A/N: I mean... hey... the important thing to remember here is that you gotta have a little rain to appreciate the sunshine :''')

CHAPTER TWELVE | ONE FELL SWOOP

Enjolras pulled a hat on over his head, causing the ends of its curly mass to muffin at the bottom before throwing a scarf on and heading out of the office building where he worked. Marie, the clerk at the front desk, gave him a quick wave which he halfheartedly returned. Winter's winds smacked past him as the door opened, and he pushed his shoulders higher, pressing both arms closer to his sides to keep the warmth contained on the walk to his car.

The sun had already set, though it was only seven o'clock. Enjolras' breath rose in the cold of the air and for some reason, it reminded him of smoke – her smoke – from two nights before. The way it wafted through the breeze, how the cigarette's nicotine stung his nostrils, and the way he couldn't tell if she was smoking or if the chill had merely taken to her breath.

She's probably getting out of work now, he thought, unlocking his car door. You could see her if you wanted.

But it wasn't what she wanted. She had been the one to leave, the one who couldn't bring herself to open up about the fear stinging deep inside her, the unfathomable terror she experienced each time she went in to work. Éponine didn't want to tell anyone, and it was better he realized it then, rather than continue waiting around. The girl was like promised rain in a drought.

He sighed, flicked on the ignition, and drove home.

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At one fell swoop, everything reverted back to the way it was.

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Éponine left work that night with a heavy heart. Her raw hands still gripped the paper bag, though its load seemed lighter than before. Even the cold didn't feel so bad when the overwhelming dread of walking home took hold.

She must have walked around the block five times before stopping, sucking up the few ounces of courage still left in her and facing the back door.

Her eyes met those of a man in the alleyway, familiar eyes. She'd seen him before.

"Do you have a franc to spare, Mademoiselle?" he asked, holding out a tired, dirty hand.

She shook her head sadly, biting down on her bottom lip as she reminded herself that things could be worse. Things can always be worse. The thoughts echoed in her head like a tormenting jibe; her ribs ached, as though someone were poking her, laughing, waiting for the real entertainment to begin. And there would be a show tonight, if things went the way she knew they would.

The back door was creaked open, as though ushering her inside. Éponine took one last deep breath.

He was waiting at the table. A sharp blade twisted in his hand, picking at his rotten teeth before pulling it away to inspect its sheen. The man with fried reddish hair flickered his eyes over to the girl who stood at the door so terribly still. His eyes were sharper than the knife.

"There she is," he grinned toothily. "The madam of the hour, the belle of the ball."

"Hello," she said tightly. Her face felt hot. All at once, the girl was very aware of everything in the room – the smell, the yellow light that hung overhead, the glint in her father's eyes as he stood and looked down at her with strange inspection. She felt the breeze that his rotted coattails created as he pushed his chair back, and as he walked toward the cupboards across the room.

It was torture to know what he would do to her, while all she could do was wait for it to start.

"Oh, my girl," Thénardier smiled, "no need to be so hostile – I'm certainly not. Did you have a fine Christmas?"

She didn't say a word, and instead pinched her eyes shut tight. Don't think about Christmas, her mind urged her. Don't think about Enjolras; don't think about Marius; don't think about even one good thing in your life or you'll taint it forever.

At once, his voice carried through the kitchen like a tremor.

"Look at me!"

And with one more deep, shaky breath, she did.

The old man spit into the sink, filled with molding dishes and maggots that ate away at the filth. He turned back to Éponine with an intensity this time, gold eyes bulging widely with ferocity. But as much as Éponine wanted to step backward, she stood her ground. She was afraid, but she wasn't going to avoid this any longer.

In her mind, she felt this was deserved.

"You've cost us dearly, girl!" His mouth twisted into a snarl. "We missed the rent again an' it's all your fault! We've got the collectors on our ass – an' you know your mother an' I do what we can to keep a roof over your head, but if you can't pull your share-"

He grabbed her upper arm and yanked her from her position at the door, his fingertips seeming right at home against her skin. His hands had bruised her too many times. She didn't try to fight him, but she couldn't help flinching as his unprecedented strength jerked her. The bag in her arms fell to the floor.

"This is the last time you cheat us out of what's ours!" he snapped, and his fist collided with the side of her face effortlessly. The girl stumbled backward, but not far enough to be out of his reach; with one swift shove, Éponine was tossed to the ground like a rag doll. Her head collided with the hardwood floor which was destroyed beyond repair, and for a moment, everything went black.

Thénardier bent his head down low to the ground, his tone deep and gravelly. The smell of liquor stained his breath.

"Where's the money?" he glowered.

She almost lied and said she still had to pick it up from work, or that she forgot it at Enjolras' – whatever it was she had to for everything to stop – but since she was already in pain and had been struck to the ground, something snapped in her and the idea that things couldn't get any worse took hold.

"They cut my pay," she said, "and I left the rest of it with a friend."

Not that he knew – or that he had to know at all – but Éponine had left the francs she had earned on Christmas Eve with the man who had opened his home to her. She had wedged the notes between the pages of that Vonnegut book she saw the man reading; the money was not given away simply because she felt she needed to be courteous (which, for the most part, she was not), or that he might need it at all (which he clearly didn't).

No, Éponine had left the money because she didn't want her father to ever find it. It wasn't much, of course, but in a brash act of fury before leaving Paris that morning, she had a sudden thought that when she returned home at the close of the day, it was all or nothing.

And the girl couldn't have it all.

He pressed the bottom of his boot to her face and crushed her head deeper into the floorboards. She let out an audible cry as her ear pinched tightly and her jaw resisted the pressure, centimeters from a dreadful snap.

"You're a liar!" he shouted. "You spent it, you greedy piece of shit!" He gave one last good shove and she felt her head begin to throb perpetually.

"Shouldn't have come home at all," he muttered to himself. "Two days' worth of pay... And after all we have given you-"

"We gave her what?" the tone of her mother cut in. Dirty feet smacked hard against the floor as she waddled toward them, hair falling in her eyes as she did so. "Talking 'bout 'Ponine? Talking bout the money she stole from us?"

Éponine stayed silent, one hand rising upward to caress her throbbing jaw. Thénardier kicked her hand quickly away and kept a foot at her wrist.

"She won't be stealin' from us no more," he said with certainty, though his eyes flashed down at her crumpled form on the floor once again before continuing. "That girl don't know her place. Got to pull her own if she wants a place to stay."

"Had to learn somehow," Mme. Thénardier said in mocking sweetness. "Poor Mademoiselle couldn't run forever, but when she gave up... Hm. Girl had to have known we'd been waiting up her." Each word came out short and choppy, like fingernails slowly dragging down a chalkboard. Their cadence was off-balance in the same way the woman was.

"Worried sick, we was," the wolf said; his words sounded brutish in her ears.

Mme. Thénardier turned to her husband and spoke in a slightly hushed tone, one that was masked but not well enough for Éponine not to hear.

"She bring home the money?" she asked, to which he shook his head quickly.

"Spent it all. It's gone."

Éponine laid perfectly still, adrenaline coursing through her blood which rushed to her head and made her dizzy. Her eyelids seemed peeled open as each thought crossing her mind made less and less sense, and as she stared off distantly at her father's out-of-focus shoes, she didn't even have the decency to stand up for herself. The words she might have spat back at them sank back down her throat, remembering what happened when she talked back.

Her gag reflex kicked in at the rising memory – his hands around her neck, struggling to breathe, gasping, choking, light leaving her eyes before tossing her to the ground...

"Won't be letting her out of my sight from now on," Thénardier snapped.

"Shouldn't've let her out to begin with!" his wife hissed. She took a step toward Éponine and, with a ragged cough, she spit on the girl. Éponine winced tighter. "Little bitch went out and squandered the lot!"

A clang sounded, and when Éponine's eyes refocused, she saw her father with a frying pan in his hand. Her heartbeat began to race, and when he raised it above his head, she couldn't tell who it was directed at.

"Alright, alright!" the woman said, raising a hand above her eyes, freezing the man whose eyes were blazing with bestial rage. "She'll just have to get the money back, won't she?"

It suddenly appeared as though a thought had struck Thénardier; he stalled, and after a moment, shrunk back and lowered the frying pan. His eyes found Éponine on the floor. She resembled a butterfly whose wings had been torn.

"Get up," he said, "before the others come in and find you."

Wouldn't want to cause them any discomfort, Éponine thought contritely. She almost said the words aloud, but when her lips parted, nothing came out except a bit of blood lacing her spit.

With that, Mme. and Thénardier strode from the room, out the front door as a series of headlights peeled in the driveway. The door was shut tightly a moment after the light reached Éponine's eyes, causing her to wince momentarily at their brightness.

Her head was pounding. No, more than pounding – it was throbbing, pulsing, hammering. The pain was white hot.

When she was certain that no one could hear her, she let the prickling sensation at her eyes consume her body. "Fuck you," she spat, blood sputtering to the floor as her face crumpled. No tears – nothing but fury. Hatred.

As the sound of so many pairs of footsteps and voices drew nearer to the front door, Éponine picked herself up off the ground and stumbled down the hall, into the darkness of her bedroom, sinking down onto the ground and curling into a ball.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. She repeated it wordlessly as a mantra, trying to think of anything but her father's eyes – eyes that hated her, just as she hated him. But their hate stemmed from two different places: for Thénardier, it was out of greed, but for Éponine, it was out of love. She loved him so much, even still, even though their family was crumbled and there were cracks running through its core. She loved the man who used to hang her snowflakes on the fireplace, who would bring her gifts on Christmas, who was a menace and a coward even then...

But at least he used to try to love her back.

A burst of sound rang in through the house, and she could hear each and every voice booming from the throats of the Patron-Minette who now laughed and joked in the place she had just been struck. There they stood, in the very spot her father had crushed her head into the floor with his boot, where her mother spat on her, where her skull was nearly cracked by a frying pan.

I will not cry.

It was a half hour before the door to her room was opened, letting light pour in briefly before it was closed out again. She didn't have to look to know who it was; all she had to do was smell them, to hear their breathing, to wait for their hands to find her.

"Montparnasse," she breathed slowly.

He didn't speak. Instead, he bent down to where she stood on the floor, turned her over to her back – god it ached so badly – and threw one of his legs over her middle.

Those lips. She had felt them so many times against her own, and yet she couldn't remember what they felt like. Curved, yet sharp and cutting. They seemed to swallow her own, and as her mind floated away, it never went far. She could come back down without a moment's notice, and as his kisses deepened and his hands moved faster, Éponine could feel that brief high slipping.

It was a trick she had to play for her own sake. Pretend snow isn't cold long enough, and eventually you'll stop freezing. In the same way, Éponine had to pretend that her father did not beat her, that she had not felt his selfishness and cruelty and neglect come at her like wave after crashing wave, and that none of this was real.

But your life is no fantasy, her mind retorted as a sharp sting of pain struck her chest. Marius is with the beautiful girl in the beret. Enjolras' flat was no safe haven. You cannot continue having yourself believe that you deserve anything more than what is right here in your arms.

Montparnasse grinned wickedly as his hands clamped down on her sides, following down the curvature of her hips before his tongue found the spot just below her belly button.

She gasped – and he heard it, but he pretended not to.

Fingertips found the elastic of her underwear and tugged them down. Her breath hitched. This wasn't what she wanted.

"St-Stop," she urged him, sitting up a little.

"You want this," Montparnasse said between kisses.

Éponine could hear it in his tone – he was not listening. She tried to fix her legs together again but his grip was firm and his tongue was fast.

Her hands found his head and she shoved it once – hard – and finally he got the message. His eyes glinted madly in the moonlight streaming in through her window. Immediately, she wished she had closed the blinds.

"What the hell is your problem?" he swore, hands grabbing her knees. His breathing was heavy. "You always let this go so far and stop before it goes anywhere!"

"'I'm not ready,' I said!" Her voice shook.

"But when are you going to understand?" The man moved dangerously close, lips hovering just above hers. His words suddenly came quiet as his change of tone flipped in an instant. "I am."

She didn't speak; she didn't even try. If she had, she might have said something wrong and he would have hit her and there would be no more this – something she couldn't tell if she wanted or did not want, because her mind told her it was good while her heart seemed to whisper: You are digging your own grave.

After a moment, he leaned back and looked down at her, as if finally realizing that this girl was no more than a child. His face seemed strangely pensive, however, and after much contemplation, he spoke again.

"You owe your father."

This took Éponine off-guard, and a feeling of sickness rose in her throat. Her head began to pulse again, and she thought of throwing up.

I had almost forgotten.

She cleared her throat. "Yes."

Montparnasse smiled, though something else was there. "And you know what I want."

"Which is?"

His chin raised, and down his scarred nose with a whopping bend on its length, he stared at her. He was waiting. Perhaps this showed that he, too, knew how to wait. But when she shook her head, seeming to say I don't know, he sighed.

"I want you."

The girl didn't get it until the silence began to fall quicker. In the way that he looked at her, or rather, the way he looked through her, a realization clicked and her eyes popped open wide.

She swallowed hard. "You mean..."

"I can pay you." And with that, the man slid a single coin from his pocket. He slipped it into her hand, and when she brought it to the light, she could make out the few numbers on its face: 100.

"A hundred francs?" she gasped. "That's more than I make in a day!" She had almost said more than I make in a week because it was truer, but it sounded terrible and made her feel even worse. When the question of where he must have gotten it crossed her mind, she realized she didn't really want to know because it was probably a severely punishable crime. Who did it belong to? Was it really the man's, whose hands were still soft from never committing to a hard day's work?

This offer felt like a devil's bargain.

"No," she said, her voice suddenly quick as she pushed the coin back to Montparnasse. "How many times do I need to tell you? And for money? I cannot."

"Yes, you can," he said, urging the coin back to her.

She almost snapped something cruel back at him, but could not think of anything because of how smooth the coin felt in her hand. Its bronze sheen felt warm. Money was good.

But this money was filthy – it was dirty, it was cheap... and as she stuck the coin in her wadded-up pants' pocket, she felt dirty and cheap.

She took a deep breath but stayed silent.

"We can start slow," he whispered, his lips coming down on hers, moving cautiously. Hands found her hands, holding them softly. He was oddly careful, and almost seemed a new man because of this apparent attentiveness.

But slow only lasted so long, and before she knew it her shirt had been pulled off, along with her brassiere. Here in the darkness, she was open as she had never been before. Her body breathed, and as though trying to match this natural breath, he pressed his chest to hers... But they did not fit one another.

Montparnasse moved back, removing his own clothes, then returned to her. His knees were on the floor, legs on either side of where she lay, and suddenly she felt him upon her. A fear twisted in her eyes that could not be masked. He waited.

"We don't have to do this tonight," Montparnasse murmured, knowing she understood. "But I still need to finish."

She bit her lip, fidgeting beneath him, and when he tried to kiss her she seemed to resist.

He sensed her loss of words, proceeding to lead her with both hands, pulling her shoulders until she was on her knees, too. And then he stood, looking down at her again in the same way he always did – but somehow differently – and rested a hand on her head.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asked, but even as the words left his lips, he knew the answer.

Éponine closed her eyes and dove into another nightmare.