It's three o'clock in the morning when the buzzing of the cell phone on his bedside table pulls him from sleep.

"Hm?" He grunts as he smashes the phone against his ear, more asleep than awake. He does not bother to check the caller ID.

"Enjolras?" He recognizes her voice immediately. It's a little raspy and always makes his heartbeat increase "Can I sleep at yours?"

Enjolras rolls out of bed and clumsily pulls on his clothes with one hand. "Of course," he tells her quickly. "I'll set up the futon."

Most people would presumably be surprised, worried or annoyed to receive a call like that at such an hour. Enjolras was different. His friends were of an interesting breed. They were comfortable around each other in a way that many groups cannot relate to. And Enjolras' apartment was a particularly notable place to crash. While it was by no means spacious, it was still bigger than what anyone else had. He had grown accustomed to coming home to find Courfeyrac using his Wi-Fi, Jehan watching a documentary, or anyone else who had to time spare. Once, Grantaire had occupied the living from for two weeks, simply because he had not felt like leaving.

Éponine was an unusual sort all together. Although her family had not been legally homeless for going on four years, she still preferred sleeping on her friend's couches, rather than the hole-in-the-wall her parents called an apartment.

Enjolras pulls pillows and neatly folded blankets from the hallway cupboard and flicks on lamps. Just as he finishes putting the bedding on the futon, he hears the click of his sticky lock and the creak of the opening door.

"That was fast," he walks into the room as Éponine closes the door.

She smiles wanly at him, shrugging of her worn coat and pulling off her sneakers. Her hair is unwashed and tangled; her face is pale and drawn. Her eyes are glassy and she reeks of alcohol. "I was in the neighbourhood."

Enjolras feels a rush of surprise and confusion. "In the neighbourhood? Do you mean with—"

She shoots him an exhausted glare and he closes his mouth quickly.

"Thanks for lettin' me stay," she says, her face softening. She walks towards the futon and collapses on top of the blankets.

"Anytime," he replies, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. "My home is yours."

He waits for a response but realizes that she is already asleep.

Enjolras wakes up half an hour before his alarm is set to go off. The sun has only just risen, sending pale autumn light through the gap in the curtains. He staggers from the bed and into the hall. A quick peek into the next room proves that Éponine is still sleeping, her mouth half open and her brow furrowed. Enjolras leaves her to sleep and heads to the shower.

By the time he returns, she is awake, leaning out of the window that looks out onto the streets of Paris. Her clothes are rumpled from sleep and she takes slow drags from a cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the open window.

"I made coffee," she tells him without turning around. "It's still in the pot, it's prob'ly still hot."

"I'm okay for now," he lies. They both know that his veins would rather be filled with caffeine than blood. But she shrugs and fruitlessly blows smoke out the window, as the wind blows it right back. She flicks the butt from the windowsill and they both watch as the wind carries it from sight.

"What happened last night?" He asks her after a moment.

"Nothin'," Éponine says with a shrug. "I was around, a little drunk and didn't feel like goin' all the way home."

"You were 'around'. You mean you were with—"

"It don't matter," she breezes past him, towards the door. "Thanks for lettin' me stay, but I gotta get to work. I'll see you at the Musain tonight, yeah?"

Enjolras tries to put his hand on her shoulder— a friendly gesture, although he is not at all satisfied with her answer— but accidently pulls on the sleeve of her zip up hoodie. The grey fabric slides down, revealing her tank top strap and an angry purple bruise that resides on her shoulder and collarbone.

"Don't," she whispers, suddenly looking years younger.

Enjolras pictures a man. He pictures a face that he has not seen in a year and a half. A face that he and his friends swore they would ruin should they ever see it again.

"Montparnasse," he breathes and watches as her face goes white. "'Ponine, did you back to him?"

She frowns and looks away as he lets go of her sweater. "I did."

Enjolras is livid. Not at her, never at her, but at that fucking sleaze. He remembers a call from a panicked Marius. He can still picture her bloody nose and broken rib. He recalls how long it took for the black eye to fade.

"He hurt you again," he says softly, more to himself than to Éponine. "I'm going to call the police."

"No."

"Then I'll sort him out myself."

"No!"

Enjolras moves towards the door, but she shields the exit with her body.

"Montparnasse hurt you again. I fucking knew it. Why won't you let me do something about it?"

Éponine blinks back tears of frustration and looks up at him. "You don't understand. 'Sides, it ain't your fight, it's mine. I can take care of myself."

Enjolras sighs and his face softens. "I know you can. So why won't you ask for help when you need it?"

She meets his eyes and although her eyelids are smudged with day-old cheap mascara, her eyes burn bright with coherence. "'Cause I don't need it." She pulls on her shoes, picks her coat and shuts the door behind her.

Enjolras waits until he hears her shoes clunking down the stairs before pouring a cup of coffee. His anger has turned into sadness for Éponine. He takes his steaming mug to his bedroom and composes a text for ten people.

E: Something has happened. I need assistance.

He very nearly hits send before he realizes what he's about to do. As much as he'd like to rally his troops, as much as Éponine needs help, it is not his place to betray her secret.

He throws his phone onto the bed and drains his coffee in one sip, his mind whirling with all sorts of ideas and emotions.

Author's Note~ Thank you for reading! I am looking forward to writing more of this story. For the record, I am using the continuity of both the brick and the play. I'm trying to make Éponine's argot sound English (as I am not French) and modern. I do hope you enjoyed this first chapter!