Author's Note: A little one-shot for Barricade Day. Not one hundred percent sure where it came from (might be a slight continuation of "June 1833"), but I hope you enjoy it. :)

Warning(s): Suicidal thoughts

He does not know how long he has lived with these shadows. For as long as he can remember, they were there, watching him in the dark. For years, he has tried to push them away, has tried to enjoy his life, but no matter how many times he has tried to banish them from his mind, they are always there, waiting for his moment of weakness, to strike while he's vulnerable.

That does not change after June 1832. If anything, they have only gotten worse.

Those early days in June went by in a blur: the death of General Lamarque, the funeral procession, the rise and fall of the barricades. The fighting, the screams of anguish, the blood on his hands, that was not the way it was supposed to happen. The fighting, perhaps, because in revolution, sometimes fighting is necessary, whether it'd be with words or guns. All the screams, all the blood…it was a nightmare he could not wake up from.

He should be happy now, five years after the fact. He has a wife, a child on the way—he should be embracing his life after such a close encounter with death, to make-up for those who can never have what he has. But even if he lives a thousand lifetimes, he knows he can never make up for the lives that were lost between June fifth and the dawn of June sixth.

The shadows, they remain within his periphery, begging for him to join them. It would be so easy, with the pistol in the nightstand drawer, the set of knives in the kitchen, the bridges over the Seine. Just one bullet, a single cut, one step, and it would be over. No more pain, no more nightmares, no more shadows, only peace.

"What is holding you back?" the shadows call while he sits at his desk by candlelight. "Your past only haunts you. Don't you want to sleep, monsieur?"

Sleep has not been an easy thing for him since the barricades' fall. Every time he closes his eyes, when he permits the darkness to surround him, he only hears the gunshots and the piercing screams, only sees the unmoving forms of his friends as their blood spills onto the cobblestones. Many a time has he woken up in a cold sweat, shivering, the aftereffects of the nightmare prevalent in his conscious form. Very rarely does he go back to sleep after that, the sight being enough to keep him awake at least for another day.

He shakes his head. He cannot go to sleep, he will not go to sleep. To sleep would be to provide the shadows with another opportunity to torture his already-traumatized soul.

"Let me be." he demands, not too convincingly. "Leave me alone."

"What about your friends?" the shadows persists, their voices luring his eyes towards the nightstand. "Surely you want to see them again?"

"Not like this, now why can you not just let me be?" he asks of them, quickly turning his head away. "Isn't surviving enough of a punishment?"

"Don't you want peace? Don't you want this pain to end?" the shadows question. "Just think of how easy it would be to end all of this suffering…"

He almost stands up. He almost walks over to that drawer. He almost picks up that pistol, almost pulls the trigger, but he resists.

"You are better than that." he says to himself aloud, trying to ignore the voices. "Think of Eponine, think of the baby…they need you."

"Coward." the shadows sneer. "Weakling."

"No!" he shouts at them, knowing full-well that asking them, telling them, to go away will never be successful. "A coward would give in, a coward would take the easy way out."

"Lucien, are you all right?" He turns his head at the sound of his wife's voice from the bed. His conversation with the shadows must have woken her.

"I…" He knows he's not, fighting his inner-demons. He wants to be all right, he wants the haunting voices to go away, but every time he turns around, they are there, lurking within the depths of his tortured mind.

For his wife to catch him in this state of mind is not a rare occurrence. He knows there have been many occasions where she has found him screaming at the shadows, day and night. She has woken him from his nightmares, having been woken up from his constant thrashing about in their bed and the muttering in his sleep. She has called him back to reality, reminding him that the shadows are only in his mind, that they cannot hurt him.

She has put up with such things after they met in the barricades' aftermath. She understands the struggles he faces, having confronted his nightmares in her past. She has heard gunshots roar past her ears, watched men die right in front of her. She lost some of her friends there, too, as well as her brother. She knows the burden of carrying such memories, that is something they share, and will share until the day they die.

She is aware of how badly he is damaged. She bares both physical and mental scars, as does he, only she does not have the latter as terrible as him. She does not have to deal with the constant torture within her mind, does not have to listen to the harsh voices. She is not taunted by them for being weak, she is not constantly reminded of the failure to die at the barricades. They do not push her to the edge, to the point where the only way to silence the voices appears to be death. She has caught him a couple of times where he almost let the shadows win, having walked in to see him with the loaded pistol pointed at his head, his chest, with his finger on the trigger.

He does not want to imagine what would have happened had she only walked in a few seconds later, and he knows that is something she is always afraid of when she comes home from the tailor's shop.

"Come to bed, dear." Eponine pats the empty spot beside her. "I am sure the letter to your mother can be finished come morning."

He takes one look at the barely-touched parchment, before rising from the chair and blowing out the candle. This is not her being ignorant of his inner battles, but rather a way to at least bring things to a ceasefire, if only for a moment.

"I apologize for waking you." he says as he crawls into bed. "I know sleep has not been the easiest thing for you as of late."

"I should be telling you the same." she replies, one hand placed on her very swollen middle as the other reaches for his hand. "You need your rest, too. Perhaps I should go put on some water for chamomile tea for you…"

She is about to climb out of bed, but his hand tightening around hers stops her. "That will not be necessary. Please stay."

It is not a question, not a demand, but a plea.

"If I find I need it, I will prepare it myself." he tells her earnestly, and she lays back down again, moving as close to him as their growing child would allow.

"I'm always here, remember that," she whispers to him after a few moments, reaching a hand up to brush away a golden curl that has obstructed the view of his face. Moments such as these is what allows him to keep the shadows at bay, if only for a little while.

He places a light kiss on her forehead, his mind at ease as he drifts off for the night.

She cannot keep his shadows away, not forever, no matter how much either of them try. He could very well wake up in the middle of the night with the shadows taunting him or the nightmares haunting him, or he could go a few days before the voices make themselves known. But regardless of when they come back, she will be there to help through it.