A/N: This chapter, which the entire story is based around and has been building up to, was inspired by a scene from Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, so I cannot take full credit for it. This chapter was originally supposed to be a oneshot but decided against it. I wanted to explore the possibility of Enjolras and Eponine's relationship with this scene, and while nothing explicit happens, it and not the cussing necessarily, is the reason for the M rating. I am asking my readers to continue to be open minded and to remember how I've built these characters. There is a reason why Martin is a titan in the realm of science fiction, and while I'm not claiming to be anything of the sort, I am asking that you give my work respect and consideration just as any other author. Anyway, enough about that. Enjoy.
Ch 5
Éponine faithfully took the letter at Marius' request, unable to break his trust a second time, not when he could very well lose his life. But she would not think about that now, staring at the moonlit, ivory envelop instead, feeling it in her fingers, her eyes following the flow of his handwriting that spelled out her name. Cosette. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the other letter Marius had asked her deliver, the one she could not bring herself to dispense. Both letters did not entice the same feelings as she had become accustomed to. She expected to feel a bitterness overcome her as the Lark's name usual brought about, a searing hatred, envy, but instead all she could feel was an aching numbness, something empty where her organs sat, something cold.
She walked down the Rue Plumet, eyes to the cobblestone and turned the corner into the alley that led to the gate to garden where Marius and Cosette frequently met. She could not shake her growing discomfort as the garden came into view, the stone bench where the pair sat and talked. How many times had she wished she occupied the spot beside Marius, the spot Cosette possessed in the garden? But now that oppressive desire slowly ebbed, and that too concerned her. Éponine placed both letters in the shrubs of the garden where Cosette would find them. She then quickly turned away from the light of the house that managed to slip through the tree branches and hurried back to the shadows of the street.
Her hustle slowed to a walk as she turned into an alley, and then ever slower, her mind drifting until she stopped entirely and leaned against the wall of a building. Wherever it was that Marius went carry out Enjolras' plans, he might never come back. Her fingertips tingled at the thought, her blood rushing through her as if to keep her from panicking. She breathed deeply. She should be mad at Enjolras for putting Marius into such a situation. But Marius chose it, she reminded herself. She didn't want to think about him anymore. She didn't want to worry.
Éponine slumped and slid down against the wall, sitting on the cold ground and hugged her knees. The velvet had been soft once, she thought, touching her dress. She leaned her head back against the wall. Enjolras had once told her that he liked her dress, that red suited her. At the time she had felt insulted; she knew the meaning of a red dress just as he did, but when she realized his was a compliment, she smiled. She almost felt pretty. The memory warmed her. She thought of the jacket he had been wearing earlier that day. Will he keep his promise? Will he come? He might die tonight too.
Éponine fisted the fabric, pulled at it with her fingers tight into a bunch. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, warmth entirely gone as cold fear traveled up her spine, wrapping up and around her ears to the forefront of her mind. Enjolras might die tonight.
Laughter, gruff and sinister echoed to her left as if it had traced her from the Rue Plumet. Four figures detached themselves from the darkness by the puffs of their cigars. The cigars brightened, then dimmed, coming closer, and moonlight revealed the gang of men to her, Montparnasse at the head of the Patron-Minette. She should stand and walk away, avoid them all together. But of course it's too late, they've already spied her, and Montparnasse's cheeky smile what gave it away.
"Look at what we have here," Montparnasse said, grinning as he approached her. He lightly kicked her foot, "Éponine Thénardier."
Her jaw tightened, her face ablaze. Daggers.
"What are you doing way out here, so far from the red light district?" His tone was patronizing.
All four men puffing their cigars carried sacks, a look of smug satisfaction on their faces. They must have just gone through with a robbery. Montparnasse seemed too eager, his fingers fidgeting. The bourgeoisie they robbed must have met some terrible fate. And then she saw his bloody crowbar.
She looked up at him, her eyes challenging, defiant, all too sure what he wanted from her. He flashed her that same charming smile before sending Claquesous, Babet, and Gueulemer on their way. To where, Éponine did not have the faintest idea, but it relieved her to be out of their presence. She could handle Montparnasse.
"What do you want?" She growled, standing to her feet.
He took the cigar from his mouth, his face turning to pout as he stared at her. "Have you not been missing me?"
She rolled her eyes. The bastard's drunk. "Go to Hell."
"Come on now my dear, how long has it been?"
"I don't care." Her russet eyes burned. She stood, her teeth smacking together as she spoke, "I don't want you. Ever."
"You wanted me before," he said, smirking. "Long before that bourgeois. And you never charged me!"
She opened her mouth and then closed it, unable to think of a retort. She refused to remember, hating the satisfied look he gave her. Her brows furrowing as she said, "I've changed since then. I've outgrown you."
He stifled a chuckle, and she chided herself for once thinking the creature before her was attractive.
"Ah yes, outgrown me to chase that boy who loves another girl. And how have you been fairing?" He grinned maliciously.
She wanted to break the bones in his face, shatter each one to bits until his triumph turned morose. But she could not find her voice, unable to use words to defend her pride.
"You're a slut as you were then, dear Éponine. A whore. The only difference now is you have a slightly better bed and richer clientele." He took a step forward and leaned his face close to hers, whispering, "I forgive you for your betrayal. And if all this is a matter of a fee, I'm more than willing to pay many nights for you."
Her face twisted in disgust. Not only did he stink of cigar smoke, her skin crawled and stomach knotted at the thought of a night with him. She pushed him away and shoved passed him, her anger suffocating her as she grappled with her tongue. Montparnasse grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back. She turned and looked at him, her indignation transforming to fear that stilled her muscles. His features were frightening, the enraged lecher. He could force her, and none would hear her scream. Éponine's heartbeat reached her ears, forgetting to breathe, her mind shrieking. Run. But his grip did not give as he forcefully pulled her closer, their bodies nearly touching. Panic seeped in. She thought of Enjolras.
And then his expression softened, as if deciding against his actions. He smiled, "You'll come around."
He released his hold on her, and she stepped back, running in the opposite direction. She would not take any chances. Not with him.
"No one will want you, Éponine!" He called after her, "Not above your station. I'm the best you have!"
She turned the corner, disappearing from Montparnasse's leering eyes, relieved that she was not being followed. She breathed, struggling to calm herself, telling herself she was safe, she was unharmed. This was not the first time, she reminded herself. Others had threatened her just as Montparnasse had. But it was a threat and nothing more. He would never hurt her like that, right? She swallowed. He's a fraud. He only meant to scare her. Her jaw clenched. It worked.
Éponine shut her eyes, holding herself. Inhaling, she continued walking, wishing she could forget her encounter with him. And as the night went on, she could repress his actions, but his words overtook her mind. She walked faster, her hair flaring behind her, fighting the rage, fighting the hurt. His words were not truth. Marius will want her. He will see her. His affections for Cosette cannot last. Her footsteps slowed and glanced up at the burning lamppost, finding herself drawn to the candlelight like a moth. Enjolras had sought her out beneath a lamppost wearing his red coat. She was not worthless that night. She was wanted. Enjolras wanted her then, as he had many times before, and he desired her company again tonight. She wondered again as she leaned against the lamppost if she will see him.
There was shouting in the streets along with the unmistakable sharp cracks of gunfire. The night flashed with the orange sparks and smoke from the sporadic gunshots thickened the air. The urchins lurking in the dark fled the streets, darting into alleyways and the safety of their homes until there was hardly anyone left. Éponine had returned to the brothel before the fiasco began and held her breath while others inside shouted and gasped in surprise and fear. While whores and clients clutched each other out of terror, as if holding an utter stranger would somehow bring some sort of ease or comfort, Éponine dashed into her room, shutting the door behind her. In the candlelight of the dimly lit room, shadows flickered and tossed about as if to mimic the panic she felt. She told herself that the police had no connection between her and the Patron-Minette. Montparnasse is not the reason for the madness outside, he is not coming for her. She picked up the broken leg of a wooden chair. Her heart pounded in her chest, the organ muscle strong enough to break her bones as her body tingled from the coursing adrenaline and sheer terror. She was not going back to jail, she would not leave her room without a fight, and she gripped the wood piece in both hands.
She could hear men shouting outside, the echoing sound of heavy footsteps on stone, and the gunfire returned. Then the shouting ceased entirely. Silence fell, quiet enough that it seemed the night itself had died, and all Éponine could hear was her heartbeat in her ears. Minutes passed and in the quiet she could feel herself beginning to relax until she jumped and nearly screamed as a door banged open. Those in the main entrance of the brothel shrieked. This is it, they're coming for her. Loud, leaden footsteps thudded against the wood floor, and Éponine pressed her back against the wall beside the door to her room. She held her breath as the footsteps quickly grew louder, her grip like iron about her makeshift baton. She'd die before going back to prison.
It happened too fast, and all she could do was react. Her door opened, the dark figure barged in, and she swung, her chair-leg baton connecting with the figure's shoulder.
"Ah!" A man's voice groaned, dropping the large sack he carried, but Éponine scarcely heard or noticed either as she went to strike him again.
"Éponine!" He then shoved her against the door, slamming it shut in the process and ripped the chair leg from her hands, throwing it across the room. In her struggle he managed to secure his arm about her midsection and press her back against his front. Before she could fill her lungs to scream, a strong hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her. She gripped at his hand in an attempt to tear it from her face. His fingers were soft and sticky with blood. "Éppie, you knew I'd return."
Outside men's footsteps could be heard and through the thick wooden shutters of her window, pale light shinned through and passed over them in an orange glare as if daylight had sped its clock. And then as the voices faded and the light vanished, the man in Éponine's room was nothing more than a shadow with golden hair and a stained crimson coat. Gently he took his hand from her mouth. Her breathing was ragged as she attempted to swallow her heart that had jumped into her throat. Enjolras was slow to loosen his hold on her, and when he did he walked back and knelt down to inspect the sack he'd dropped.
"Mon Dieu," Éponine cursed, "Enjolras! What is going on?"
"We carried out our plan," Enjolras said. He inspected the contents of the sack without looking at her which did not fail to frustrate her.
"Who? What plan? What have you done?"
He stood and turned to look directly at her, and Éponine saw then the blood as red as her dress on his cheek and neck.
"Enjolras, you're bleeding," she said warily.
He inhaled, his eyes flashed and darkened as if he had suddenly remembered, "I couldn't let them take me, not when we are so close. Lamarque's death will not be the end of us."
Éponine tried to make sense of his words, piecing them together with what she remembered from the meetings, but she did not understand his meaning.
He must have understood her confusion, and was merciful enough to further explain. "The Amis sacked the armory—" he gestured to his sack which must have contained weapons and all he would need for his rebellion. "—but not without help. The Guard chased us, and we split up. I don't know what has happened to them."
"If they know you're here they'll take me too," she said.
He took the few steps that separated them. Bitterly, he replied, "The only one that knows will never speak again."
Éponine swallowed as she stared at him. She could smell the alcohol on his breath—she had never seen him drink—and eyed the pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. She glanced again at dried blood on his face, thinking of the gunshot she heard so close to the brothel. "They'll come after you. The Guard, the police, someone will come."
"Are you worried about me?" He asked suddenly.
She opened her mouth and promptly shut it, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "You told me before that you would stop at nothing for your revolution. But what if you're stopped before it can begin? They'll come for you, and they'll come for me too. I can't go to jail again, but there is nothing and no one to protect me."
He scoffed lightly, "You hardly associate with us. And besides, you're not someone who needs protecting."
Éponine didn't know whether to be appalled or appreciative. While what he said is true, that she could handle herself, did he also mean to say that she was not worth trying to protect? Her eyes flashed, jaw tightening, remembering Montparnasse. She decided not to think on it, to brush away his words as if she hadn't heard them at all, but then something in his features changed. His eyes softened, his lips parted as if struggling to find the words he searched. He almost looked childish except for the true sincerity in his face, a look she had yet to see him wear. Possibly, she admired it.
"I can keep you safe," Enjolras whispered.
She froze then, the blood drained from her face, and her stomach dropped like a stone.
"I can protect you, Éppie. No one will frighten or hurt you again. I will take care of you, and you won't have to work anymore."
Her heartbeat quickened, and she wondered if he could see her legs quivering beneath the skirt of her dress. Her tongue seemed to swell in her mouth, a fat useless thing that prevented any speech. She didn't know what to say, how to feel, never had she been offered any sort of kindness, mercy, not this strange and blatant admission, and certainly not from him. It was something out of a fairytale, like the ones she read as a child, the ones with brave knights and fair maidens. But she was no maiden. He then pulled her closer, his touch ghosting over her it was almost an afterthought.
"You can't protect me and fight your revolution," she said finally.
"No," he rasped. "But I can fight for you."
Baffled, she could not find a response, her nerves taking control, her voice shriveling in her throat. He was close, so close that Éponine could smell him, the stink of sweat, the reek of blood. However, despite that, his eyes were kinder than she had seen, nothing like the cold, reticent revolutionary she had known. Slowly, cautiously, Éponine's eyes trailed up the line of his neck, his jaw, his lips, his eyes, and her cheeks heated. In this moment he looked as if he wanted to kiss her, or was it what she wanted? Regardless, under his gaze she could feel her heart pound again, stronger, fiercer than Marius ever instigated.
Éponine blinked, remembering, "What of Marius?"
Enjolras' expression shifted, the blue of his eyes seemed to darken entirely into something ferocious, something terrible as he frowned, and before Éponine could breathe, he gave her arm a hard wrench, pulled her around, and shoved her down onto her bed. "You still can't forget him, can you?" He was on top of her, one hand held both her wrists, pinning them above her head.
"Enjolras!" She struggled underneath him.
"Look at me." His voice was grave, firm, and Éponine did not dare to defy him.
His eyes bore into her, and she wished she could hide from them. "Enjolras—"
"Do you think I have not noticed? Every glance, every smile, every breath is for him. You're nothing but a shadow to him." His face was mere inches from hers, his nostrils flaring and jaw clenched tight, his brows knitted, and eyes wild, the same look he wore a few nights ago after he defended Cerise. Yet in the faint candlelight, Éponine could see the hurt he tried to mask.
"I'm jealous," he said, his voice low as he released her wrists, "I admit it. But how can I not be when you could never see past him."
Silence lingered between them, and Éponine lay quiet beneath him, afraid to speak lest she invoke his ire again. He'd never hurt me, Éponine thought. Instinct lifted her hand to cup his cheek, feeling the stickiness of blood. Her thumb stroked where the dark rings below his eyes would be, slow and gentle, perhaps it would calm him. There was a wetness that she touched, something that was not blood.
His eyes closed, leaning into her hand. "Éppie," he said, his somber voice trailing off. He then rose from the bed. Éponine could not bring herself to move and listened as something soft dropped to the floor, and the sack clinking with firearms was picked up.
"Forgive me." His words were clipped. His voice quivered.
Her door opened, soft footsteps retreated from her room, and long moments passed before she lifted herself off the bed to find herself alone. Enjolras' coat lay carelessly on the floor, and Eponine went and picked it up, feeling the fabric in her hands. There was no blood on the floor and no bullet holes in his coat, just the deep red stains. It smelled of blood and gunpowder, and it smelled like him.
"Éponine." She looked up to see the Madame at her door but not daring to enter the room. Éponine stared at her blankly, wondering how the fat old woman had walked across the hall to her door without her hearing.
"Are you all right, girl? What's happened?" The Madame then noticed the coat in her hands, "That man gave us all such a fright barging in like that! He looked dangerous! More so than usual! I hope he wasn't a part of the chaos outside."
She wondered if the Madame had seen the blood he was covered in, if anyone noticed at all. As she pondered the Madame waited for answers, but Éponine did not feel she had the energy to explain, or care to explain, so she stared at the old woman waiting for her to leave.
"Surely you wouldn't be so stupid to accept that ugly thing as payment," she said.
"No, Madame." Éponine replied dryly and walked to her door and closed it before the Madame could question her further. She waited and listened for the woman's footsteps in the hall, and when she was sure she was gone, Éponine walked over to the corner of her room.
She wrapped his coat about her and hugged herself in it as she sat and curled into the corner, shuddering. Comfort was what she sought, more so than a barrier to the cold, and although she had blankets, a bed, she chose his coat. She did not know how long she remained there before she fell asleep, only sure that dawn was creeping in the east when she did.