A/N: Less quick update, but the next one is my personal favorite so far.
Loveless
Part VII
Summary: In Grantaire's honest and quite inebriated opinion, the best part about Enjolras falling for that scruffy gamine was that the poor girl in question seemed to have no idea. [Modern AU Enjolras/Éponine—Frustration is the name of this game]
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While the ABC tutors hardly expected Éponine to skip into her first day of work with a smile on her face, they had at least thought she'd be on time.
A bottle hung from Grantaire's fingers as he watched the door, the only sign of his unease the terrifying fact that it wasn't even open. His eyes flickered over to Courfeyrac, exchanging a muted look of worry. Their gaze moved in conjunction towards their esteemed leader, who appeared to be in the throes of either death or demonic possession.
"I said two shots of expresso, not one shot and a half! This coffee is barely prepared, and I would not be surprised to find if you watered it down."
"Keep talking like that and you better believe I'll water you down," Chetta deadpanned, arms folded. Her raised brow spoke of her fraying patience towards the bourgeois leader, and her frequent looks towards the door spoke even more on her own worries. "And don't take your temper out on me just cause your girlfriend decided to sleep in."
At that, Enjolras went red and muttered something inspid beneath his breath along the lines of 'not my girlfriend shut up you're dumb', a line that Grantaire would usually jump on if he didn't think he'd be jumped on for doing so. Self-preservation instinct, and all that.
Truth be told, times like this had Grantaire wondering why the man didn't just tell the poor girl he was besotted beyond belief and wanted to take her up against a wall. Well, perhaps the second line could be saved until later after the initial awkward courting stage where Éponine would realize all she needed to keep the argumentative leader in line was a good fuck. He was of the mind that it would wonders for Enjolras' mood swings, like the one he was currently going through over a badly prepared cup of coffee.
Right.
Like it wasn't so very painfully obvious to everyone else present that this temper tantrum was his special way of being worried out of his mind. Ah, the spoiled brats of the world. Grantaire couldn't wait until Éponine trained it out of him. He even had a list of things for her to teach him. Alcohol was the first three. And a good chunk in the middle. The rest were vaguely kinky and probably not best to mention in polite company-which is why he planned to hand the list off to Éponine with a flourish and her own box of ridiculously overpriced wine.
So what if she probably wouldn't be fit to go to her classes for a while? She would take it like a champion. And heck, if she'd spent a good day or two with Enjolras teaching him the value of the list, Grantaire would personally guarantee that he'd attend all her classes and write up notes so flawless it would seem like he'd done them sober. Well, first he'd probably have to learn what classes she was taking. Which, strangely enough, was a topic Éponine always managed to stray from when they brought it up. She'd help them with their homework and problem sets as much as possible, but if they even so much as broached the topic of her program for this semester, she would purse her lips and take off as if mortally offended.
Eh, they'd get Enjolras to wheedle it out of her eventually. The stuffed up idiot would probably start 'coincidentally' taking classes with her soon enough. Grantaire was all for this. Grantaire was in fact hoping that one of their arguments would turn into empty classroom sex. The good kind.
Courfeyrac pursed his lips and gave Grantaire a look that suggested he was following with this train of thought. With a sigh, he said quietly and in complete seriousness, "One of these days we're just going to shove those two into the closet and let them go at it."
Swirling the liquid in his wine bottle further, Grantaire hummed his agreement. "He'll either come out fucked brainless or castrated. Good enough for me." Courfeyrac grinned at the thought and even Jehan shot them a quick smirk from across the room.
Which Enjolras caught.
Narrowing his eyes, he turned slowly on the trickster pair, who blinked innocently even as they mentally calculated whether they should attempt the closet escapade while Chetta wasn't looking, or tell her beforehand and see if she'd let them lock the pair in overnight.
As Enjolras opened his mouth to both figuratively and literally tear them a new one, the door opened. The chimes rang loudly and the soft tap of quick steps signaled Éponine's return. How she got her steps so quiet, Grantaire didn't know. What he did know was that he would pay her his entire trust fund right on the spot as long as she kept on coming back to this little dump of a cafe-just because of the effect she had on their emotionally constipated leader.
At the sight of Éponine, all stress fell away from Enjolras' face and for a moment he stood there smiling like the angel many thought him to have been molded in the image of. Then he heard Grantaire and Courfeyrac's simultaneous aw-ing as well as the quick snap from Jehan's camera and his signature scowl set in once again. He coughed before saying loudly, "Madam, I'm not sure what time you may be keeping, but I would have thought that once you began working that you would be a little more prompt."
Grantaire barely resisted the urge to smack his leader. Screw pacifism. Pacifism was for the weak and spineless and those who didn't get fucked on a regular basis. With a grumble, he popped open his bottle and took a good hard swig. He needed to be more drunk to handle the shit their esteemed leader thought was flirting.
Could the man not be taught? Fuck shoving him in a closet, a good punch to the face would do wonders for the uptight asshole that was Enjolras and thanks to whatever deity he believed in at that current moment, Grantaire happily expected Éponine to give him his due for such.
He didn't expect her to mumble a quick, "Sorry, next time," and shuffle away without so much as looking up.
Grantaire would have taken a spit take if the alcohol he was currently swirling around his mouth wasn't worth more than all the clothes he was wearing. Still, he managed to dribble a little as he stared, stricken, at the scarf muffled figure of Éponine. Enjolras looked just as shocked. Courfeyrac's theory that the stone prince enjoyed the arguments to an almost erotic level was gaining more ground.
"Pardon?"
"You're right," Éponine called back, gaze to the floor as she took the apron from an equally concerned looking Chetta, "I will try and be on time from now on. Thank you for reproaching me."
This time, Grantaire did spit out his alcohol, all over a Jehan that looked mortified at he glanced down at his designer (hideous) white shirt that had just been drenched with red wine.
Thank you? Reproach? You're right? On the list of words that he never expected Éponine to say towards Enjolras (sadly enough, declarations of love ranked rather high) all three were tied for first.
A bead of cold sweat trailed down his spine and Grantaire exchanged a terrified look with Courfeyrac. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. The universe was perhaps out of alignment. Even Enjolras appeared confused, his forehead creasing in worry as he repeated dumbly, "…Pardon?"
Not even bothering to adjust her scarf in the usual nervous habit that popped up around the ABC leader, Éponine simply slipped behind the counter and assumed a position beside the almost frightened Chetta. Her hand went up once to graze the edges of her scarf, but clenched suddenly before she did, as if in chastisement or pain. The expression flitted too fast across her face for even Grantaire to analyze.
Éponine's voice was smooth as she stared back at Enjolras with glazed over eyes, barely registering his presence, and said smoothly, "You are pardoned."
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All things considered, Éponine realized she'd gotten off easy enough.
The only real damage done from the encounter had been to her hands, the result of one too many overzealous bare-knuckle punches towards her father and the goons he didn't take a step without. All the bruising was minimal and could be hidden behind her bulky sweaters and puffy scarf. Dirty fighting had it's pluses, and she preferred that they be had in places where she could hide the bruises. Yes, her side screamed in agony, but only when she twisted the wrong way-and she was certain that only one of her ribs was broken. Even her dislocated arm had popped right back in.
All in all, a pretty good showing for a five against one fight that she'd managed to get away from.
Not so good a showing considering the main service her off-the-books job entailed was serving.
Holding heavy trays and swerving sharply around tables was a must, and one that nearly broke her every time she did. After the first few orders to the back of the café (why exactly did the ABC tutors have to have their 'secret meetings' in the dark corners those dramatic bourgeois fuckers) she had nearly bitten through her lip in her effort to keep from screaming.
Even with the large (and rather impressively illegal) dose of painkillers she was on, this was a struggle. Especially since Chetta kept shooting her questioning and worried looks every time she came back for the next order. Éponine smiled and tried to force a look of goodwill. Chetta didn't return it.
The barista's usually quick and nimble hands moved slow as she bored holes into Éponine's façade. Her voice was surprisingly light as she mused, "You were very late today. Trouble collecting your things?"
"Of course not," Éponine replied with a flawless smile that she'd perfected in the fifth grade when policemen had been knocking on the door with increased regularity to ask about her father. "So, this goes to which table?"
Chetta's sharp eyes narrowed at the obvious deflection, seemingly immune to the fake smile. Despite this, she didn't push. "Fifth. Enjolras."
Éponine barely restrained a growl. "Of course."
Three out of the five drink orders had been for him and she'd been forced to put up with almost obnoxious behavior just to slam the cups down and leave as fast as he could. He almost seemed to be baiting her, the smug asshole. With a deep breath, she relaxed her face into a vague disinterest and prepared to act as natural as she could around him. No taking chances and poking absurdly bouncy curls for her.
Even if at this point, she felt more liable to rip them out.
Preparing herself to lift the small tray (her hand still screamed painfully at the thought, her old barricade wound not entirely healed and forced with the aggravation of the day prior) Éponine gritted her teeth. She could make it the few steps to the table. Sheer unadulterated stubbornness won most wars, she found.
"Wait!"
Chetta let out a sound of annoyance and piled three more drinks onto the tray, muttering a quick, "Courfeyrac really needs to know when to stop." She didn't notice the soft hiss of pain Éponine released unconsciously as the weight increased. "There, now you can go."
Éponine pursed her lips, but didn't respond. Great. Now if she could keep the tray from shaking, this would be a walk in the park.
Sometimes Éponine wondered how bad her life could get and realized that the position she was in now—bruised and drugged with enough painkillers to down an elephant while forced to do manual labor for a group of people that she couldn't even tell she was injured to without worrying about them freaking out and getting themselves killed trying to vow revenge—was honestly among her better life experiences.
The few steps to the table seemed miles and she still she barely found the energy to smile politely at the still irritated Enjolras as she approached. Smug asshole. She wished she could knock that pretty little pout right off his pretty little face. She would too, if she didn't know she'd hurt herself worse trying. Why did he even need to work out?
Judging by his damn wallet (that she kept accidentally lifting from his pockets and returning the moment she realized her pick-pocketing skills were still too damn instinctual) he could afford twenty bodyguards and then some. Damn smug, rich asshole. Probably did it just to fuck with her. (Somewhere, Courfeyrac started laughing about double entendres)
Three more steps now. Two steps. She let her smile widen and tried not to let it look like the baring of teeth it really was. One—
A chair seemed to slide out suddenly from beside her and knock sharply against her side. Pain blossomed and Éponine found her knees giving out at the white agony that rattled through her skull. The tray fell first, coffee and tea in varying shades spilling out upon the wooden floor. She followed soon after.
Instinct forced her arms out to catch herself as she felt, but only at the last moment did she realize the idiocy as her hands slammed against the floor and her bruised wrists gave with an audible crack. Light coursed through her eyes, spots of pain and hurt that forced all the air from her lungs and sent her spiraling into blackness.
