A/N: And here we have the next chapter. I hope you enjoy.
A cold night passed in the small flat above the Liberté Café, Vanessa spent much of the evening in her room flicking through dog-eared, tattered sketchbooks. Meanwhile Enjolras sat beside the pitiful excuse for a fire, reading. This cool ignorance of each other was a result of the haughty, scathing look Vanessa shot her flatmate on entering the flat that night. After a few weeks of living with the unpredictable young woman whose temper raged and ebbed like the stormy sea, Enjolras had begun noticing tells in her behaviour that warned him to leave her be.
What occurred was this:
The rusted outer door had flown open and Vanessa had stormed into the courtyard. The chickens had flapped and squawked at the intrusion. Stupid birds! Dodging the cacophony of feathers and claws, Vanessa had stomped towards the stairs.
From his room, Enjolras had heard the heavy footsteps approaching and rose from the desk, marking the page in his book and closing it as he stood.
Once Vanessa had reached the top of the creaky staircase, she had brushed off the remaining feathers. "Damn birds," she had muttered. With the last of the nuisance feathers gone, she had thundered down the tight corridor. With enough force to snap the hinges, she had thrown open the furthest door and sent it crashing into the wall.
A cruel grin had flashed across her face until she saw a figure hovering in the shadows at the far end of the room. Enjolras had stood, a book clasped in his marble white hands, watching her with a quiet contemplation.
From the threshold, Vanessa had shot him a dark glare, before stalking across the small living space and slamming her own door shut behind her. Neither had uttered a word for the remainder of the night.
Once Vanessa had secured the door, she turned to the stack of well used sketchbooks by her bed. With hot tears blurring her vision, she stumbled to the centre of the room and collapsed onto the mess of blankets and pillows that constituted as her bed. Beneath her minute weight, the decrepit frame creaked as she crawled over it. Reaching across, she snatched up the first of the sketchbooks and slumped into a more comfortable position, her legs folded up to her chest and the book balancing precariously on her knees. The coverlet was strewn around her like a makeshift nest as she began to leaf through the drawings.
Tears of frustration splashed onto the charcoal smudged paper. Trickling down the page and creating spidery veins across the portraits. Halfway through the first book, she found herself transfixed.
A portrait of Enjolras, with wings curving around his muscular frame, filled the left page. His fierce blue eyes, bright as the cerulean sky, bored into her very soul. However, it was not this angel's portrait alone that had her spellbound. For on the right hand page, a scruffy, hasty self portrait of her beloved artist smiled at his Apollo. The angel's bright, golden wing stretched out so that it just brushed the tips of the outstretched fingers on the opposite page.
The effect was breath-taking.
Two realms barely touching, the slightest space between them. A void that had never been filled. Above the two drawings, a series of scribblings in Grantaire's handwriting. Many of the scrawled words had been crossed out until they were totally illegible. Evidently he had been choosing titles for his masterpieces. Amongst the scratchy marks, were two words, stark against the paper. Above Enjolras, the word Angel looped and curled, gentle as a cloud. Below Grantaire, in his usual jagged hand, the word Mortal.
Vanessa placed her hand gently between the two drawings, and found herself inexplicably caught between heaven and earth. Her heart was drawn to both the ethereal being and the wonderfully human creature beside him. A pang of terror stole her breath as she realised this and the book dropped with a muffled thud onto the bed.
Her breath hitched.
Could she really love Enjolras? Her heart told her that in fact, she could and she did. Her mind was reeling at this revelation, however. Just minutes ago, she had assured Genevieve that she had no such feelings for the man who had killed the love of her life. That when Grantaire died, her capacity to love died with him.
So why did her heart still leap in her chest at the thought of the blond angel?
Just outside her door, Enjolras stood listening. He heard her muffled sobs through the heavy wood and sighed. Running a hand through his unruly curls, he found himself in a quandary. Should he go in there? Should he attempt to comfort her? Or should he leave her to cry? A small part of him wanted to find some way to comfort her.
Be that as it may, a more reasonable voice reminded him that he had no idea how to comfort anyone, let alone a woman. After all, he was the marble lover of liberty; his rhetoric was passionate speeches of anger, not softly spoken words to console. So, with a heavy heart, Enjolras turned and slunk back to the sofa. And there he sat until the early hours of the morning, pouring over the words of Rousseau.
It was on this sofa that Madame LaMotte found him the next morning, sprawled across the tiny couch with his book still clutched to his chest. The elderly woman smiled down at the boy, and brushed a strand of the halo of golden curls from his eyes. Her smile faded as she caught sight of the bandages beneath his shirt, Vanessa hadn't said anything about the young man's past, but of course Madame LaMotte knew. Of course, she knew that this man, this heavenly creature, was the leader of the failed revolution just months ago.
A pained sigh escaped the mother's lips; images of a barricade drenched in blood, with a single figure distinguishable atop it entered her mind unbidden. As a cold fear trickled down her spine, she pushed the images aside, assuring herself that he was safe now, that no-one else had to die. She understood what he had fought for; in fact, she had attended many of his meetings once she heard that Vanessa and Nicolas had been swept up in it all. They might not have been her children through blood, but they certainly held a place in her heart. Just as this fascinating, fierce, fragile creature before her would.
A pair of azure eyes flickered open and met hers. "Good morning," Enjolras mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.
Smiling in spite of herself, Madame LaMotte replied, "Good morning, did you sleep well?"
With a groan, Enjolras pushed himself upright and rolled his stiff shoulders. "Apparently, although my back seems to disagree. What time is it?
"Half past nine, which begs the question, why are you two wasting the day away?" Madame LaMotte looked up at the dishevelled figure emerging from Vanessa's bedroom.
Enjolras turned and caught sight of Vanessa, her hair in loose, mussed curls around her shoulders, her chemise slipping from her shoulder and her eyes still full of that warm, hazy look that comes from sleep.
"Sorry, Madame, I couldn't sleep last night. I'll get dressed and get downstairs as soon as I can," Vanessa said, running a hand through her hair.
The elderly woman chuckled and shook her head. "You'll do no such thing. I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that Monsieur Enjolras here hasn't left the flat all week, so, the pair of you can go to the market and shop for the evening meals. Here's a list of what I'll need, and here's the money." She thrust both list and money into Enjolras hand and turned to leave.
She didn't miss the panicked look Vanessa shot her. "Don't you need me downstairs?" the brunette asked. "Genevieve could take Enjolras to the market."
Raising an interested eyebrow, Madame LaMotte turned back to face her adopted daughter. "Actually, I need Gen in the kitchen with me today, I'm teaching her how to cook without setting the kitchen alight. It will do you both good to have a day with only one job to fulfil."
In the thick silence that followed, Madame LaMotte glanced between the two young flatmates. Both were as stubborn as the other, Vanessa glowering across the room at the blond and Enjolras staring back with his usual collected gaze. Although not a word was said, the elderly mother could practically hear the argument between them.
Eventually, Vanessa gave in. With an exasperated sigh, she threw her hands up in the air and cried, "Fine. I'll go."
Out of the corner of her eye, Madame LaMotte caught the relieved, pleased smile on Enjolras' face. With some effort, the blond dragged himself to his feet and gently wrapped an arm around his torso. He nodded his head in silent thanks to the madame and shuffled across to his room. "I'll just go change," he called back.
A huff of frustration was the only reply Vanessa allowed. The door shut behind him with a gentle thud and silence ensued. There are only a few people immune to the deathly glare of Vanessa; fortunately Madame LaMotte was one of these fortuitous few. "Don't frown dear, you'll ruin your looks," the matron said.
"You're not really teaching Gen to cook are you?" came the short reply.
A devious smile told Vanessa all she needed to know. She opened her mouth to argue her point when a clatter from Enjolras' room stole her attention. "Enjolras?" she called to him.
Through the door, a series of muttered expletives could be heard. With a roll of her eyes, Vanessa opened the door and poked her head around.
In a chaotic heap on the floor, a shirtless Enjolras knelt surrounded by papers and the contents of the desk. He glanced up and sighed, "I was trying to get my shirt on believe it or not."
Stifling a laugh, Vanessa said, "Of course you were." She shook her head. "Would you like some help?"
Nodding silently, Enjolras stared at the paper in his hands as faint blush crept up his cheeks. In his peripheral, he saw Vanessa step over the worst of the mess and crouch in front of him. "Come on Enjolras, let's get you off the floor," she said gently.
Her hand slipped around his chest, avoiding the most painful of his injuries and together they inched themselves upright.
Madame LaMotte watched this quiet exchange with amusement, and satisfied that things were as they should be, slipped from the flat unnoticed.
A/N: So, I hope you like this little chapter, and please leave me a review.
Mags
