Her fingertips are brushing the damp curls at the nape of his neck, causing shivers to crawl up his spine. As she tugs at them, he shifts before he can stop himself.

"Stop squirming." She orders.

"I'm not." He replies indignantly. He is a grown man, he is Enjolras for Christ's sake, and he does not squirm.

"Yes, you are. Now sit still." Eponine's voice books little room for argument although Enjolras is game to continue no matter how fruitless the efforts might be. He resists the urge to cross his arms.

Enjolras still isn't completely sure what happened to lead him here. Somehow, mentioning that his hair was becoming hard to manage at the cafe has ended up with him sitting in his apartment's kitchen with a brightly colored bath towel wrapped around his shoulders and Eponine standing behind him brandishing a pair of scissors. He just wasn't sure how it got this far (he somehow feels it is Courfeyrac's fault for calling him Rapunzel).

He gives it another valiant effort. "Are you sure you know what you are doing? Because I can book a…"

"For the last time, yes." She cuts him off, her tone exasperated. "Why waste your money? I have been cutting Gavroche's hair since he was a toddler."

Enjolras thinks of scrawny preteen with his extreme hairstyles and uneven locks and grumbles. "…That's not the most impressive resume."

Eponine primly chooses to ignore his comment, although Enjolras can imagine her rolling her eyes. Instead she flicks his ear, which makes his scowl deepen. "Now, hush. Let me work."

Enjolras sighs, lets his eyes slip close and tries to reassure himself of a positive outcome to the situation. Hard as he might, his back is still rigid against the high-backed chair. Eponine begins and Enjolras tries not to flinch at the first snip of the scissors. After a few more cuts, when he still has both his ears and the sky doesn't start raining fire, Enjolras lets some of the tension out of his shoulders.

It's not hard to relax once he allows himself too. It's a quiet Sunday, with late afternoon sunlight drifting into his flat through open windows that makes the world shades of gold and bronze from behind his closed eyelids. Softly Etta James croons in the background from the iPod on the counter. As Eponine's fingers run through his hair, nails lightly scraping against his scalp, a drowsy contentment settles in. Enjolras feels almost dreamlike in its presence.

"Oh, God…"

Any dreamy content vanishes at the sound of Eponine's exclamation and he sits up, ramrod straight.

"What?" Enjolras demands, resisting the urge to feel the back of his head for the bald spot he just knows is there. He is not Bossuet; he cannot pull off the bald look.

It is only at the sound of Eponine's laughter, loud and overwhelming, that Enjolras realizes he has been had and his raising panic leaves him. "You are so easy."

"Ha." He replies sardonically, this time giving into the childlike urge to cross his arms.

Eponine is still laughing as she resumes the haircut; although softer the sound is just as bright as before. Enjolras is grateful his back is to her so that she cannot see the small smile it brings to his lips.