AN: So this chapter's a bit longer than the other ones have been so far...but I like how it turned out ultimately. Hopefully you guys will too! As always, much appreciation for the reviews, faves and follows. And of course, feedback is my crack.
Chapter Four: A midnight truce
She had little moments of brilliance. Every so often, she'd say some offhand remark that left his head spinning. Thankfully, she never seemed to notice. Or if she did, she pretended not to.
"My name is Eponine, by the way."
The confession came out of the blue, spoken so softly he almost didn't hear it. She had been sitting, huddled with her arms wrapped around knees, on the gravel not too far from the ledge. Irritated as he was, he sat just a few feet away. He told himself it was a precautionary measure. After all, she was a willful creature inclined to sentimentality, a volatile combination at best.
In any case, it was a strange name, not one he heard often. He told her as much.
"It was my mother's idea. She was a romantic."
He nodded politely, but Eponine didn't look at him. She kept her head down, buried in the space between her arms and knees. He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed since she had stalked off after their last spat, but it had been awkward. And humiliating. It felt as if he were once again an unruly child at school, wrongfully punished in the corner with his tormentor.
"I'm—"
"I know who you are. I remember." She lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes red and puffy, her voice simmering with rage. "You're the almighty Enjolras. Leader of men. Vanquisher of injustice."
He snorted. "I'm a lawyer. And not a very good one at that."
"Humility doesn't suit you. I liked you better when you were giving pretty little speeches in the quad."
"Yes, well," he fixed her with an exasperated look. "I liked me better then too."
"What happened?"
He grimaced. Everything that had transpired in the capital flashed before his eyes. The phone call. The loss of his mentor. The investigation. Losing the respect of his peers. His termination. It was still raw in his mind. "It's nothing."
Her lips twisted in frustration, but Enjolras was thankful when she didn't push the topic further.
"You didn't seem too happy at the party."
"Neither did you."
"You'd be drowning yourself in tequila too if the love of your life decided to get engaged to someone else."
He studied her carefully. He didn't have the silver tongue of a poet, at least, not when it came to women. The result was he lacked the ability to pin down the words to describe her properly. They swirled around the edges of his thoughts, lingering briefly before disappearing forever into the void. He was not Jehan, not in the slightest. And yet his eyes understood what his brain did not.
She was attractive, but not conventionally so. Her nose was odd and her mouth a bit too wide. Her face was long and thin, with none of the softness of Cosette's. She looked hungry, like she had been deprived of something all her life. Despite that, she was witty—though sometimes caustically so—and charming, in her own, very annoying, way. And she wasn't afraid to stand up to him. In short, she was everything Marius was not.
Under different circumstances, he might have even liked her.
It was for that reason her infatuation baffled him. Marius was not unkind. His heart was always in the right place, even if the way he went about things was sometimes less than exemplary. But he saw little (his obliviousness to her feelings was evidence of that) and what he saw, he took at face value.
He mulled it over in his mind, trying to fit them together in his head. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see how such an odd girl would fall in love with someone so...wholesome.
"Forgive me for being rude, but why Marius?"
Eponine blinked. "What?"
He repeated his question.
"No one's ever asked me that before. I—"
They were interrupted by a buzzing noise. Eyes wide and frozen, they both turned their gaze to his pocket.
"You had your phone this entire time?!" she shrieked.
"In case you forgot, I was a bit preoccupied," Enjolras snapped as he fumbled to get the phone out, his fingers thick and clumsy as he flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Enjolras!" It was Courfeyrac. "Where are you?"
"Oh thank god. I'm at 55 Rue Plumet. I'm stuck—"
"You're breaking up. Where are you?"
"55 Rue Plumet!"
"Where?"
"Who is it? Are they coming to get us?" Enjolras eyed Eponine warily. She had scuttled over and was wringing her hands, large eyes hopeful.
"I'm stuck! On the roof! 55 Rue Plumet!"
"What? The roof?"
"Send help!"
"You're breaking up man. Come back to Musain ASAP."
"Wait, Courfeyrac. Don't—" he shut his eyes as he heard a click, "hang up."
Groaning, he leaned his head back until it hit the ledge wall behind him. He didn't even bother stopping her when he felt her pry the phone from his fingers.
"No wonder. You've barely got any signal up here. And jeez, your battery's low."
Opening his eyes, he frowned. She was tapping the phone against her forehead, eyes shut in concentration. "What are you doing?"
"Shh! I'm trying to remember Cosette's number."
"Marius' number is in there. Wouldn't it be easier to just call him?"
"And have to explain why we're up here? No thank you." She glared at him as she punched in the numbers. "Why in God's name do you still have a flip phone? Aren't you lawyer types super rich?"
Enjolras scowled. Once upon a time he had been among the worst of them, his nose buried in a smartphone at all hours of the day. Work had necessitated it. He didn't have that excuse anymore. Unemployed and penniless, who did he know in this city outside a handful of friends? No, the "mighty" Enjolras had returned home and opted for the cheapest option available.
After a minute her face fell and she shut the phone, wordlessly handing it back to him.
"Didn't pick up?"
"Nope. And she doesn't check voicemail. Ever."
"Great."
"Text your friend. The responsible one."
He held out the phone to her again. "Best you do it...I'm not...good with these things. His name is Combeferre."
She made a show of sighing but with a few keystrokes the electronic missive was sent and the phone back in his pocket. "I sent it to everybody in your address book. Now what?"
He shrugged. "Now we wait."
She didn't like the quiet. Enjolras deduced that much by the way her fingers twitched every so often and the furtive looks she sent his way when she thought he wasn't looking. In between arguments, she peppered him with inane questions that made him grit his teeth.
But honestly, he didn't like the quiet either.
"Your friends are taking way too long."
Enjolras rolled his eyes. It was her fifth outburst in ten minutes. He was beginning to think he liked her more when she was drunk and unconscious. At least then she was quiet.
"Give it time."
"It's already been half an hour," she said, raking her hands through her hair. "Musain is a 10-minute walk from here! Ten minutes!"
"You forget the elevator isn't working. Half of them are probably drunk out of their minds. Give it time."
"Ughhh...so we're stuck here?"
"It would seem so."
"And your battery is...at what?"
"I'd rather not look. It'll drain what's left."
"And no response to the texts?"
"None."
She plopped down next to him conspiratorially. "You're taking this pretty well."
Rolling his eyes, Enjolras stood up, brushed the dirt of his pants and walked back toward the door. There would be no opening it from their end, of that he was sure. But futile as his efforts would be, it beat the alternative. Bending over, he picked up the door handle, which had tossed off to the side earlier, and eyed the broken lock.
"You really know how to make a girl feel special."
He didn't answer. Crouching, he poked at the gaping hole with the end of the handle. He tried not to think of his bed. The mattress was lumpy and the springs creaked, but he would have given anything to be nestled in his sheets, drifting away to a dreamless slumber.
Enjolras let out an indignant huff. He had been in the middle of another job application when Combeferre and Grantaire had knocked earlier that evening. It wasn't much—a junior position at a rinky-dink firm on the shadier side of town—and he was definitely overqualified. But Courfeyrac had put in a good word for him and they were probably desperate enough to overlook his recent, well-publicized failings.
He'd protested, first reasonably and then more vehemently, as Grantaire wheedled and coaxed. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears; being sentimental was not in Enjolras' nature. But he had finally agreed to go when Combeferre pointed out the party would be full of lawyers and perhaps even Cosette's father, the mysterious Mr. Fauchelevent.
That had piqued his interest—enough to go and endure a few hours of pointless small talk and gossip. He had only recently discovered the man was behind many of the more well-known anti-poverty initiatives in the capital, even though Enjolras had long been an admirer of Mr. Fauchelevent's work championing human rights. At the party, there had even been talk Cosette's father had once been the mayor of a small industrial town not too far from the city.
But something didn't fit. He could have sworn he'd heard the name somewhere else. It had bothered him the entire evening, up until Grantaire had demanded he buy another round of drinks. The rest...after that...well... Enjolras dropped the handle again and buried his face in his hands.
"I told you, there's no fixing that."
She had walked over and was now leaning on the wall next to the door, pretending to clean the dirt from under her nails.
"I know."
"Well then, you could've saved yourself a lot of grief."
He turned around, fixing her with a withering glare. "What would you have me do?"
"For starters, you could quit giving me the stink eye," she said, pushing off the wall and crossing her arms over her chest.
"Well, maybe I'd be more amiable if—"
"Look," she raised her voice. "I didn't come over here to pick a fight. I get it. You don't wanna be here. You don't like me. I was stupid. You're pissed. Fair enough. But you're stuck here with me until one of your friends or Cosette or the janitor or whoever finds a way to open that door. I'm not asking you to marry me, but would it kill you to be a little bit less of a jerk?"
Enjolras bristled as he felt his cheeks warm. Breaking off eye contact, he kicked at the gravel under his shoe. He'd been the one to drag her home. He'd been the one to save her life. Twice. She was supposed to be the one feeling ashamed, not him.
"Seriously, dude?" She stared, her mouth half-twisted in disappointment. "I know I can be a huge pain, but you could at least give me points for trying."
"Your efforts are...duly noted." He flinched as soon as the words left his mouth. "And appreciated," he added hastily.
She studied him for a moment, eyes flickering across his face. Then without warning, she grinned and stuck out her hand. "Truce?"
Her fingers were long and tapered with calluses near the tips, and under the moonlight, it almost seemed as if they belonged to a ghost. Glancing up, he saw her smile had begun to falter.
Don't be an ass. Sighing, he slowly extended his hand toward hers. She beamed up at him, the worry disappearing from her face as his fingers slowly engulfed hers. It sent shivers up his spine.
"Truce."
She was pretty when she cried. It was an odd thought. Her eyes were bloodshot and watery, her face splotchy. But her tears fell freely. And honestly. In a way that his hadn't since childhood. Not even when he had lost everything. He envied that.
They stood side-by-side, squinting over the ledge at the streets below. The aim of the game was to try and be the first to spot Combeferre's beat-up white Corolla or Marius' silver BMW—the two most likely cars that would be coming to their rescue. There was no real prize for the winner, though Enjolras supposed they'd both be winners once they could go home and crawl under the covers.
It wasn't terribly exciting. Only three cars had passed down that street over the last 20 minutes, all of them nothing more than tiny dots. He rubbed his eyes. It was past midnight, meaning he'd been up for more than 17 hours. Leaning forward onto the ledge, Enjolras shifted his weight onto his forearms. His legs were like jelly, wobbly and weak from climbing up and down more than 50 flights of stairs in just a few hours. He winced—they would definitely be sore tomorrow.
"Your friends are dumb," Eponine said after a fourth car drove past. At this rate, they would be stuck there all weekend. "Really, really dumb."
"Your roommate isn't much better. But Pontmercy never did like the smart ones."
Eponine snorted. "You're just saying that to be nice. I'll have you know Cosette is very smart."
"There's a pink fridge in your kitchen."
She stole a sidelong glance at him, a lazy smirk spreading across her lips. "It's pretty awful, isn't it?"
"Horrendous," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. It made him...uncomfortable. "An abomination."
They fell back into another silence. Enjolras was beginning to notice that was the rhythm between them, their particular dance—one would provoke the other, they'd embark on a duel with words and then fall back into silence. It reminded him of happier days back when he had a purpose, of arguing in court. It wasn't like his measured conversations with Combeferre, the infuriating pep talks from rest of his friends or the politely nosy questions Marius' coworkers had lobbed his way at the party.
It was refreshing. And infuriating. But mostly refreshing. He stilled, slightly horrified as he finally understood the strange feeling blossoming in his chest.
Gratitude.
Watching her, he felt overcome by an odd mixture of pity and guilt. Eponine's head rested on her arms as she traced invisible patterns on the ledge with her finger, softly humming a familiar lullaby under her breath. Her eyes had a faraway look that Enjolras was somewhat certain had something to do with their recently engaged, utterly unavailable acquaintance.
"You know," he said, coughing awkwardly as he cleared his throat. "I am sure there are a number of men more worthy of your affections. Or at least more...observant."
Eponine raised her eyebrow, chuckling once she noticed his discomfort. "What do you have against Marius?"
"Why do you love him so much?"
She shrugged. "I dunno. I can't really explain it...I just...do."
"How eloquent."
It was strange. Three hours earlier, she had been a mess downing tequila shots until she couldn't see straight. At the time, Enjolras had regarded her as more of a nuisance than an actual person. Now...now the color had returned to her cheeks. Her eyes were still a bit red and puffy, but they also managed to sparkle with mischief.
Since their truce she had been...friendly, and on occasion, funny. She still irritated him. Her questions about his personal life grated on his nerves, pushing his buttons in all the wrong ways. Even so, he had to admit she was smarter than he had given her credit for—a fact that made her attempts on her life all the more disconcerting.
"Why do you wanna know?"
Because I don't understand why anyone would want to die over something so stupid, he thought, his mouth forming a hard line. "Just curious."
"Riiiight. You still didn't answer my question."
He gave her a quizzical glance, his thoughts traveling back to his days as a student. Enjolras had hardly noticed Marius the first day Courfeyrac brought him to Musain. The boy had been dressed in a ratty blue hoodie and tattered jeans, his dark chestnut hair falling sloppily over his eyes. They were on the eve of a rally—they were always busy planning rallies, it seemed—and Enjolras hardly had any time to coddle a new recruit.
It wasn't for lack of interest. During lulls, he made a point to get to know every student who desired to get involved. It was just that during busy weeks, the task generally fell to Combeferre. That day he'd shaken a wide-eyed Marius' hand, introduced himself and then returned to planning.
Eventually, Marius became a regular, showing up every week to help write and distribute pamphlets. He grew close to Courfeyrac and Grantaire, but Enjolras had never particularly warmed to him. As the heir to a sizable family fortune, Marius was too conciliatory; he was always trying to find a compromise. An admirable quality, but Enjolras much preferred to agitate. They clashed heads often, with Pontmercy usually the one giving in and making concessions.
In Enjolras' opinion, that only proved him right.
"He lacks conviction," he said finally, pursing his lips. "It frustrates me to no end."
She furrowed her brows at him. "Hold up, what? You rag on him because he lacks conviction? He went to almost all your protests. He got involved. How is that 'lacking conviction?'"
"He bends too easily. He's always willing to give up something to reach an agreement."
"I fail to see how that's a bad thing."
"A man who can't hold fast to his values is no man at all. Even worse is a man who vows one thing and goes on to do the opposite." He eyed her coolly. "The Marius I met in law school would have been disappointed with the person he is today."
Eponine stared, her mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, as she shook her head back and forth. "How can you say that? He's your friend."
"Your point?"
"I dunno," she said, her hands groping wildly in the air as she tried to find the right words. "Shouldn't you...cut him some slack?"
"It's precisely because he's my friend that I won't."
"Yeesh. You're hard to please."
"I don't want him to try and please me," Enjolras said frowning as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I want him to be his own man and stop trying to please everyone else."
"Have you ever told him that?"
"Of course. Many times."
"And what did he tell you?"
Enjolras grimaced. "He said we should agree to disagree."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Eponine asked, the corners of her mouth twitching. She leaned an elbow onto the ledge, turning to face him directly as she placed her other hand on her hip. "You actually mean everything you say."
He scoffed. "As every man should."
"You'd be surprised," she said, the playfulness in her eyes suddenly dimming as she looked down at her feet. He fidgeted. Her moods were sudden and the speed with which she slipped from mirth to melancholy alarmed him. Mouth dry, Enjolras found himself wishing he was Courfeyrac, who always seemed to know what to say.
"You know I never thought about why I loved him," she said after a beat, bringing up her eyes to meet his. She gave him a watery smile, her lower lip trembling as she tried to keep her voice from cracking. "He was just...the first person to notice me. Like really notice me.
"I got into art school on a fluke. No one liked my work, I was just this charity case no one wanted. The nobody with the tragic history. It was shit. We had this exhibition at the end of term. I slaved over every piece for weeks and...I...I was just standing around there like an idiot, waiting for someone to say something, anything."
She sniffled as she wiped away a tear with her thumb. "I was so pissed, and I just wanted to go home and then suddenly...poof! There he was. The funny thing is, I didn't even notice when he got there. He was just...there...and he said I was talented and that he wanted to buy one of my paintings. And when I told him I couldn't sell them, he asked me if I wanted to go get coffee. It was just the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me."
The tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and Enjolras felt his heart constrict as her eyes searched his. She gasped and heaved, her small body rocking back and forth with each whimper.
"How could I not love him? And now its too late...I thought if I waited...but Cosette is fucking perfect...and he's perfect and they're perfect together...and...I'm...I'm just...me."
Enjolras had no response. A small voice told him he ought to comfort her, but he didn't trust himself not to say anything stupid. He simply stood there, unsure what to do with himself, clenching and unclenching hands at his sides.
In the end, he settled for awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.
He hadn't intended for her to take that as an invitation to latch onto him and bury her face into his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt. Eyes wide, he swallowed his panic as he stiffly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The contact made his skin crawl, but he made no effort to push her away.
There was nothing worse than being helpless. The least he could do, he reasoned, was to let her cry.
AN: Aw, the marble man is thawing a bit. Kinda. Enjolras is tough to write convincingly, mainly because I think he's a bit of a severe character. He's less likely to get into ridiculous situations, (and let's face it, being saddled with a lovelorn, semi-suicidal drunk girl is definitely ridiculous) than let's say, Grantaire. That being said, I think it'd take a pretty ridiculous situation to face the issues I've given him. And on that note, more on Enjolras' sordid history to come in future chapters. :)
