When they were finally left alone, Éponine remained crouched on the ground, motionless save for the trembling of her small frame. Then all at once, a frantic energy seemed to surge through her. She jumped to her feet and whirled around to face Grantaire. Her eyes were blazing.

"Damn you, 'Taire!" she shrieked, wringing her hands frenetically. "I told you not to make a scene!"

Grantaire's eyes had fallen to her bleeding, hyperactive hands. "You're hurt, Éponine."

She ignored him. "You don't know what you've done!" Her shrieks were interrupted by a choked sob. "'Parnasse... he's diabolical... The way he looked at you... At me..."

Grantaire stepped forward and gingerly caught her hands in his, trying to steady them. "Ép, let me look at your hands."

She yanked them back viciously, leaving a generous smear of blood on his skin. "He'll kill you. He kills whomever he pleases. 'Taire, I told you..." Her voice cracked. She was no longer trembling – she was shaking, violently. "I told you so many times to leave it alone. I told you you'd make it worse. Why... why didn't you..."

Her words were swallowed up with sobs and she couldn't continue.

Suddenly Grantaire's attention was stolen by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. He whirled around, fists raised and knees bent in a fighting stance. But it was only Pontmercy and his sweetheart.

"Grantaire!" Pontmercy exclaimed, eyes widening upon recognizing him. "We heard a scream. We thought –"

He was interrupted by a dainty squeal from Cosette. Her eyes were fixed on Éponine's bleeding hands. "Marius!" she breathed, gesturing for him to look.

Pontmercy's eyes lighted upon Éponine and he frowned. "Oh," he said, in a tone that was less than pleased. "It's you."

Grantaire bristled and his lip curled into a sneer. Did Pontmercy even know Éponine's name?

"Marius, look," Cosette persisted, again pointing at Éponine. "The girl's hands. She's injured."

Pontmercy's eyes dropped down to Éponine's hands – which now looked as though they'd been thoroughly dipped in buckets of pig's blood.

"Good God!" Pontmercy cried. He turned again to Grantaire. "What happened here, Grantaire?"

Grantaire ignored him. Shucking off his vest, he gripped it firmly in both hands and rent it down the middle. He tied one half around each of Eponine's hands in a makeshift bandage.

"We need to get you stitched up," he said to her, his voice low and urgent. "We'll go to Joly's."

He pressed a hand firmly to her back and began guiding her away from Rue Plumet. She was still shaking, and her face was as wet as her hands.

Joly was more than a little surprised when Grantaire showed up at his door past midnight, carrying that gamine from Le Café Musain in his arms. The gamine's face was paler than usual – in fact, she was white as a sheet. Joly's mind immediately jumped to a long list of ailments she could be suffering from... then he caught sight of the dark, dripping rags knotted around her hands and the smears of blood on Grantaire's shirt.

He immediately sprang into action. Pathologically anxious though he was, Joly was a good man in a crisis.

Now, however, with Éponine properly stitched up and the crisis averted, Joly simply stared in stunned silence as she and Grantaire bickered, her stretched out on the sofa, him sitting next to her legs. Upon their arrival, the girl had been practically incoherent from loss of blood — but she appeared to have since found her tongue.

"I need to get home," Éponine said, trying to push herself up into a seated position.

Grantaire's hands moved promptly to her shoulders and he pressed her back down. It was a needless effort – she fell back from weakness anyhow.

Grantaire glowered at her. "Fucking hell, Ép," he said darkly. "You're not going home."

"Don't fucking hell me!" She seemed frantic – wild, even. "I have to go home to clean up your fucking mess, you fucking moron!"

"You're not going. You said yourself your father might kill you after what you did."

"He'll kill you if he finds me with you!"

Grantaire ignored her. "We'll stay the night at Joly's so you can regain your strength. In the morning, we'll go to the police station and turn in your father, your boyfriend, and their posse for attempted burglary. Then you and Azelma will come live with me."

Éponine groaned and passed a heavily bandaged hand over her face. "You really are thick, 'Taire. If the solution was that simple, don't you think I'd have blown the whistle on them ages ago? I can't go to the police. 'Zelma and I would be put away too. We've scouted houses and stood watch for all Papa's escapades."

Grantaire shook his head dismissively. "You're young girls living under the thumb of an abusive father. You didn't have a choice. The police will understand–"

Éponine cut him off with a harsh laugh. "Have you met the chief inspector in this town, 'Taire?"

Grantaire blinked. "No…"

"Well let me tell you something, then." Her mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Javert isn't exactly what one would call understanding. He and I have already had a few run-ins, and trust me, he'd be more than happy to put me away."

Grantaire's forehead pinched together in distress and he pressed the heel of his palm into it, as though to relieve a headache.

"Fine," he said, after a few laboured breaths. "We'll figure this out tomorrow. Just – for now can you please rest?"

Éponine wanted to protest. But as she was still too weak to even sit up, she ultimately had little choice in the matter.

So Éponine fell asleep on Joly's sofa. Grantaire fell asleep on the floor beside her. That was mildly irritating to Éponine… It made sneaking out the next morning without waking Grantaire just a touch more challenging.