A/N Just a little, fluffy something written on a grey day. Inspired by rice pudding, the Redwall book series (if you haven't read them do, seriously), and my immenant departure for university.

Enjoy!

Unexpected comfort

It was a grey and slightly rainy day in early September, just a few weeks before university started up again. Most of the Amis were away from Hugo House, either visiting family or on holiday together. Only Enjolras, Eponine, and Combeferre were still there: Combeferre because he was working at the hospital to add to his internship hours, and the former two because they had no family, or at least no family that they wanted to see.

Not that Eponine wanted to be thinking about family right now, especially not of those rose-tinted days of her childhood when everything had been good and uncomplicated in away only a seven year would accept. Before everything went to hell.

She sniffed in a brusque manner, tears still a foreign concept to her even now that she had lowered her emotional walls a little with the bunch of crazy people she called her friends and housemates. It wasn't that she didn't want to cry, for she did, but it was a very likely possibility that if she let herself feel the full pain that the phone call at seven o'clock that morning had given her, then she might shatter completely; something she could not afford to do.

"Hey." Enjolras greeted her casually as he walked into the kitchen, still in his sleepwear, studying her briefly where she stood by the sink, looking out of the window behind it. "Ah, I see it's a 'cold rice pudding straight out of the pan' kinda day."

Eponine shrugged, taking another spoonful of the creamy mass. "What can I say? I eat my feelings."

The tousled blond head reappeared from where it had disappeared into the vast, almost empty depths, of the fridge and turned to look at her curiously, brows drawn. "Is there any particular reason for these feelings that you're eating?"

If she was being honest, Eponine would rather have done the impending conversation with several people who were not Enjolras, but she was tired and hurting and if he couldn't handle her if she started crying then...well he would just have to manage, because she was done. Done being strong. Done being the grown up. Done with hurting on her own and not speaking out about it.

"Just a little one," she said slowly, looking down at her spoon stirring the contents of the pan instead of up at her friend. "I got a call from the police this morning, well, Javert actually. He caught sight of the report somewhere and recognised the name, because how many Thenardiers do you know..." Her words caught in her throat and she stopped, turning her face away as tears threatened to rise again.

"It's not Gavroche, is it?" Enjolras asked, stepping closer almost involuntarily, hands clenched.

The genuine fear for her brother in his voice warmed Eponine's heart for a moment and she shook her head.

"Gav's fine," she said. "But...uh...my mother, she...she was found dead last night. A drug overdose. The police got an anonymous tip about it; that was probably my dad...it's the kind of thing he would do – it's his version of caring, I suppose."

Enjolras swore softly. "I'm so sorry, Ep," he said. "I...damn...I really am sorry."

She shrugged again. "I'm not surprised really... sad, but not surprised. My mum was never a very happy person, even when I was little. She was…disappointed, I think, in the life she had ended up in. Only back then she just use to lose herself in romance novels and a few too many G&Ts on an afternoon. After we lost the inn she switched to harder stuff and just kept digging to hide from whatever she couldn't face. Though I'm the same, a little, only I do it by hiding in my degree…and pans of rice pudding. It's probably why I chose history; you get to see the beginning and end of everything and don't have to worry about being blindsided. You get the luxury of hindsight without having to experience the mistake." She swiped at her eyes, with a shaky, humourless laugh. "I didn't think I'd be this upset about it. I haven't even seen the woman since I was sixteen and that was when she was kicking me out of the house. I think she threw a bottle at my head."

Enjolras gave her a frown, one of his special, gentle ones that meant he was worried and not cross. "No matter how bad your relationship became in the last few years, she was still your mother," he said. "It's harder than people think to stop caring about someone, even if they've treated you badly."

"I think you should be doing psychology and not politics," she teased half-heartedly, the smile dropping almost instantly. "I think its worse for me because... I remember when she didn't use to be so bad, my dad as well. How we used to go out for dinner every Wednesday night and they'd let me get whatever dessert I wanted, no matter what." She smiled in remembrance. "And how my dad used to put me on his shoulders so I could reach to polish the brass letters on the sign above the door of the inn. I used to love doing that."

"They sound like good things to remember." Enjolras propped his hip against the work top beside her, arms folded, completely focused on her. "Maybe that's what you should try and think about today... it might help."

She shook her head. "No, it won't. Because all it does right now is remind me what I lost, what I didn't have for the majority of my childhood. I actually don't want to think about them at all today, either of them. I mean, tomorrow I've got to tell Gavroche and try to track down Alzema and make arrangements and...but right now, I don't want to be the grown up. I just want to eat rice pudding and try to forget about it all."

"I might be able to help with that," Enjolras replied, inspiration lighting up his eyes. "I've got a book you can borrow that will help, I promise." Before she could say another word he had darted away out of the kitchen, his worn grey sweatpants struggling to hold on around his narrow waist.

Internally, Eponine groaned. As surprisingly empathetic the usually awkward leader was being, she really didn't want to stick around to be handed a book or pamphlet about world history or a collection of survivor stories that were supposed to make her feel inspired but would actually just make it worse. Hiding in her room and binge watching something mindless on Netflix would work far better, followed later on by more rice pudding and a little something from the bottle of scotch that she knew Grantaire kept hidden at the back of his wardrobe.

Just as she was planning her escape, deliberately not allowing herself to remember having to creep around like this as a child, escaping her mother's blank, disappointed stares or her father's sudden rages, Enjolras bounded back into the kitchen.

"Here," he said holding a thick, battered paperback out to her. "I used to read these all the time when I was little and missed my parents. Actually, I had them read to me first, which was an experience I would offer you, but I'm not a very skilled narrator."

Eponine took the book, looking back and forth between the cover and its owner, trying to assimilate the two. "Martin the Warrior?" she asked. "Enjolras, this looks like Lord of the Rings with mice."

"Trust me on this, please," he implored. "I read these whenever I want to escape for a little while and no matter how many times I reread them, they still work. Just try it. Where's the harm? If you hate it just bring it back to my room and I'll leave you alone."

"Of all the titles I expected you to bring me...this was not one of them," she admitted. "I'll try it, okay?"

"OK," he replied with a smile that suggested he knew better and then turned away. "I'm going to go out for some food in a bit. I promised Combeferre I'd cook tonight but we've got nothing in. Is there anything you want?"

"Not that I can think of," she replied, distracted, reading the blurb on the back as she climbed the stairs to her room. She doubted a childish book would help ease the ache inside of her chest, but right now she would try anything. For a second she imagined herself sat on the floor beside a preteen Enjolras, both of them experiencing the book in a way she had never been given as a child. It was startling how much she wished it could be real - what that said about her state of mind she didn't want to know, suddenly glad that Cosette wasn't around with all of her psychology student mind-reading power. Dropping onto her bed, pan, book, and all, she let loose of the noise in her head and opened the cover.

Combeferre arrived home much later that day, stretching tired muscles as he trudged to the kitchen. He followed his nose to the promise of food, leaving the cares of the day at the door along with his shoes. Perching on one of the tall chairs placed around the worn, wooden island that served most often as a table (but had been used at various times for an impromptu game of snooker - that ended badly – and as a burlesque stage on the occasions that Courfeyrac got a little frisky – which ended even worse) he greeted Enjolras with a grunt.

His friend turned from where he was stirring a delicious smelling pot of food on the cooker top, an apron tied around him and his sleeves rolled up.

"The chilli will be a minute," he promised. "I'm just waiting on the rice."

Combeferre hummed appreciatively. "I love it when you go all domestic," he teased, removing his glasses and rubbing tired eyes. "Is anyone else here?"

"Only Eponine," Enjolras replied, giving the rice a last check. "There, done. She's been upstairs most of the day though."

"I thought you two were getting on a little better now?" Combeferre queried, passing two plates over.

"We are…I think," Enjolras said, loading them up. "She hasn't been avoiding me…it's just…she got some bad news this morning, that's all."

"How bad?" Combeferre was instantly concerned.

"Bad," was the response. "It's not my news to tell, she can do that when she's ready, but it hit her hard."

"She talked to you about it?" Combeferre dug two sets of cutlery out of the drawer while Enjolras found two beers in the fridge. "No offense, I just didn't think you two were at the confidante stage yet."

"She wasn't exactly faced with a whole host of options, was she?" Enjolras twisted the caps off the beers and set them on the island. "We talked, briefly, and then…"

"And then…what?" Combeferre asked, leaning forwards.

"He gave me the best thing anyone ever could have."

Turning quickly, and feeling a little guilty at being caught talking about her, both young men took in her red-rimmed, still damp eyes aghast.

Combeferre caught sight of the book clutched in one hand. "Ah, now the look on your face makes sense," he said, jumping up to serve Eponine a plate of food. "Julien and I used to read those all the time when we were younger."

"What do you mean 'used to'? I still do." Enjolras peered at Eponine carefully. "Are you alright? I was hoping it would make you feel better, not worse."

She smiled a little weakly at him. "It was rather cathartic actually. Being able to cry about something that wasn't related to me directly meant I could allow myself to let go." She laid the book on the island and took a seat. "Plus, I was wrong; it is an awesome book. I mean, it broke me, but it was awesome."

Combeferre paused from where he was serving up Eponine's meal, taking in the sight of his two friends sat shoulder to shoulder. Jehan was right, they really did look rather fetching together…

"Your mum used to read them to us, do you remember?" Enjolras twisted in his seat slightly to talk to his friend. "When my parents were away and they'd hired your mum to come and take care of me? We used to sit and listen for hours."

"She gets all of the voices just right," Combeferre agreed.

Eponine smiled a little sadly. "I wished I could have been there," she admitted quietly, not looking at either of them.

"Well, maybe we could have a revisit," Combeferre mused. "It's been a while since I last read them and while I may not be as good as my mother, I think the ability to do the mole voice is genetic."

"It'll be like being kids again," Enjolras enthused, bumping Eponine gently with his shoulder in a surprising display of affection.

She bumped him back and smiled, missing the look that appeared on Combeferre's face as he watched the two of them. "No, it'll be better."