AN: This was a birthday fic I wrote for frustratedstudent back in April. She said she didn't like coffee AUs unless they had a twist...so I obliged. :)
—
It was the indignity of it all that got to him.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his arms were covered in suds as he washed the dingy mugs and dishes covered in sticky syrup from half-eaten waffles. To be honest, when he had declared at the end of his second year of law school that he'd rather starve than go into corporate law, he hadn't thought his father would take him up on the offer. And now, in his final year, Enjolras found his "free time" monopolized by scrounging for tips, scrubbing tables and filling ridiculous coffee orders for hipster businessmen and obnoxious college students. School was a chore, sleep was a luxury and he was coming dangerously close to wearing a hole through his only remaining pair of shoes.
Every so often his mother called, her voice gentle and calming, and offered to talk to his father on his behalf. Twice a month, she sent him secret care packages wrapped in twine and brown paper, which if he had bothered to open them would have made his life a bit more bearable. But he had meant it when he said he wouldn't take another dime from that stodgy old man, so he always dropped off the parcels at a homeless shelter on his way to work.
Even so, a part of him was still waiting for his father to cave so he could go back to throwing himself into his studies and Enjolras hated himself for it.
His hands were calloused now from six months of nonstop labor. They caught on the fine threads of his expensive clothes, which were now fraying slightly at the seams and he was quickly running out of shirts that weren't splattered with coffee stains. In the mornings he came to open before the morning shift. He returned after dinner—usually a sad, limp sandwich from the Subways down the street—and stayed until closing at 10 pm. Then he dragged himself home to read briefs for the next day, collapsing sometime around three in the morning, only to wake up again at six.
Combeferre despaired of him and spent most of his time leaving badly hidden annotations on his papers. Courfeyrac offered to lend him rent money so that he could cut back his hours at the cafe. Grantaire sat at the corner table every evening like a guard dog. For what purpose, he didn't know. But every time he manned the register, all he had to do was look up and Grantaire was there, disappearing without a word at closing.
He appreciated their concern. Really. But it also chafed at him.
Sure, Musain was grossly understaffed. Sure, his bosses—a miserly old hag and her ne'er-do-well husband—shortchanged him on a regular basis. Sure, he could probably get a better part-time job that paid more. That wasn't the point.
Enjolras rinsed his arms off in the sink before shutting off the faucet. He sighed, eyes bleary under the harsh, fluorescent glare of the kitchen lights. Feuilly, the bus boy, had needed to take off early for a family emergency, and Enjolras now regretted agreeing to cover for him. His fingers were wrinkled from the water and despite wearing an apron, he'd gotten his shirt half soaked. Another sigh escaped his lips, this time louder with a note of melancholy resignation.
This wasn't how he'd pictured himself at all.
—
She was already sitting in the cafe before he came to open, red nails tapping impatiently as she sipped a cup of coffee. On the table was an open magazine, which she flipped through at a leisurely pace, dark amber eyes pausing every so often to peruse an article or picture that caught her fancy. And although he'd cleared his throat twice and asked what she was doing there, she pointedly ignored him.
Her lips were painted a dark shade of red, which looked almost purple against her tanned skin, and left a distinctive mark on the very same mug he'd washed the night before. She was covered head-to-toe in black leather and her long chestnut hair fell in waves down her back, sunglasses perched atop her head like a makeshift headband.
"You must be the poor sucker my parents roped into running this dump," she said suddenly, though she didn't bother to look up from the magazine. "So what are you? Starving student, an artiste with his head in the clouds? Perhaps a lazy layabout?"
"Student," Enjolras replied dumbly as her words filtered through the fog of sleep that still clouded his brain. "Wait…you're…"
"Eponine Thenardier," she said, flipping the magazine shut. Her eyes met his, and Enjolras noted that despite the fact that she looked to be the same age, her gaze held the muted wisdom of someone much older than her years. "Nice to meet you. I'm the new boss."
—
Enjolras had come to learn that you could tell a lot about a person by the coffee they ordered. For instance, Combeferre took his with one milk, two sugars. Courfeyrac preferred cappuccinos—the frothier the better. Bossuet ordered decaf, while Joly insisted on a skinny latte with one sugar. Bahorel exclusively drank espressos, one pinky daintily lifted in the air and an ear-splitting grin on his face. Marius pinched pennies with an Americano with half-and-half, and Jehan refused coffee altogether, preferring a steaming mug of Earl Grey with honey. And whatever Grantaire ordered, he poured an extra shot of Bailey's from his flask to help it "go down smoother."
Eponine took hers black with two sugars, and to Enjolras that was an accurate description of his new boss.
She was there before him every morning, often slumped over one of the tables and drooling over the ledgers. He had made the mistake of mentioning it to her exactly once and Enjolras prided himself in the face he never made the same mistake twice. Now, he simply revved up the machines and made her order, leaving it on the table in front of her before going about the rest of his business.
When she finally roused, she picked up her mug and books and shut herself in the manager's office in the back, dragging her feet every inch of the way, and that was all he saw of her in the mornings.
By the time he came back for the evening shift, she was nowhere to be seen. Once, shortly after "The Mistake," he'd asked Feuilly what she was like and his new friend had shuddered, muttering curses under his breath.
"Be glad you don't know," he said as he scrubbed one dish harder. "I almost miss her parents. They were terrible, but they left you alone. She…she watches."
But overall, Enjolras couldn't really complain. He turned up at work one day to find a new hire named Musichetta manning the machines instead of Montparnasse. A week later, Claquesous had disappeared as well and was replaced by Cosette, a sunny blonde who had a knack for doing things before anyone knew they needed to be done. It made him slightly worried he'd be replaced by someone named Eveline, but Eponine never mentioned anything to him.
Slowly, but surely, the grubby tables disappeared too, replaced by more modern looking pieces and chairs that didn't wobble. They started offering sandwiches, salads and a small assortment of other pastries and cookies, and Enjolras started skipping his customary stop to Subways entirely.
Grantaire stopped coming as frequently. Enjolras didn't question why, but he suspected it had something to do with Eponine. One morning he had set her coffee down and she had seized his wrist, her fingers tightening into a vice grip as he tried to pull away.
"We don't serve alcohol here," she said slowly, those dark eyes searching his face carefully. "We don't have a license."
"I know," he had answered. "I don't drink."
"Good."
And that had been that.
—
Their first conversation came one morning when he set down her coffee and asked for an advance on his paycheck. He had interviews coming up and needed a new suit desperately.
Eponine blinked owlishly at him, and for the first time Enjolras noticed just howyoung she looked.
"Uh, sure," she said, running a hand through her hair as she shuffled the papers in front of her. "Let me see what I can do."
"Thank you."
"What do you need it for?"
"Interviews. I graduate next month."
"Oh," she said, stifling a yawn. "Right. You said you were a starving student."
It wasn't the stuff of legends, but it was a start.
—
On a Thursday morning, she handed him an unmarked envelope filled with a stack of crisp notes in exchange for her daily fix.
After that, she started lingering more often and Enjolras finally understood what Feuilly had meant when he said she watched. From the moment he set down her drink, he felt her eyes following his every move as she sipped from her mug.
"So," she narrowed her eyes, stretching her arms above her head, "what exactly do you study?"
"Law." He tried not to fidget as he wiped down the counter and logged into the register. The morning rush would be coming soon and as per usual, Brujon was running late.
"Where?"
The reaction on her face when he told her was both humiliating and gratifying.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I declined an offer to join a firm run by my father's friend."
She blinked, her eyelashes fluttering prettily as her mouth formed a small 'o'. "But why?"
He shrugged as the first customer walked through the door. He was an older gentleman with a stern mouth and a heavy brow, his hair neatly clipped and trimmed. Judging by the shield conspicuously pinned to his belt, he was some sort of law enforcement. That and the fact that he always drank a small black coffee were the only two things Enjolras knew about him.
Eponine, however, stiffened visibly. Those watchful eyes turned from him to the man, who thanked him gruffly before dumping a few coins into the tip jar. He took no notice of her, but his eyes roved around the cafe suspiciously anyway.
"This place looks different," he said, accusation coloring his voice.
"New management," Enjolras replied. "It can do wonders."
It wasn't until the man, coffee in hand, had left and disappeared down the block that Eponine remembered to breathe again.
"Somebody you know?"
He wasn't sure what prompted him to ask her that. Most likely it was the satisfaction of knowing the unflappable Eponine could be flapped. Or, perhaps it was the curiosity that came with learning something about the most mysterious boss he'd ever worked for (Nevermind that her parents had been his only other employers). In any case, he was rewarded with a stare devoid of any flicker of human warmth.
"Somebody I'd like to forget."
Enjolras nodded, eyeing the clock. Brujon was now irrevocably late. The rush would begin trickling into the cafe in less than five minutes, a swarm of morning zombies all asking for orders that he alone wouldn't be able to fill. Musichetta was always fashionably late, showing up well into the middle of the morning rush, but she made up for it with a dizzying ability to juggle four tasks at once.
"Oh, I forgot to mention I fired Brujon," she said rolling up her sleeves after downing the last of her coffee. "Do you think you can handle the morning rush until Musichetta gets here?"
"No," he grimaced. "If you hated me that much, I'd rather you just fire me."
She laughed. It was a sharp, wheezing sound that was born in her chest and rattled her entire frame. "I think I like you after all, bourgeois boy."
"I'm not a bourgeois boy."
Eponine laughed again as she hopped over the counter with a practiced ease, her feet landing perfectly in front of the espresso machine. "No one comes to work as a barista dressed in $300 shirts," she pinched the fabric of his sleeve, "and designer shoes. No one except you."
He winced. He'd known his clothes were expensive, but had never really known just how expensive. They had just shown up in his closet and he had worn them without question. His self-loathing returned, churning violently in his stomach.
"I'm still not a bourgeois boy," he said, more to convince himself than her.
"Easy there tiger. I only kid. No real bourgeois boy would lower himself to working in a dump like this."
"I happen to like this dump."
His words surprised him as much as they surprised her. But the first wave of customers had entered through the door so they left it at that. He rang up the numbers and she made the coffee, her hands nimble and quick as she pulled levers, flipped switches and poured the exact amount of milk into a dark roast. In particular, he liked how with just a flick of her wrist, she turned a ceramic mug into a pool of swirling black and white until it melded into that perfect color of toffee.
If she caught him staring, Eponine didn't mention it. She just flitted from one order to the next with the grace of a ballerina, a secret smile on her face as she drew pictures in the lattes and created clouds of whipped cream drizzled with warm caramel on the frapps. Enjolras knew from previous experience that he was incapable of such artistry. And while he was skilled in a mock courtroom, he was utterly useless with his hands, the bulk of his talent resting solely in his tongue.
And when Musichetta finally came, she gave him a pat on the back and disappeared back into her office—her clothes impeccably clean and without the tell-tale brown splatter that had ruined the majority of his wardrobe.
He swallowed. Sometimes she made him look and feel like a ten year old boy playing at adulthood.
—
In the weeks that followed, she still expected her coffee, though she was generally more awake by the time he walked through Musain's back door. He dressed more simply—a miserable afternoon spent shopping with Bahorel had afforded him a small collection of tolerable black shirts (to hide stains), jeans that "fit him properly" and durable shoes that managed not to offend his sensibilities. The first time he had worn his new clothes, she had simply arched her eyebrow and sipped from her mug.
"Imagine that."
"Imagine what?"
"You dress down nicely."
"I don't understand."
She smiled, though it was more teasing than warm. "It means the crowd won't be disappointed."
He still didn't understand, but that had been that.
She never bothered replacing Brujon. Instead, they spent the morning rush in quiet camaraderie, speaking only in the language of orders and breathing in the aroma of coffee and milk. When Musichetta arrived, the conversation turned to more laughter and teasing—between them, not him; he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut—but in the first forty-five minutes of the day they had developed their own rhythm written to the sounds of chairs scraping, coins clinking and jangling of the tiny bell above the door.
Of course, the idyll was interrupted a few weeks later by the appearance of his father, ordering—as was his custom—a large dark roast, black with no milk or sugar. Needless to say, the visit had caught Enjolras unaware and he was caught staring blankly as his father tossed some change onto the counter, his lip curling in his trademark sneer.
"I let you have your fun. This charade ends now."
From the corner of his eye, he could see Eponine readying his father's order, her face impassive except for the almost imperceptible downturn of her lips.
"Not here," he said once he found his voice. And then with more confidence, "I'm busy."
His father's nostrils flared, the storm in his eyes, the mirror image of his own, raging like the torrential rains that sometimes flooded the city during the hot summer months.
"You will speak to me when I demand it, wherever I demand it."
"Not here," Enjolras repeated slowly. "You're holding up the line." He took the coffee wordlessly from Eponine's fingers and slid it over the counter.
"You always were an obstinate child." His father eyed the coffee, his fingers curling around the cup. "Very well, if that's the way you want to play it. Just remember, I'malways watching."
He stalked out of Musain, bowling over customers in his path and slamming the door so hard Enjolras thought the he'd hear the bell jangling in his nightmares. It wasn't until the grey of his father's suit disappeared down the block that he breathed again.
The upside was that Eponine never called him bourgeois boy after that.
—
"I'd have brewed you a celebratory drink," she said the morning after his graduation ceremony, sliding over another unmarked envelope. "But the fact of the matter is, after three months, I still have no idea how you take your coffee."
"What's this?" He eyed the envelope suspiciously. It was too thin to hold any money, though his eyes widened once he looked inside.
"It's obviously temporary," she said quickly, her voice hitching uncharacteristically. "You're a fancy pants lawyer now. But until you get on your feet, it doesn't hurt to have health insurance. The perks of being an assistant manager are endless."
"I…don't know what to say."
Despite being top of his class, no law firm in the city or even the district attorney's office would look at his resume. His father was flexing his muscle, but it couldn't last forever. Or at least, that's what Enjolras hoped. Until then, he had picked up more shifts at Musain and if it meant he spent more time with Eponine…well he didn't complain.
"You say 'Thank you Eponine. You're the best boss ever.'"
"Thank you," he said, tucking the envelope into his back pocket.
"Eh," she said, waving dismissively, though he thought he saw the beginnings of a pink flush across her cheeks. "I guess that's the best I'll get out of you."
—
His friends, all of whom had landed promising job offers, took to swinging by Musain for their morning cup of joe. Their concern was flattering, if not a bit insulting. Eponine had memorized their orders within a few days and by the time the clock struck 9, she had them already waiting behind the counter, their names written in sharpie on paper cups she had prepared the night before.
But with his friends came new ideas. One day Jehan had posted a bulletin board up by the door to advertise a poetry slam event, the next it was filled with colorful neon posters. The day after that, the bohemian crowd had decided to adopt Musain's quaint, dilapidated charm as their spiritual center, devouring gallons upon gallons of coffee. A shrewd glint in her eye, Eponine had introduced a new fair trade coffee marked up by an extra 50 cents per cup.
Grantaire, who Eponine still glared at whenever he walked through the door, kept the flask at home (mostly) and had suggested they add a bookshelf where patrons could swap books at their leisure. Combeferre had been the first donor—giving Musain both his rickety IKEA shelf and an assortment of reading materials ranging from anatomy texts to Neruda to Kierkegaard. By the end of the month, Feuilly had crafted another bookshelf to accommodate their growing library of abandoned literature. Eponine looked more kindly on Grantaire after that.
Courfeyrac had demanded Eponine upgrade Musain's Wi-Fi, and she was happy to oblige with the pennies saved up from Musain's Organic Free Trade Mixer, in which Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel had been eager to end their terrible luck with women by hosting a charity fundraiser. Bahorel hit it off with a pretty red head who Enjolras thought laughed like a donkey. Bahorel insisted it was the tinkling of angels. Joly and Bossuet, however, had been doomed from the moment each set his sights on Musichetta, who was only too happy to encourage them.
Other than that and the extra couple hundred dollars in his bank account, nothing really changed with his promotion to assistant manager. He still spent his evening break applying to jobs that never replied and helped Eponine close up shop at the end of the day. The policeman with the stern mouth still came by every few weeks, ordering his coffee and tipping generously into the jar. Eponine was never around when he did, but she hadn't asked him about his father and the least he could do was return the favor.
So the notice of eviction came as a surprise, though really, when Enjolras thought about it, it shouldn't have.
The first warning had been the impromptu health inspection. Eponine had been thrown off, but Feuilly's fastidious nature had ensured every inch, nook and cranny of Musain was sparkling. The second had been the sudden and generous offer by the neighborhood chain to buy out the space. Eponine had smiled and politely declined before giving them all a 3% raise. It wasn't much but it helped.
But this was impossible to ignore or explain away.
He had strolled into the cafe that morning, clad in a red button down, black jeans and beat-up trainers to find Eponine staring at a piece of paper. Her eyes red and puffy, and she hadn't bothered to wash the dried trails of salt from her face.
"What's the matter?"
She handed him the paper and his throat caught at the angry red letters stamped across letterhead. But the flame in his belly didn't ignite until he saw the signature at the bottom of the paper.
"You didn't tell me your dad was such a dick."
He didn't say anything as he set the paper down between them on the table. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, his eyes watching her as she looked around the cafe, a watery smile on her lips.
"I should have known it was too good to last."
And just like that, Enjolras felt something inside snap. The caffiene-induced haze he'd been drifting in for the past year had finally lifted and he felt. It wasn't the dull heat brought on by an annoying customer or the icy dread when his inbox remained empty in his third month of job-hunting. It was the itch in his hands and the certainty in his step that came with the fire of righteousness.
"I'm going to fix this. Wait here."
—
The first thing he did was scroll down the lengthy list of contacts in his address book and call Marius, who apologized profusely for the next ten minutes for neglecting to stop by Musain.
"It's just the deadlines," Marius groaned. "If it's not for the morning edition, then it's for the late edition. I don't even remember what my bed looks like let alone what food other than pizza tastes like."
"Marius," he said, irritation creeping into his voice.
"Right, sorry. I'm listening."
"How fast can you get out a story?"
"…This afternoon, if needed. I just have to—"
"Good," Enjolras interjected and hit send. "I've just sent you an email with all the information."
"B-but Enjolras I need to convince—"
"Then do it."
"Just like the good old days, huh?"
Enjolras allowed himself a small smile. "Yeah. Call me when it's out."
"Will do."
He hung up with a click, set his phone next to his laptop and waited. In that time, he wrote a short e-mail to his mother consisting of a single sentence and then saved the message to his draft folder. She was the only piece of the puzzle that he hadn't solved.
After a few minutes his phone buzzed again, Marius' name flashing across the screen.
"Marius," he said calmly.
"I just read your e-mail. Are you sure?"
Enjolras paused and looked over at his screen. The e-mail sat there, his words staring back at him. Sighing, he reached over and hit send.
"Positive."
"You're absolutely, positively, a hundred-and-forty-seven percent sure? I can't take it back once its printed. You can't take it back once its been printed."
He swallowed. In his mind, he pictured the devastation on his mother's face and then the look on Eponine's that morning. He thought about the last year of washing dishes, limp Subway sandwiches, cranky customers and the all-consuming ache that had settled into his bones. He thought about the hours spent slaving away at school, crafting his resume and the confidence-rattling anguish of receiving nothing from the Internet void. But mostly, he thought about his father's face the last time they spoke at Musain.
"I always was an obstinate child."
—
The knock came at one in the morning, and he was ready, dressed in his best suit. Though when he opened the door, it wasn't the person he'd expected to see. At all.
There, her hair falling in tangles about her shoulders and wearing only her pajamas, was a very tired Eponine holding another piece of paper in her hands.
"How did you do it?"
Enjolras' brows shot up high on his forehead. "Do what?"
Eponine shook her head. "Your mother just came to my apartment and told me there'd been a misunderstanding and then gave me this." She shoved the paper into his hands. It was the deed to the building, his father's shaky signature at the bottom. "How did you do it?"
He winced. It was telling that his mother hadn't called him. "I made a gamble. It paid off."
"Knock off the Mr. Mysterious bit. Seriously. I'm your employer. I can fire you right now if I want to." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that."
Enjolras sighed and opened the door to let her in. "You might as well come in. It's a long story."
"Give me the footnotes then," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Right now."
"My father kept a mistress. I dabbled in photography in high school. Marius works at a newspaper that owns a tabloid. It's my mother's fortune that funds his company. You do the math."
Eponine opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. "You're unbelievable."
He shrugged before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. "I told you I liked that dump."
"I was saving up the money to buy it from my parents," she said slowly, her eyes flickering down the bare skin exposed at his neck. "I would've gotten it by the end of the year too."
"Well I'm not sorry," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I told you I'd fix it."
Eponine licked her lips. "I don't know whether to slap you or kiss you."
And that really, was all the invitation he needed. It was no surprise really, that she tasted like coffee with a hint of sugar, or that her hair felt like spun silk in his hands. He told her of his need with with his fingers as they traced the lines of her neck, tilting her mouth up so he could taste more of her. She told him of hers in soft sighs and the way she held onto his arms, her nails digging into his skin. He picked her up easily, closing the door behind him with his foot as she threaded her arm around his neck, her other hand caressing his jaw as she sucked his bottom lip.
"I think," he said between kisses as they made their way to the bedroom, "that I deserve a raise."
Eponine's eyes twinkled as she planted another kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I think," she said, her voice dropping into a sultry whisper, "I'll decide who gets a raise based on performance."
—
AN: Woo. I finally did a one shot that's actually a one shot. *dances*.