he could now be sure of).

For some unspoken reason, his eyes scanned the crowd fervently, as though he might miss something if he glanced away. Then, when he saw it, he knew what it was he was looking for.

A pair of glassy eyes shimmered a bright white against the blue night. He couldn't be certain if it was her or not since he was a parking lot away from the horde, but as she came further into focus and the crowd began to disperse, her tattered, striped shirt made it obvious.

Éponine.

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Éponine didn't see him until the car was already pulling out of the parking lot. She stood there in that same old outfit she had worn every time she saw him, which a small part of her felt a little embarrassed by. The other part of her, the overwhelmingly obscene part, didn't give a damn because that was just how she was. With every flaw running through her veins, Éponine was unapologetic.

She was also exhausted, so she sure wasn't going to let him drive off without catching a ride.

"Hey!" she shouted, knowing that there was no possible way for him to hear her over the crowd of people and the engine in his car. She broke out into a sprint, which may have been quicker had she not been on her feet all day long. "Wait – stop!"

It was just her luck that his eyes flashed to the rearview mirror, meeting hers for a moment as she bolted down the sidewalk toward him.

Leaning over his seat, she saw him lean over to roll down his window. His shoulders were broad, so much so that the tweed jacket he always wore pulled tightly beneath his neck. Éponine pulled at the bottom of her shirt out of habit before bending over to his eye level.

"Enjolras," she said, her teeth digesting it in all its smooth consonants. "What are you doing here?"

"Finishing up some work," he said. "I was just here to drop off the finished paper."

The one with the false-truths, Éponine thought. She was still angry about it, but clenched her jaw shut to stop from saying anything that would interfere with his decision of whether or not to drive her home. The snow was beginning to sting her cheeks.

She shrugged, leaning against the open window with folded arms. Time to cut to the chase.

"Are you in any rush to get home? I could use a ride – it's freezing."

He was quiet a moment. "You really want a ride from me?"

"Is there a problem?"

In his ears, her voice sounded low, dual-toned, like a gravelly, parched throat.

Enjolras shook his head, leaning back away from her and repositioning himself in the driver's seat. "Just didn't think you'd be up for chatting." Pause. "Or a ride."

Éponine didn't much feel like talking, as her eyes felt like they were on their way to closing. She slid into the passenger's side and shut the door tightly behind her. She sighed, exhausted, and fell down deeper into the cloth seat. In hindsight, it was probably not the most comfortable place to sit, but at that moment, she knew that sleep was on the horizon.

"It's just cold," she said, eyelashes weaving shut like the teeth on a zipper. "It isn't far, I promise."

Enjolras was quiet beside her, his fingers taking hold of the wheel once more before putting the car into drive and pulling back off onto the street. He didn't quite know where she lived, but he could guess.

Her breathing was delicate, something that surprised him. She was all jagged edges and violent, cutting words until she grew tired. She wasn't angry here, softly drifting into a hazy comfort with one hand propping her head up from the car door. Every now and then she would open her eyes to make sure he was still heading the right way, and then indicate which street to turn down.

In these moments, she was very quiet.

"Up here," she said finally, pointing to the bedraggled apartment building with a dirty finger. Enjolras parked in front, looking around nervously as he did so. This was not the nice part of town. No, this was about as far from his own apartment building as it got.

His hands fell from the wheel and landed in his lap, and it took him a moment to look over at the girl as she went to open the door.

He took a deep breath. "Wait," he said, just as her fingers touched the door handle. She looked back at him, their eyes meeting, curiosity halfway filling her eyes. He noticed how dark the circles were underneath them, like she hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in a long, long time.

Those deep purple circles were too familiar.

"Éponine," he started, knowing what he wanted to say but feeling the words catch in his throat. "I don't know you well enough to worry about you."

"You really don't."

He grew quiet. The things he might have said were cut short, and instead he turned back the other way and finished what he had to say quickly. "Goodnight, Mademoiselle."

Maybe she was expecting something more too, but she promptly reminded herself that she was in no place to expect anything of anyone. That was that. With a final huff, she left the car and stalked off to her home. She jiggled the door open and slammed it shut without so much as a glance back in his direction.

Not so much as a thank you. Not a smile, not a word, not anything. Enjolras found it easy to become angry with this girl – or, if not anger, at least vexation. She was annoying, infuriating, frustrating, and arrogant; so many things for a girl like her to be, a girl who lived in the slums of Clamart and wore the same moth-eaten t-shirt every day. She was all frayed edges with no clean lines. Not swift, not straight, not sure.

Éponine was nebulous.

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The house was full of voices; hoarse ones and hearty ones, voices that couldn't help but compete with one another to be the loudest. There would be no avoiding them tonight.

In her pocket, she had the few francs she had earned for her work that day. As she entered the kitchen and caught sight of her father, and then the familiar sight of the bottle in his hand, she pulled the money from her pocket and placed it on the table. He didn't have to tell her – she knew the routine by now.

"That's a good girl," he grinned madly, "that's my Éponine."

Her chest fell. He wasn't saying this to her, he was saying it to her money. He said this to how much she was worth to him.

In the kitchen, standing around with her father, was his band of dissolutes: the Patron-Minette. Claquesous stood, ultimately robust against the refrigerator. He had a fifth of vodka clenched in his fist, halfway empty without a chaser in sight. Beside him was Babet, the tall thin dentist still wearing his white uniform he had left work in. He had a strange grin on his face, one that looked out of place beneath his sunken eyes and fair hair. Finally, across from him was the gigantic Gueulemer, all muscles and rigid bone structure and blankness in his expression.

Her mother was there, too. M. Thénardier was seated on a ragged old barstool, her hair a mess, unnecessary sunglasses covering her eyes, and a yellowed smile glaring back at the lot.

"Éponine," a familiar voice came. She shot a look over her shoulder only to find Montparnasse, crossing the threshold to where the others stood. He shot a sideways smile at her, his hand reaching out to grab her upper arm. His fingers curled around her tightly.

"Bonsoir," Éponine nodded, trying not to think about him too long. He stood so close, even with her family around – not that she figured they would care, it just felt strange. When he was there, she felt a little dirtier.

He leaned a little closer to her ear and whispered, "I was watching you, you know." His eyes flashed to the door. "From the other side of the window."

"Waiting up for me, were you?"

Montparnasse laughed. "You could say that." He stopped for a moment, taking a few steps back as if to lead her into the next room. Éponine followed, trying not to let on how tired she was; she was not in the mood for anything he was going to want to do, but she would try to oblige if she knew someone had been waiting for her.

Maybe it was because no one ever waited for her.

Into her bedroom, his hands went to her hair and his lips went for her neck. Hickey. Hickey. More kissing, more touching. He brushed up against her once and she felt him, which made her very nervous. Not that he could tell; Montparnasse was a man on a mission, nipping and kissing roughly, stopping only to slip off his shirt.

In the low light of Éponine's bedroom, she could see him better than she ever could in the light. He was of average build, but perhaps looked more boyish than manly. His eyes were dull, although she could tell they may have once been full of life. Soft hands from his inability to keep a steady job; a bullet hole scar on his shoulder; hunger on his hot breath.

"Wait," Éponine said quietly. He didn't hear her at first, so she cleared her throat and pulled away. "Wait."

He sighed. "Not again..."

"No, I mean..." she started, but she didn't know where to go with it; she was caught halfway between a thought. "I just wanted to wait." She nearly cringed at her own words, and at how childish they sounded. How immature. How foolish.

Montparnasse was silent. He pulled away, angrily throwing on his shirt and pants. "You can't keep waiting forever, you know."

"I know." She quickly wrapped a messy sheet around her bare shoulders and looked back up at him.

"So what is there to save it for?" He leaned in close to her face – too close. "Who are you saving it for?"

Éponine shook her head. Something about how close he was made her feel uneasy. After a moment of silence, he started back toward the door.

"One last thing," Montparnasse said, his voice grainy. "Who was that? The one who dropped you off. A man."

"Oh, him," Éponine shrugged effortlessly, "just some guy. I needed a ride home so I caught one with him." But as she spoke the words, she almost felt guilty. Like she was lying, not just to Montparnasse but to herself. She wasn't quite sure why that was, because she didn't know him and had truly only used him as a way to get out of the freezing cold. Still, it felt wrong about condemning him as "just some guy."

Something, she thought briefly. He could be something.

Montparnasse nodded slowly, buying her lame write-off before ducking out of the room to return to the others.

Again, Éponine was left in the dark; this time, her shirt was on the floor along with both socks, and her pants were unbuttoned. The sound of everyone out in the kitchen was loud, and she could hear thick laughing and jeering of Montparnasse upon his return.

She didn't care what they thought of her – not of her mother or father, of their few friends that were all from the same side of the tracks, or even of Montparnasse.

She suddenly thought of Marius again, of how kind and gentle he always was to her. Her eyes stung. Maybe if it had been him instead, if he had been there instead of Montparnasse, they could have laughed it off when she told him to stop. He might have invited her out to see Paris at night, underneath all the snow and white Christmas lights.

Éponine thought that, in that moment, it might be nice to be with Marius.

She buried her face into her pillow and screamed.