note: I do not own The Proposal, or Sunday Morning, or Adam Levine, unfortunately. Eponine and Enjolras belong to Victor Hugo.
"Marry me."
"Wait, what? Why?"
"They're going to deport me."
Of course Enjolras agreed, once she explained she would promote him to the position of partner in her law firm if he just married her. His work was everything to him. She knew that.
What she did not know was that his family lived in rural Maine and that she would have to accompany him up there for the weekend.
"It's my great-godfather Jacques' birthday, we have to go. It's what normal people do," he insisted on the plane when she demanded for the 100th time why on earth she was going with him. "Speaking of normal, we should talk. About each other. You know, so we look like an actual couple? Well, okay, I already know everything about you."
She lifts her head from her blue U-shaped travel pillow, narrowing her eyes at him. "No, no, you don't." Nobody really does, but that requires a long story, one that she has not told in years. Instead, she asks, "What am I allergic to?"
He doesn't even blink. "Pine nuts, and the full spectrum of human emotion."
She just gives him a "harrumph" at that.
Mrs. Simone Enjolras turns out to be a lovely, petite blond woman that hugs her so tight she can't breathe for a moment.
"Mother, please don't suffocate my girlfriend." She has to give it to him – he barely stumbles over his words.
"She's beautiful," Grand-pere Jacques, who is apparently some sort of very kindly and unorthodox bishop. He beams with fatherly pride over at Enjolras. "Your boss, right?" The way he hesitates a little, like he's about to say something else, sets her on edge.
Eponine knows what they call her around what they think is her back.Here comes the bitch, they murmur around coffee machines. Best lawyer in the city, pity she's a demon from the seventh layer of hell. So ruthless she'd steal the last breath of a dying man if it would save her skin. Yes, well. She lifts her head up high and flounces into the car, cold and beautiful and not giving one damn.
"Once we get home you guys have enough time to take a quick shower and maybe a nap before the party at five," Simone chirps happily.
Enjolras immediately sits up straight. "Wait, Mother, what party?"
"Well, it's just a little get-together for dinner, nothing big. You've been gone so long, darling," Simone coos, and Enjolras looks so uncomfortable Eponine wants to laugh. Instead, she turns to the window.
That is how she notices how a familiar surname graces most of the buildings and storefronts going by in a colorful blur. When they start pulling up the long circular driveway of a mansion that lazily sprawls over tidy lawns, she nudges Enjolras with a sharp elbow none-too-gently.
"You never told me you were rich," she hisses.
Enjolras narrows his eyes at her. "Would you have cared?"
Grand-pere Jacques, misunderstanding, flaps a large and wrinkled hand in the air. "Don't mind him, child, Antoine's just a little shy about the whole thing. Doesn't want people judging him on his riches, and whatnot."
He flinches visibly. "Please don't call me Antoine."
"Darling, you're here for only a few days, try to keep it together," Simone soothes, and Eponine has absolutely no idea what's going on any more. Before she can ask for clarification, however, Simone bounces out of the car like a cocker spaniel with a cheery smile that is a little stretched at the corners.
"We're home!"
She finds it deeply, deeply amusing that golden boy Enjolras, the brilliant orator, is the one who is hiding in a corner of this labyrinth of modern architecture, all milk-white glass and glossy dark wood. Then again, she's not exactly mingling with the crowd either.
"I hate parties," he sighs as she comes to stand beside him.
"I find they're not so bad when you're blindingly drunk," she offers him her glass of whiskey. He smiles briefly but shakes his head.
"No, no, if I'm drunk I'll lose my mind when –"
"WHERE IS THAT UNGRATEFUL WASTE OF SPACE I CALL A SON?" A man roars above the joyful din of the party.
Enjolras ducks out of the arch they were standing under. "Hello, Father."
The two men stare at each other. Enjolras is the spitting image of his sire, same aquiline nose and lofty carved brow that would make Michelangelo weep, curving passionate mouth in a sharply angled jaw. Even the disdain is the same.
"There you are, you good-for-nothing. Look at you. You leave behind a veritable commercial empire that is all yours, ripe for the taking, that I built to leave as a glorious legacy for you, and you fly off to New York to be some snooty lawyer and never visit your father and mother? And when you do visit, you sulk off in some corner and don't talk to the people who love you?"
Enjolras sets his jaw. "Father, I am helping people. I protect people's rights, I defend innocent people –"
The man guffaws, and the sound makes Eponine grimace a little. "You can't possibly be happy."
Suddenly Enjolras' gaze hardens into something glittering and sharp with suppressed anger. His arm sweeps back and wraps around her waist, pulling her towards him. "On the contrary. Eponine, this is my father, Antoine Enjolras Sr. Father, this is my fiancée, Eponine Thenardier, the finest lawyer in the state of New York, arguably in New England."
The room goes so silent, Eponine can almost hear the falter in Enjolras Sr.'s heartbeat, just as loudly as she can hear the proud drumming of Enjolras' pressed against her ear.
Just as abruptly, everyone breaks into applause. "Why, Enjolras, shame on you for not telling us," Grandpere Jacques scolds loudly, much to Simone's agreement. Enjolras Sr. backs away with muttered apologies and congratulations. She can still feel tension, though, Enjolras' body against her taut as a guitar string tuned too tight, and he still has not let her go.
Still, for a while, everything is relatively calm.
That is, until one of Enjolras' high school friends, a grinning and cocksure man with a head full of black corkscrew curls, shouts, "Hey, Enjolras, why don't you kiss your girl? A kiss from the happy couple, yeah?"
"Grantaire-" Enjolras' warning growl reverberates through her bones, but the slightly inebriated crowd has already taken up the chant.
"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Enjolras murmurs, "They won't shut up until we do, you know. I'm sorry."
"Your friends are really mature," she hisses back, twisting in his arms to face him. They lean in almost theatrically and he barely skims his lips over hers, tentatively and quick.
The crowd collectively groans, disappointed.
"What's the matter, boy?" Grandpere Jacques hoots. "In my day, we knew how to kiss. And I was a bishop!"
"Kiss her properly," Grantaire catcalls. "Come on, where's that famous silver tongue of yours?"
She's about to laugh it off and point out that's not exactly what the phrase "silver tongue" refers to, but suddenly his hands are pulling her face to his and his mouth is crashing over hers like a tidal wave, washing over her. The last kiss was hardly a touch. This one demanded to be felt.
One, two, three, and then they're apart, both inhaling deeply.
The lights feel almost too bright as the crowd, appeased, cheers and applauds, along with cries of "Whoo, boy, I think somebody needs to turn the AC on!" or "Whoa, those were some slick moves, there, Enjolras, who you been practicing on?" In the din, his smile is shaky and a little apologetic. She almost smiles back, but she forces her mouth down to a neutral line.
You don't have to force yourself to enjoy this. Don't get attached, it'll be all over before you know it, she tells herself fiercely, and then she stalks off to the side bar because she desperately needs another drink.
Enjolras is incredibly, incredibly difficult to avoid.
One, there is the fact that Simone and Grandpere Jacques insist on them sharing a room ("When you kiss like that, you're totally not fooling anyone that you're not sharing a room, so don't even try," Grandpere Jacques winks – if all bishops are like this, Eponine thinks, she just might try going to church again). She manages to pointedly ignore Enjolras' morning scruff and the groggy rumble of his voice when he just wakes up, and the way he's very touchy when he's still sleepy ("Touch my ass again, and I'll cut your balls off in your sleep," she has to hiss one morning).
Two, there is also the fact that Enjolras is essentially the only person in town who really knows her, so she is forced to wander around with him all day. Rural Maine is very scenic, though, and Enjolras shows her all of the best spots, with astounding views of stretches of ocean, or hills crusted with the nests of seabirds that fly home at sunset with raucous cries to their waiting mates ("I know you like birds," Enjolras murmurs almost shyly). Not to mention his friend, Grantaire, who keeps telling her downright hilarious stories about their respective childhoods involving bubble gum fiascos and embarrassing adventures on beat-up roller skates.
"Didn't know Enjolras would ever get a funny girlfriend," Grantaire says appreciatively, leaning over the railing of the pier. "Beautiful, and smart, too."
"You stole that girl from me in second grade, don't try it again," Enjolras reprimands, disgruntled, and Eponine tilts her head back and laughs. She's been laughing a lot these days.
She's not laughing when Simone and Grandpere Jacques present her with a dress. A wedding dress, in fact – all silk and lace and pearls, sugar-spun and sparkling.
"We, we thought you could get married here,"
"I've got a heart condition, I wanna see you married before I die –"
"Don't be dramatic, Grandpere Jacques, it doesn't suit you. But I mean, you two will be so far away, and it's hard enough to get Enjolras to visit, I mean, you know about how he and his father don't get along. It doesn't have to be that big, something small, I mean, all of us got married in the old family barn, so – Eponine, are you crying? Do you not like the dress?" Simone clasps her hands nervously, and Grandpere Jacques gets up from his rocker to come over. Their faces in the mirror are so concerned and their eyes, they're looking at her so acceptingly, solovingly, that it's too much, too much. She's drowning under their gazes, drowning under the weight of their freely proferred love.
"No, no, it's perfect, it's perfect," she soothes. "I'm, I'm going to go get some fresh air, I'm not feeling well –"
She bolts out the door, letting it bounce on its hinges, galloping over the cobbled pathways and under the perfect awnings, because everything's just so goddamn perfect in this stupidly beautiful house, that's why she doesn't belong because she's not perfect, she's not perfect at all.
It's not long before she finds herself off the Enjolras estate and into the verdant woods behind it, always a long and dark shadow on the horizon whenever she looked out over the tidy lawn. There are cobwebs clinging to her arms and shrubs clawing at her calves and she still runs, runs, runs like she can outrun regret itself. The tears are coming in a rush, hot and sticky on her face like blood. She wipes them away angrily as she moves until she can't run any more, so she settles for howling out her anger and frustration and regret at the sky like some sort of wild animal. She screams until she sobs for breath, pounding her fists helplessly against the rough bark of a tree as her lungs beg for air.
By the time she sags against the tree to the forest floor, the sky has darkened, and surprise, surprise, she has no idea where the hell she is.
"Shit, shit, shit, why, just why," she demands of herself, tugging at her hair. "This is why you're not supposed to throw massive temper tantrums, didn't you learn?" She heads off into the direction of what she thinks is the house. "For such a big fricking house, why can't I see it from here?"
She's been wandering for what feels like hours before she hears something, a long insistent call over the wind and rustle of foliage. "Eponine! Eponine! Eponine!"
"Enjolras? Enjolras!"
"Eponine!" There's the sound of running footsteps and panting before the beam of a flashlight shines onto her face. Suddenly there are strong arms around her, pulling her tight against a solid chest. "Damn you, Eponine, what the hell were you thinking? You're so stupid, Eponine, so, so stupid, what if I hadn't found you?"
"I'm sorry," she murmurs over and over again against the comforting feel of his t-shirt and the smell of laundry detergent and his cologne. "It was just too much, too much, your mom and your Grandpere Jacques and Grantaire, I never asked to love them, I never asked them to love me, it's all too much, I can't do families, Enjolras –"
He doesn't laugh at her tears, like she feared he would. He doesn't try to tell her anything clichéd and contrived either. Instead, his hands run over her hair, repetitive and soothing, somehow. "Shhh, it's okay. We'll work it out. I've got you, Ep. I've got you. We'll work it out."
When the rest of the very worried family and friends come upon their spot, they find them standing together still, swaying a little, the flashlight dropped on the ground.
"Ep." His voice shatters the hushed stillness of their shared bedroom. "About earlier, when you said 'I can't do families,' what did you mean?"
She rolls over, burying her face into a pillow. "I don't want to talk about it."
His hand is heavy on her shoulder. "Eponine, we're going to getmarried tomorrow. I know a lot about you, but I don't really know you. I don't even know your favorite song. Please, Eponine."
The room lapses into silence once more. She can feel him rolling over, sheets crunching and the bed dipping under his weight.
"Sunday Morning, Maroon 5."
He flops back over towards her, and she can just imagine the scrunched up look of confusion on his face. "Excuse me?"
She shrugs. "Well, it's not my absolute favorite song, but it's close. Come on, it's classic. Plus, you can't go wrong with Adam Levine."
"But things just get so crazy, living life gets hard to do," his voice is low and surprisingly sweet, if a little shaky.
She joins him. "And I would gladly hit the road, get up and go if I knew, that someday it would lead me back to you, that someday it would lead me back to you."
He snorts, she giggles. "You know, I would have pegged you for something a little more edgy."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she mock-snaps, grabbing a spare pillow and smacking him with it.
"Nothing, I swear!" The bed shakes with their soft chuckles until she thinks any moment now one of the Enjolras parents is going to pop in and tell them to "quiet down, kids".
They lapse into awkward silence once again for a few moments. She swallows hard before taking a deep breath.
"I like birds because they can just pick up everything and fly away, to wherever they want. My little sister Azelma used to collect bird feathers, she could tell you loads of things about every one. That was before she and my baby brother Gavroche got put in foster care. I was eighteen. Your dad's pretty harsh, but see, my dad, he, he used to –" his hand suddenly reaches up and clasps hers. "he used to hit us, all the time. My parents ran a bar, one of those cheap sketchy places that didn't only sell alcohol, if you catch my drift. Not exactly the place where you'd expect a snooty bitch of a lawyer like me to grow up, huh? Don't say I'm not. I know I am. I know. It's easier."
He's quiet for a heartbeat or two. "Well, you're certainly not as bitchy as those frozen monsters from across the street at Mitchell's. Plus, you're twice as clever as any of those cows, anyway." She laughs a little, before he tells her more about how he became a lawyer, and she tells him how Gavroche loved to hear her sing, and he gives her what he insists are the "real" versions of what Grantaire has told her, and they talk on and on into the night about nothing and everything.
In the morning, she knows exactly what to do.
~
Small, my foot, Simone, she thinks, walking up the aisle. This is so not small.
There are people everywhere crowding up the makeshift pews in the barn, but c'mon, she's seen larger courtrooms.
Enjolras looks extremely mystified when she starts talking, up at the altar.
"I'd like to tell you all that I'm sorry to have wasted all of your time, and I'm sorry to have deceived you. The truth is, a few days ago, I was told I was going to be deported back to France for not filling out some paperwork – I'm sure all of you know what a pain paperwork and our government can be. And so, I turned to my devoted assistant, Antoine Enjolras, and I told him I would make a partner in the firm, a named partner, and help fund the printing of his book, if he married me and thus prevented my having to leave. We planned to divorce shortly afterwards. So yes, we came here this weekend to lie to you all, and I can't do it any longer. I'm sorry."
With that, she steps off the stage and runs out of the barn.
Back in New York, she's at her beloved office in the law firm she worked day and night to build, packing up books and binders, manila files and typical desk knickknacks.
"When did I get all of this stuff?" she murmurs, staring down a truly hideous bookend.
There's a soft rap at the glass of her door. "Um, Ms. Thenardier, there's someone to see you, it's kinda urgent."
She tapes up the last box. "Yes, Michelle, just makes sure this box gets to Paris, okay?"
Eponine walks out of her office only to find a familiar set of blue eyes staring at her from across the room, Enjolras' tall frame heaving as he strides over.
"Marry me."
"Wait, what? Why?"
"Because I think I've fallen in love with you."