Ep Hurt

 All fighting and pretence of fighting had screeched to an abrupt halt. The streets were nearly silent. Eponine leaned out over the barricade, frowning as she strained to see what was taking place on the other side. The others waited with bated breath. When she turned back, clambering down to the ground, her expression was halfway between livid and terrified.

“They’re going to shoot him…” Her voice trembled just slightly. 

Enjolras whirled from where he stood over the captured spy, his eyes wild. He glanced around the circle, not speaking a word before rushing forward, towards the open street. Courfeyrac was just as quick, anticipating his leader’s impulsive movement as he lunged forward to seize Enjolras’ arm. Bahorel followed, and together they dragged Enjolras bodily behind the barricade. He fought them, trying to free himself of their grip, and a momentary scuffle followed, ending with Enjolras pinned forcefully against the wall of the Musain, his friends’ faces white to the lips.

“Fool,” Courfeyrac hissed. “They’ll shoot you both. How will that help anyone?”

“We can’t leave him to die,” Enjolras grunted, struggling again. “I won’t stand here and do nothing while they shoot Jehan!”

Eponine stood motionless, watching the scene unfold in silence. She had been there since the very beginning, following Enjolras’ every move with wistful dark eyes. She had come because she couldn’t bear to let him go and die without her. He had been just about the only person in the world who had ever noticed her, and not only that but spoken to her with kindness, as if she was a friend and an equal. And she loved him for it. The intensity of her feelings almost frightened her… surely more than the guns and cannons did. It made her willing to die at his side. Longing to, rather. Even though he had no idea of her feelings and never would return them.

“Let… go… Courf…” Enjolras hissed, pulling forward before the force of their grip sent him slamming back against the bricks, knocking the wind out of him.

“We need to talk this through, calmly,” Combeferre spoke up sternly. “No rash acts.”

“No…” Enjolras gasped out, going still at last. “Combeferre… listen to me. You can carry on the fight without me. Offer me… in exchange for Jehan. Let them take me instead.”

A ripple went through the group as they turned to stare at each other. Combeferre paled.

“You can’t mean that.”

Enjolras tilted his chin defiantly, his eyes narrowing. When he spoke, his voice was deadly calm. “This is my last command as your leader. You’ll follow it, or I’ll go out there on my own.”

“I… can’t…” Combeferre glanced around helplessly. “Surely there’s some other way…”

“Go,” Enjolras thundered, jerking against Bahorel’s iron grip on his arm. Something in his voice, in his eyes, silenced Combeferre’s protest, and he backed away slowly, holding eye contact with Enjolras’ a moment longer before pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket. 

Eponine stood rooted to the spot, her mind swirling as she tried to process just what was taking place. Combeferre was advancing out into the open, the handkerchief raised above his head as he faced the armed guards.

Minutes ticked slowly by. No one spoke, or even seemed to dare to breathe. Eponine hid her trembling hands in the folds of her ragged skirt, shivering even though the June afternoon was warm. 

Combeferre stumbled back behind the barricade, moving like a man walking into his own grave. The white handkerchief was hanging limply from his hand. For a moment, he simply met the others stares, not answering their unspoken question just yet.

“They… accept…” he muttered, dropping his eyes. “They… they want Enjolras brought to them bound… within the quarter of an hour… or they shoot Jehan.”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel stepped back at the same time, releasing Enjolras. Still silence, as they watched their leader, who never had shown weakness, bow his head and let his shoulders slump as if with a profound weariness. He lifted his hands, staring at them for a long moment. His breath hitched, and then he let his arms fall, throwing his head back and squaring his shoulders.

“Ferre,” he spoke quietly but firmly, almost unconsciously using the old nickname from childhood. “Tie my hands.”

Eponine tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled whimper. Her hands were clenched so tightly in the fabric of her skirt that her knuckles were white. She felt paralyzed, somehow unable to move as she stood there, watching Combeferre bind Enjolras’ hands with deliberate precision, his face expressionless. Enjolras stood rigid, not even flinching.

He was silent for a long moment after Combeferre stepped away, his breath steadying as he stood still, his hands bound behind him. When he spoke again, he didn’t even turn to look at her, just stared steadily ahead. “Eponine… come here.”

She was startled to hear him say her name, her head snapping up as her eyes widened. He had spoken almost brusquely, firm command masking the desperation hidden in his voice. She moved forward hesitantly until she stood before him, head tilted back as she looked up at him, too afraid to speak.

And he said nothing… just bent forward until his forehead came to rest on the crown of her head. She held perfectly still, hands still clenched at her sides, her heart and mind alike racing. She was confused, frightened, despairing, heartbroken, everything all at once… He had never even touched her before, except two or three times to press a polite, formal kiss to the back of her hand. Now she could feel him trembling against her, so faintly it couldn’t be seen… but so very real. He moved, tilting his head farther down, his curls brushing against her forehead, and she held her breath. 

It was over in a heartbeat, that one moment of vulnerability. He straightened up, turning away from her before she could lift her gaze to his face. All she caught was the sharp line of his jaw, the setting of his chin, as he moved forward, every inch the commanding leader in spite of his imminent surrender.

“Walk with me, Ferre,” he said quietly, and his friend moved to his side, one hand on his elbow. It wasn’t to restrain or even guide… just a silent assurance that he wasn’t walking alone.

The barricade resistance somehow simply faded, the little group of rebels following at a distance as their leader was taken before the Commander of the National Guard. Eponine followed along with them, moving automatically as if in a dream, and only caught up and being swept along with the tide. 

Combeferre stepped back just slightly as Enjolras went down on his knees before the commander, still holding his head high in a stubborn refusal to show weakness. At a sharp order, two of the guards moved to release Jehan, who was standing, wounded and half-fainting, bound against a post. He slumped forward, nearly falling to the cobblestones, before Feuilly stepped in to catch him, dragging him back up again. 

And it all unfolded so quickly that no one had any chance to catch what was happening. The soldiers were surging forward, and the others had gone… Eponine found herself alone… and so she ran to Enjolras. He was still kneeling while the commander bent over him, gripping his chin to tilt his head roughly back. He was laughing… mocking him… and Eponine let out a choked cry as she knelt beside him, trying to reach him before the soldiers pulled her back.

“We can’t simply shoot him,” the commander was sneering. “The public will want a spectacle. A hundred lashes, perhaps, in the Place de la Bastille, eh?” He glanced around for approval from the soldiers, and it was given in a roar. 

“No…” Eponine hated the feebleness of her voice in the face of the crowd. “You can’t…”

And just like that, the commander’s attention was fixed on her. He had caught the way Enjolras twisted his head towards the girl at the sound of her voice, and the glint of fear that leaped into his eyes. The commander smiled cruelly, reaching to grab her arm and jerk her to her feet.

“Why, whatever is wrong, mademoiselle?” He spoke in a mockingly soothing voice. “You don’t want him to be hurt, eh? Well…” he pressed a finger under her jaw to turn her face to him. “Perhaps you can help him. Do you want to do that?”

“Anything…” Eponine gasped out, recoiling from his touch. The cruel sneer widened.

“A hundred lashes, I said. How about you take some of those? Ten for you, ten less for him.”

“Yes…” Eponine whispered, not daring to hesitate, lest her courage fail.

“Hmm… you could go higher than that. Twenty for you, twenty less for him, what do you say to that?”

“I’ll do it,” she murmured, hoping she looked less terrified than she felt.

Enjolras was trying to struggle to his feet, his eyes widening with a newly realized terror. “No…” he snarled, lunging forward. “Don’t you dare touch her…” but the commander was merely glaring at him, as one would regard a minor inconvenience. A simple abrupt order, and he was pulled back, surrounded by guards, and roughly gagged.

“You’ll watch,” the commander hissed at him. “Consider it part of your punishment… seeing what your rebellion costs her.” 

They were dragging her to the post where only minutes before Jehan had faced his would-be executioners. Enjolras was still fighting, like a wounded lion, putting up a struggle that was keeping four guards busy. And suddenly, miraculously, his hands were free, and a few well-placed blows landed three out of four of his opponents insensible on the ground.

Eponine was dropped like a stone as the others ran to subdue their enraged prisoner. He hadn’t even paused in his wild swinging to tear the gag from his mouth, and so he fought in silence, managing to take on every one of them at once. Somehow, for a few moments, it looked as if he might actually succeed in this impossible battle. But he was surrounded, and the commander, his face purple with rage as he pressed his hand against his aching jaw where a purple bruise was already forming, shouted an angry order.

“Secure the prisoner!” he cried as he withdrew the pistol from his holster in a single motion. Eponine had pushed herself to her hands and knees on the cobblestones, enough to see what was happening, and she raced forward, taking a desperate flying leap and knocking Enjolras to the ground at the exact moment the gun went off. 

For a moment, all was still. The guards stood stunned. Eponine lay crumpled over Enjolras, both hands clenched in his shirt, her eyes squeezed shut and her face as pale as death. 

And then a second gunshot echoed through the air. The commander clutched his arm, staggering to his knees. A wild, almost deranged laugh followed it, and all eyes turned to the top of the barricade where Grantaire stood alone, a pistol in one hand and a half-empty bottle in the other. But suddenly bullets were flying over their heads, thick and fast, and coming from every direction. The soldiers scattered, and Enjolras didn’t give himself time to think, simply clutched Eponine against his chest as he pulled himself to his feet and broke into a dead run.

He didn’t even pause to think which direction to take as he dashed into the nearest alleyway. Eponine’s head lolled against his shoulder and he focused on the weight of her in his arms as he pushed himself faster, veering right first, and then left, and right again, losing himself in the maze of Paris’s back streets. They seemed to blur before his eyes, nothing but flashes of gray cobblestones and shuttered windows. Not once did he think of even beginning to slow down until at last he could go no further and he fell heavily against a wooden door, his breath coming in gasps.

Eponine stirred in his arms as he leaned against the door, turning her head, her eyes fluttering open. She stared at him blankly a moment or two, her lips forming silent words until they came out in a feeble whimper. His breath hitched, his heart skipping a panicked beat. He turned to face the door, noting the dilapidated sign above, swinging from one corner: “De Cartier Inn”. Without hesitating, he forced his way in, stumbling inside as the door gave way. 

It was dark and silent inside… dusty and nearly empty. Abandoned. He moved through room after room until at last, in a back corner, he found a simple mattress laid out on the floor, a dusty feather tick. He almost fell to his knees beside it, leaning forward to gently lay Eponine down. He had to peel her hands away from their grip on his shirt, finger by finger, until at last she gave way with a shuddering sigh and sank into the mattress.

“Is… fine…” she whispered as he bent over her, tugging his gag away with trembling fingers. “Didn’t… go deep…”

“Where are you hurt?” he gasped out, reaching for her, but pulling himself back abruptly, afraid to hurt her worse. Blood was seeping through the bodice of her ragged dress, low in her side. “What can I do?” He hated how helpless and panicked he sounded. He needed to calm himself, to think rationally… to get a doctor, for heaven’s sake!

She moved her hand slightly, her face contorting with pain. She managed to press her hand against the bleeding wound, her lips moving again as she tried to speak, but her voice was strained. He shook his head mutely, pushing her hand away as he fished a knife from his pocket. As gently and carefully as he could, he cut the fabric away from the wound, just enough that he could see where the bullet had entered… and gone out again. His shoulders slumped forward in something akin to relief. From what he had learned from Joly and studied himself in the one medical class he had taken for the sole purpose of such situations, he could see it likely wasn’t a fatal wound. He had only to stop the bleeding, and once he was able to get a real doctor, surely she would be alright. 

He had already yanked off his coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat so he could tear strips of fabric from his shirt, folding them before pressing them to her side. She flinched, hissing between her teeth, eyes squeezed shut as a single tear  traced its way down her cheek.

Without thinking, he let his free hand wander to her face, wiping away her tears with aching tenderness, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on her forehead. “Stay with me,” he murmured, his eyes pinned to where he held the fabric tight against the gaping wound. “You’ll be just fine.”

She turned her face into his hand, her breath hitching with pain. “It’s… the only… dress I’ve got…” she gasped as he pressed a little harder, trying to stop the flow of blood.

“I’ll buy you another,” he murmured, his brow creasing with worry. “I’ll buy you a dozen. The prettiest dresses you ever saw.”

“I…” she tried to say something… a protest, perhaps, she wasn’t really sure… it was hard to think through the haze of pain and overwhelming exhaustion. Her words dissolved into a groan.

“Listen,” his voice was still gentle, but laced with underlying desperation. “Don’t try to talk or move, alright? We’ve got to get out of the city, it isn’t safe. Both of us are likely to be executed if we get caught. I’m taking you to my family’s estate in the country… it’s not too far, we can be there just after midnight if we take a carriage… my parents won’t be there this time of year…”

As he spoke, his words blurring together in her aching head, he was removing his waistcoat, tearing another strip of linen from his shirt. He bound the linen tightly around her stomach to hold the wound closed while she stirred restlessly, biting back a groan of pain. Her movements were feeble and sluggish, her eyes only halfway open, and then falling shut as he slipped his arm under her shoulder to lift her to a sitting position. She slumped against him, her head colliding against his shoulder as a violent tremor passed through her body. She was shaking like a leaf. He worked carefully but quickly as he slipped her arms into the waistcoat, buttoning it up to hide the blood and the ragged tatters of her dress. 

“Hurts…” she moaned as he lifted her gently, one arm behind her shoulders, the other under her knees. As he cradled her against his chest, she turned into him as if she could hide herself in his arms. It barely registered, what he had told her, and what he was doing… all she realized at this moment was the warmth of his arms and the strong beating of his heart beneath her cheek. She clutched his shirt weakly with one hand, the other dangling limply. “Don’t… let go…” her voice was barely audible, her words punctuated with ragged breaths.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered back, his breath stirring the tangled hair lying over her forehead as he bent over her. He moved rapidly as he strode through the empty building toward the door, as if she weighed nothing. He paused a moment before opening the door, listening… the faint rattle of gunfire had ceased long ago, leaving only the usual Paris night sounds… and even those sounded far away, as if the entire street was deserted.

Praying silently that they wouldn’t get caught, that he could get her there in time, he carried her down the darkened street, looking for any sign of life. It took a few turns into more prominent streets before at last he came upon a hackney coach sitting idle outside of a tavern, its driver asleep on the front seat, a cold pipe dangling between his lips. Enjolras felt his heart jump in relief as he moved to wake the driver.

“Eh, what’s this?” the driver stammered, dragging himself upright and pushing back the hat that had fallen over his eyes as Enjolras jostled him. He turned to peer at the interruption, his eyes narrowed, and then widened as he took in the limp form in Enjolras’ arms. “What’s happened?”

“Do you know the Enjolras estate, near La Roche-Guyon?” Enjolras spoke abruptly, ignoring the question. Eponine stirred slightly, shivering in his arms, as her grip on his shirt tightened faintly. The driver stared a moment and then nodded slowly.

“Aye, I know the place,” he frowned. “The woman… what’s happened?”

“I need to get her there before morning,” Enjolras snapped, digging in his pocket and producing a gold luis, letting the man get a look at it. “I’ll give you another when we get there. Two more, if you go as fast as you can.”

The driver whistled low at the sight of the money… a gold luis was more than a week’s wages for a common man. He offered no argument or questioning after that, just settled his hat farther back on his head and gathered up the reins, while Enjolras lifted Eponine carefully inside the carriage.

He settled her on the seat, positioning her on her uninjured side, before sitting down beside her and guiding her head and shoulders into his lap. She let out a long, shuddering exhale, her eyes clenched shut as she pressed her forehead against his knee. The carriage lurched forward, moving at a rapid pace down the rough cobblestone streets, the first movement drawing a ragged moan from her lips.

Enjolras leaned against the seat, letting his head fall back as he let out a long, slow breath. His hands were trembling. Dimly, pain began to register, and he wondered if he was wounded. His head ached, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain along his ribcage… he didn’t bother glancing down to try and see the cause of the pain. He didn’t even care right now. From the moment he had been a prisoner up until now, he had hardly let himself think. He needed to put the pieces together, to realize what he was doing and what had happened. He had abandoned the barricade, left the revolution… and for what? Well… because… 

He shifted forward slightly, Eponine stirring against him, groaning faintly. “Shh…” he murmured, pressing his hand firmly against the side of her head. “It’s alright…” The words escaped him automatically, his fingers moving as if with a mind of their own as he untied the bedraggled ribbon at the end of her tousled braid. 

He loosened her braid bit by bit, letting his mind focus on the simple task… wandering through regrets and what ifs hurt too much just yet. Her hair was hopelessly tangled, matted with dirt and blood. He combed his fingers through the strands, trying as gently as he could to loosen caked mud and difficult knots, his movements clumsy, unused to such work. He had never thought about her hair before, never even noticed the color of it, and suddenly he was remembering details he hadn’t realized he had seen… the way the sunlight caught it, the way she tossed her braid over her shoulder when she was laughing.

“Mmm… sorry…” Eponine whispered, her head shifting slightly as she seemed almost to curl in on herself… or would have, if moving hadn’t sent fresh agony tearing across her body. “I’m… a mess…”

“So’m I…” Enjolras shrugged. He would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so dire. “Don’t worry about it, ‘Ponine… just try to rest.” His fingers brushed against her cheek as he pulled damp strands of hair back from her face, gathering it together in his hand. For a moment, he thought about tying the ribbon around her hair to keep it back, but realized that somehow the touch seemed to calm her, so he simply kept going.

The carriage windows were covered, but even then, flashes and gleams of street lantern lights managed to peep in around the blinds here and there for a while… and then it was dark as they finally left the city behind. The road turned rougher, from cobblestone to dirt, and each lurch of the carriage jolted Eponine. She bit her lip, trying to stifle her groans of pain. He could feel it himself, searing through his ribcage, but he set his teeth and stubbornly ignored it, keeping one arm carefully wrapped round her shoulders to steady her on the seat.

It was an hour, maybe two after midnight when the carriage turned to rattle down a gravel lane that snaked through a long patch of darkened woods. It passed through a rather grand gateway arch and kept on nearly half a mile longer before finally pulling to a halt in front of a stately mansion. Enjolras leaned forward to move the window cover just enough to catch a glimpse of the towering stone facade of the home he hadn’t seen in seven years. The sight of it made his stomach curdle as memories came crowding in… things he hadn’t wanted to remember.

He hesitated, making no move yet to get up from the seat, although he bent over Eponine, checking her pulse and her breathing. Her pulse was weaker now and his own heart rate spiked in alarm. The driver had opened the carriage door and he moved to gather her carefully in his arms, holding her against his chest as he climbed out of the carriage. 

The front door of the manor house had opened and a dim figure stood on the front steps, holding a lantern aloft. Enjolras glanced to the door and back at the driver, digging in his pocket before producing the two promised gold luis… paused, and offered a third. The driver took them gratefully and was turning the carriage round before Enjolras gathered the courage to move towards the manor. 

The man with the lantern was hurrying towards them now with jerky steps, the light bobbing in the darkness, illuminating his face. He looked frantic as he called out to them.

“Monsieur Enjolras… Madame… what has happened?” He skidded to a stop just before them, his face suddenly paling as his eyes widened. The hand holding the lantern trembled slightly. “Master Frederic?” he gasped out in disbelief. Enjolras recognized him immediately, although he had grown older in the past years, his hair gone from gray to white.

“Monsieur Benoit,” Enjolras said quietly, shifting Eponine carefully in his arms. She hissed in pain, her fingernails digging into his arm. He stood still for a moment or two before suddenly snapping into action, his tone commanding. “Send someone for the doctor. Immediately.” He strode past the man, climbing swiftly up the steps and through the massive front doors without even faltering. Benoit followed him in, stammering anxious questions that were mostly ignored. Enjolras’ boots clattered noisily on the marble floor of the entrance hallway as he turned abruptly towards a spiraling staircase. 

“My parents are still in Paris?” he spoke as Benoit continued to follow, more hesitantly now.

“Yes, but…”

“Good.” He turned to glance behind him, his frown deepening. “The doctor, man, hurry!” 

The house was achingly familiar, even in the dark, each twist and turn of the hallways as vivid as if he had never left. He turned onto the second floor, moving down a quiet passage, towards the largest and most comfortable of the many guestrooms, situated at the back of the house with full windows that overlooked the gardens and lake out back. 

The house always had been impeccably kept up, even in its master’s absence and with no guests present. Enjolras noted with grim satisfaction that the bed was made up and all neat, clean, quiet, and comfortable. He crossed the enormous room in a few hurried strides and bent to lay Eponine gently down in the center of the giant feather bed. She let go of her grip on his arm reluctantly, her fingers stretching out towards him as he pulled away. 

“No…” she whispered feebly, her voice strained. “Don’t leave me…”

“I’m still here,” he murmured absently, reaching to squeeze her hand. He held onto it for a moment, vaguely realizing the smallness of it, and remembering her delicate weight in his arms. She had always seemed so strong, so untouchable, that he was startled to realize how fragile she was, so thin and small. She lay crumpled on the bed, her face turned into the pillow, looking like a tiny broken bird, and somehow it made his heart ache.

“I’ll…” he began, then cleared his throat as he heard the unintentional catch in his voice. “I’ll call a servant… someone to look after you… you’ll be… better cared for… by a woman… I don’t know what I’m doing…” he shrugged and let go of her hand then, crossing the room to yank on the bell pull, much harder than necessary. Eponine was silent.

The call was answered in a few minutes, a middle-aged woman pushing the door open. She stood there in the doorway, her eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing helplessly for a moment before she finally managed to speak. “Master Frederic…” she murmured, staring at Enjolras. “Benoit said… but… I didn’t think…”

“Marie,” Enjolras nodded in acknowledgement and gestured toward the empty fireplace. “I want a fire built up in here immediately. And water, hot tea, broth, a nightgown…” he frowned, trying to think of what all might possibly be needed. “There’s a young woman here…” he tried to explain. “She’s… wounded… I… I need you to stay with her, care for her, anything she needs.”

“Yes… Monsieur… of course…” Marie gasped after a slight pause, as if her mind was scrambling to keep up. “And Benoit wanted me to tell you that he sent Jacques for the doctor… oh, but then you don’t know Jacques… the new stable boy… oh… it’s been a long time…”

Enjolras nodded wearily, relieved to feel the control slipping out of his hands. His own wounds were aching more sharply now and he dimly realized the impropriety of staying in this room. “I… let me know… when the doctor comes…” he murmured, his voice quieter now as exhaustion began to creep in. He didn’t wait for Marie to answer, or to give Eponine any assurance, he simply stumbled out to move down the hall towards his own room.

He pushed the door open slowly, the familiar scent of sandalwood rushing out almost like an old friend. He paused on the threshold, glancing around, noting that everything was exactly as he had left it, seven long years ago. He moved toward the full length mirror, staring at his own reflection in the full moonlight that flooded through the window. He looked ten years older, streaked in grime and blood, his hair a tangled mess, dark circles under his eyes. His movements were stiff and jerky as he unbuttoned his tattered shirt, letting it fall on the floor while he examined the source of his pain. There were the long, deep lacerations he had expected, left by soldier’s bayonets, and a dark purple bruise spreading across the span of his ribcage. Whatever had caused that, he couldn’t even remember, but none of it looked critical, and he simply didn’t care. He turned toward the bed, but just as he reached it, his knees buckled and he fell forward, crashing face-down onto the mattress. He was asleep almost before he managed to drag the rest of his body onto the bed.

oOo

He opened his eyes hours later to see afternoon sunlight spilling into the room, the pattern of the window pane projected onto the bed in bright panels. He lay still a moment, blinking in the light, as he tried to remember where he was. Memory came back in patches, the confusion and terror of last night all jumbled together in his mind. He pulled himself up with a groan, pressing his hand against his ribs with a grimace.

Crossing to the wardrobe, he threw the doors open, frowning at the rows of linen shirts and rather ridiculously presumptuous suits hanging inside. He had always hated this finery. He reached to lift the sleeve of a shirt, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the elegant lace ruffle on the cuff. Pathetic. How had he ever let himself be seen dressed like that? But the crumpled, bloody shirt on the floor was hardly decent. He groaned again as he dragged the shirt out of the wardrobe and tried to pull it on, not surprised to find it much too small. He hadn’t worn any of this since he was seventeen. Perhaps he could find something in his father’s room.

The halls were deserted as he stepped out of his room, looking first one direction and then the other. He wanted desperately to check on Eponine, suddenly angry that no one had bothered coming to get him when the doctor arrived, and wondered how on earth the servants had explained her gunshot wound. But he held back, knowing it was better if he made himself at least presentable first.

His parents’ room was farther down the hall, in the opposite direction from the guest rooms. He didn’t even hesitate as he opened the door, but stopped in the doorway frozen in place, as his entrance was met with a startled cry. 

His mother sat at her desk in the far corner of the room, in front of the window, pen poised hovering over a sheet of paper, black ink dripping slowly down. He stared back at her, speechless, hardly registering his father’s presence at first, where he stood in front of the wardrobe, loosening his cravat. She sat still for one long moment and then rose abruptly, one hand on the desktop as if bracing herself, while her lips formed the shape of his name although her voice didn’t utter it.

“Frederic…” His father was the first to speak, his face paling as he stared at his son. “You…” his eyes wandered lower, falling on the blood still streaked across Enjolras’ torso. “Good heavens, boy, what happened?”

“I…” Enjolras faltered, moving his arms instinctively to cover his wounds. “I thought… you were in Paris…”

“We’ve just arrived…” Henri spoke almost dazedly, his brow furrowed in confusion. “The… fighting in the streets… it wasn’t safe…”

“Frederic…” Rosalie whispered at last, still standing motionless. She was looking at him as if she couldn’t bear to tear her eyes from his face, as if afraid he would vanish. “You… came home…”

Enjolras shifted his gaze away from his mother, staring instead at the floor. If he saw her cry again, it would break him. He couldn’t bear it. “I… I needed to… I mean…” he stammered, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. He let out a long, deep breath and focused on the one coherent thing he could think of. “I need clothes…”

“Oh… of course…” Henri nodded as if it was the most natural thing in the world, this entire strange situation. He opened the wardrobe, scanning the row of suits inside, even more elaborate than Enjolras’ own old things. He reached for a deep blue coat, heavy with embroidery, glancing back at his son with something akin to amazement. “You’ve grown…” 

“Something plainer… please…” Enjolras shook his head as his father held out the coat. “I… I could get something from the servants, maybe…”

“Nonsense. I’ve got things…” Henri turned his head enough to hide his face as he rummaged through the wardrobe. His voice was steady, not betraying him. As he found a plain white linen shirt and dark colored waistcoat, Rosalie moved forward tentatively, holding out her hands just slightly as if she longed to hold her son close, but was almost afraid to touch him. At the look in her eyes, Enjolras suddenly wished himself a million miles away. He couldn’t go through this… and yet something in him was responding to her nearness, the little boy inside him remembering… realizing his loneliness…

I’m sorry, Maman… the words were on his lips, almost automatically, but he pushed them back, unsaid. He cleared his throat nervously, glancing towards his father, who was standing back with the clothes draped over his arm, watching the scene in silence. 

“Seven years…” Rosalie whispered at last. She was standing so near, he could see the tears shining in her eyes. She stood on tiptoe, taking his face in her hands, shaking her head slowly. “I’ve counted every day…”

Enjolras held perfectly still for a long moment, his heart beating rapidly as he tried to think of something to say… anything… but Rosalie let go, stepping back enough to pry his arms away from the wounds he was hiding. “You’re hurt…” she frowned, glancing him over carefully before turning to glance at her husband. “Send someone for the doctor, please…” 

“Just scratches…” Enjolras muttered, managing to jerk away. The spell was broken and he only wanted to get away, just for enough time to pull himself back together. He took the clothes his father offered and backed up a step. “Maman…” the word felt strange in his mouth, he hadn’t said it in so long. “Do you… uh… have any dresses you could spare? Simple… comfortable ones…”

“Dresses?” Somehow that managed to snap her attention away. “Why… whatever for…”

“There’s a girl…” Enjolras blurted out and winced at how ridiculous that sounded. “I mean… a young woman… at the… the barricades… she’s… hurt badly. Brought her with me.”

“A girl?” Rosalie’s face mirrored even deeper confusion. “Are… are you married? Frederic… how could you not tell me something like that?”

“No… no, nothing like that…” Enjolras felt his face growing warm and he shook his head. “She… uh… she took a bullet… meant for me…”

Rosalie’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened. She seemed speechless and Enjolras took the moment to back up another step. Henri was frowning.

“This woman… you should have taken her to her family, surely they can care for her well enough. I assume you had the doctor in? As soon as she’s able to travel, we’ll have Jacques escort her back to Paris.”

“She has no family,” Enjolras’ eyes flashed angrily. “And she saved my life. I owe her everything. When she goes back to Paris, I’ll be the one to take her.” Angry old feelings rushed back in, reminding him why he had stayed away for so long. He didn’t want to talk any longer. He turned to go, his hands gripping the stack of clothing until his knuckles were white. Rosalie followed him out into the hall, stopping him with a gentle touch on his arm.

“Please… Frederic…” He turned to face her, almost glaring, but forced his expression softer as he caught the worry in her eyes. 

“Never changes here, does it,” Enjolras muttered. “I need to go check on her…”

“No,” Rosalie spoke firmly. “Listen, you are going to get cleaned up, but then back to bed with you, and we’ll send for the doctor. I’ll look after your girl…”

“She’s not my girl,” Enjolras protested, flushing deeper, and then sighed. “She’s in the blue room.”

oOo

Enjolras shut his door behind him with a soft thud, leaning heavily against it for a long moment. He stood with head bowed, trying to force his breathing into a slow, controlled pattern. It had struck him just now that he had no idea what to do next. He couldn’t return to Paris, but he couldn’t stay here… and Eponine… but he couldn’t think of her just yet. 

He crossed the room to where a washbasin and pitcher stood on the dresser, fresh water just brought by a servant. He poured water into the basin with trembling hands, trying to focus on this one simple task. The water was cold and he splashed it over his face, almost grateful for the shock it brought. Anything to keep his mind off of her and off of what had happened… He was even glad of the stinging ache in his ribs as he dragged a washcloth across his skin, trying to wash away the blood and grime of battle. So intent was he on keeping his mind focused, that he scrubbed too hard, wincing in pain as blood began trickling from reopened wounds. Well, might as well make those ridiculous fancy shirts good for something… he yanked one from the wardrobe and tore it into strips, binding the fabric around his torso as makeshift bandages. Good enough, he didn’t need a doctor. He rolled his eyes at the thought of it. They couldn’t force him to play invalid. He needed to stay strong, to stay in control of himself.

He slipped into the plain shirt his father had given him, clenching his teeth as another wave of pain moved through his body. He tried to catch onto that, to think about that only, but all he could see, even with both eyes open, was Eponine’s face, white as ashes, her eyes larger and darker than ever. She had looked up at him so trustingly, as if the only place in the world that she truly felt safe was in his arms. It made him suddenly angry and he slammed the washcloth back onto the dresser with such force that it shook wildly, the pitcher falling, water spilling everywhere as the fine china smashed into a hundred pieces on the floor.  He didn’t even glance at it. The thought that she was hurt and in pain… because of him…

He snatched up the waistcoat from where he had left it lying on the bed and buttoned it up swiftly as he stalked out of the room. He was halfway down the hall, almost to her room, when he slowed his steps, hesitating. Of course he couldn’t just barge in like this. And yet he kept walking until he reached her door. It was slightly open, just an inch, enough for him to see the rays of sunlight shining in through the windows inside. He could hear the low murmur of voices and he paused to listen for a while, recognizing his mother’s voice first, and then Eponine’s as she answered.

He raised his hand and knocked gently, waiting with bated breath until Rosalie spoke, “Come in.” He pushed the door inward tentatively, his eyes falling on Eponine first. She was sitting halfway up in bed, leaning back against the pillows. Already she showed quite a change from last night… she was still pale and weary looking, but her face was clean, her hair brushed back and tied with a ribbon, her arms folded over the covers showing the sleeves of a pretty, embroidered nightgown. Rosalie sat in a chair pulled close to the bedside, a teacup in her hand. A tray of breakfast things was on the little table beside her.

He watched as Eponine’s face moved through a swift change of expressions, from surprise, to a sort of desperation, to a quickly forced smile, accompanied by a slight wince. Her hand shifted over the blankets, gingerly brushing against her injured side and slowly extending towards him, palm up. She looked as if she wanted to speak, but stayed silent.

“Frederic…” Rosalie smiled at him. “Your hair… didn’t you brush it?”

“I…” Enjolras flushed, running a hand self-consciously through his tangled curls. Rosalie laughed softly at his confusion and slid her chair back just a little, nodding towards Eponine, as if giving him silent permission to move forward. 

“Just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he added awkwardly, moving to stand beside the bed. He almost reached for her hand, but then thought twice about it and stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” Eponine murmured quietly, moving her hand away in response to his gesture. She dropped her eyes, avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry…” she almost whispered. He had to lean forward to catch her words. “Last night I… I didn’t… didn’t know where I was. I… was frightened…”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, shifting his posture nervously. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Well, everything’s alright now,” Rosalie put in gently. “You’re to stay with us, Eponine, as long as you need to. Don’t worry about anything, just focus on getting better, alright?”

“I…” Eponine hesitated, looking up towards Enjolras. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears and her voice sounded choked. “I can’t…” A single tear slipped and rolled down her cheek. Enjolras watched it fall, and suddenly, something in him snapped. He moved without thinking, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching for her hand. She surrendered it willingly, her thin fingers curling around his hand, cold and trembling in his grasp. 

He wanted to repeat Rosalie’s assurance, but he couldn’t seem to say the words. Truth be told, he didn’t know what was going to happen, or what should be done. But he couldn’t stand to see her cry. “The… the doctor came last night?” It was half a statement, half a question, as he tried to retreat into a simple topic. As she nodded, he reached forward with his free hand, brushing back a strand of hair that fell over her eyes without even thinking about it, and then pressing the back of his hand against her forehead, feeling her temperature. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned against his hand, the shift almost imperceptible. 

He held it there longer than necessary, feeling her pulse beating faintly against him, before slowly withdrawing. Her breath hitched slightly at the loss of touch, lifting her eyes uncertainly to his face. His expression was unreadable, a carefully created mask. “You look tired,” he murmured, leaning back slightly. She only nodded. He glanced at Rosalie, who also nodded, reassuringly.

“Yes, she should rest. And so should you.”

“I… don’t…” Eponine almost protested and then pressed her lips tight together. Her grip on his hand tightened instinctively. Enjolras held on a moment longer and then stood up, leaning forward to slide his arm behind her shoulders. He worked without thinking, his hands moving with a gentleness unnatural to him as he helped her lie back, adjusting the pillow beneath her head. She kept her eyes fixed on his face, clouded with feelings he couldn’t read.

Closure for this scene, blah blah blah…

oOo

Eponine shifted restlessly, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip to muffle a startled cry as red-hot pain shot through her body. It had gone down to a dull ache, mostly, but if she moved too much, it almost brought stars before her eyes. Nevertheless, she was sick and tired of lying flat on her back. True, the bed was more comfortable than anything she had ever touched in her life, the room beautiful and peaceful, and the feeling of being clean and cared for truly wonderful to her heart, but being so still and motionless was unnatural to her. She was used to surviving by her own quick wit and rapid movements. She could outrun every policeman and member of the Patron-Minette in the whole of Paris. Never had she stayed in one place for this long. Even the pleasant June breeze and birdsong coming through the open window, ruffling the elegant lace curtains, was becoming almost weary to her. She needed to get up, to rest her eyes on something different, anything but the bedposts and the blue wallpaper and the painting before her of a lady sitting at a desk and wearing a splendid dress.

It had been so quiet today. It was the second full day that she had been here. Enjolras had come to see her twice yesterday and only once today, and he had seemed as nervous and restless as she. He had sat with her for a little while, but got up often to pace the room, muttering under his breath as if she wasn’t even there. She followed him with her eyes, waiting and hoping, but somehow… the magic of that first dreadful and yet wonderful night had faded away.

She never doubted for a moment the fact that she loved him. Rather, the feelings had only become stronger and sharper. Almost painful now that she was actually, impossibly with him… and yet he hardly realized she was there. So she let herself withdraw and tried to count down the days until this dream was over and she was back on the streets of Paris. But he had told her nothing and she hardly knew what to expect in the coming days.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, gritting her teeth with the effort. Gingerly, she moved to the edge of the bed and let her legs dangle over the edge. She breathed hard for a moment until the pain subsided and, pressing a hand gently against her injured side, she slowly stood.

The first few steps were pure agony. Her knees almost buckled and she nearly fell, reaching out desperately, her fingers scrabbling at the bedpost. She managed somehow to stay on her feet, and with each step that followed, she gained a bit more confidence and balance. The pain was awful, but somehow it grounded her. It filled her mind, crowding out the more troubling thoughts, giving her something concrete and real to focus on. She found herself counting each breath she drew as she dragged herself to the door. 

The hall outside was quiet. From somewhere, she could hear footsteps crossing a marble floor. Hushed voices spoke momentarily below her, likely the servants, and faded into the distance. Several moments of silence followed as she clung to the doorframe, looking out, and then she ventured out. It was dimly lit only by the rays of sunlight coming from the end of the corridor, and to that she turned her face. Although a city girl, she was a creature of the outdoors, born of the wind and rain, and she yearned for her endless sky. At least she could catch a glimpse of it through the window.

The hall was long, and it took her a while to reach the end of it, but the struggle was worth it. There she found a towering window, with a seat built into the wall before it, heaped with cushions. She practically collapsed into it, taking her time to catch her breath before dragging the rest of her body up and curling into the cushions with a gasp of pain. Below she could see a wide expanse of gardens, a different corner than the view from the bedroom window. It stretched out farther than she had thought any garden ever could go, framed on the sides by forest, dark, velvety green, and mysterious. Just before the trees, at the very end of the gardens, shimmered silvery blue water. It was so beautiful, it nearly took her breath away, and she suddenly longed to be down in those gardens. But she couldn’t have moved another step. Anyway, Rosalie would probably think it highly improper to go out in nothing more than a nightgown and with her hair tumbled all over her shoulders. Even if the nightgown was far better than any dress she had ever owned.

It all clashed in her mind just then as reality came crowding back in. This beauty she could not have for long… not even something so simple as this nightgown. It was cruel… cruel to bring her here, when she would soon have to return to the squalor and misery of what could hardly be called her life. She wished she had died there on the barricades. Choking back a sob, she buried her face in a dainty blue cushion, and let herself weep.

She didn’t even hear the footsteps in the hall. Enjolras’ voice startled her and she darted her head up, glancing at him with wide eyes. He was standing just a little away from the window seat, his expression all at once confused, alarmed, and worried. 

“What’s happened?” he frowned, looking uncertain. Eponine only showed her face for a moment and hid it again in the cushion already damp with her tears. He had reached toward her almost instinctively at first and then stepped back a little, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Nothing,” she murmured vaguely and then stiffened as she realized maybe she shouldn’t be prowling around without permission. “I’m… sorry…” she stammered, hoping she hadn’t overstepped. He ignored the attempted apology.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” he spoke almost harshly and Eponine curled away from him just a little more. She didn’t know what to say, nor did she dare ask for help in getting back to her room, but she wasn’t certain that she could make it all the way back after the exertion she had just undergone. “How are you feeling?” he added after a pause, his voice a little softer.

“Fine,” Eponine whispered. She wanted him to go away but she didn’t even dream of saying so. She heard something of an exasperated sigh and when he spoke again, his voice was closer, as if he had stepped nearer.

“No, you’re not fine. You were literally shot two days ago. I know from experience how a gunshot wound feels. You can’t just walk around… you’ll hurt yourself worse...” He sounded angry. Eponine was silent. Another pause, another sigh from him. “Damn it, girl, you’re gonna…” he bit off his words with a groan. Eponine stifled a sob, her shoulders trembling no matter how hard she tried to hold them still. The silence grew to the point of being uncomfortable. Eponine was about to look up to see if he was still there when she felt his hand on her shoulder… the weight of it feather-light at first as if he was afraid to touch her, and then a little firmer.

“You’re crying.” It was stated bluntly. She almost shrugged his hand off, but fell still instead. The warmth of his touch was comforting, so she let it be. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” the answer came out as more of a whimper. More silence. She knew he likely didn’t believe that, but she wasn’t about to say anything more. She simply waited.

“Is there… anything… I can do?” He spoke hesitantly. She shook her head, clenching her teeth as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her body. Another moment passed, and his hand retreated. Her head shot up and she looked up at him almost desperately. He was still bending over her, looking awkward and out of place. He shoved his hands back in his pockets and cleared his throat, glancing around like he was preparing to leave. Eponine pushed herself into something of a sitting position, grimacing with the effort. She slipped a little, falling back onto her elbow, and hastily brushed tears from her eyes.

“Wait…” she spoke quickly, not wanting him to go, but not knowing what to say. She wanted his arms around her… needed to hear him say that everything would be alright… but she couldn’t ask for that. He looked at her and she shrank back slightly, dropping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, reverting back to apology. “I… I’ll go back to my… to the room…” 

She tried to stand, keeping her face carefully averted away from him, but the strain was simply too much. She could feel herself going down the moment her feet touched the floor, her knees weak as she slowly slid downward. He caught her before she hit the ground, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to her feet effortlessly. She collapsed against him, a groan escaping her lips as she clutched at his side, her instinct to lean into his strength. She only let her vulnerability show for a moment before trying to push away and stand on her own. But he only tightened his hold around her.

“Easy… easy… I’ve got you…” he frowned as she faltered, swaying where she stood. “Just lean on me… it’s alright…”

“I’m fine,” she pushed the words out forcefully, although she let him hold her for now as she caught her breath again. “I can walk on my own.” She wiped roughly at her tears, angry at herself for letting them fall. 

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he answered firmly, holding her close against him in spite of her protests. “Listen… just… let me help you back to bed and then I’ll leave you alone, I promise…” his tone shifted, quieter and more uncertain now. “Please… I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Eponine let out a long, slow breath, hesitating, and then nodded wearily. She let her head fall against him, going almost limp in his arms. He waited a moment before carefully lifting her from the ground, cradling her gently. It made her cry again, hot tears pressing against closed eyelids as she hid her face against his chest.

He walked slowly, trying not to jostle her as he moved down the hall, pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder. When he tried to lower her onto the mattress, she suddenly resisted, moving without thinking as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

“No… I don’t…” she whispered, shifting in his arms as he straightened up again. “I don’t want to stay in bed…”

“Well… what… why…?” he stammered, his voice flustered. She twisted to look up at him. His face reddened slightly. “You… need to rest…”

“I can’t stay here…” she gasped out, hardly realizing what she was saying as she tightened her arms around his neck. “Don’t leave me here…”

“I… I won’t… if you don’t want me to…” he frowned deeper, shaking his head. He glanced around the room, nervous and confused. “Do you… what do you need?”

“I don’t want to be stuck in here all day…” she murmured, her voice barely audible by this point as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

“Then… then we won’t stay here…” he faltered. “Uh… we could go to… the drawing room… the library, maybe? Or… the gardens?”

“The gardens…” Eponine breathed, suddenly feeling an intense longing for the sun on her face. “Please…”

“Alright…” he whispered, nodding. “Alright.” He looked down at her uncertainly and she felt sudden embarrassment, realizing she was still in her nightgown. But before she could even say anything, he bent to scoop up a shawl that was draped over the arm of a chair… a thick, warm woolen one that Rosalie had brought her… and draped it awkwardly over her with one arm while he held onto her with the other.

He carried her down a back stairway she hadn’t seen before, through a few large rooms lit only by the sunlight filtering through tall windows, and out a small back door that opened onto a narrow gravel pathway. She had let go of him with just one arm so that she could clutch the shawl closer, her other arm still wrapped around his neck. She was breathing easier now. The sudden panic that had built up in her only moments earlier was fading fast. She tilted her head back to the blue sky as he carried her under a trellis covered with climbing roses and into the beautiful green of the garden itself, taking one deep breath after another of fresh, early summer air.