Chapter Twenty-Three

A Person is in Part a Culmination


When Éponine awoke, judging by the position of the sun where it struggled to make its way through the clouds, it was about mid-afternoon. She was rain-soaked, there was a cramp in her neck, and she was very hungry. She smiled sardonically to herself as she struggled to her feet, because if that wasn't just a return to the way things always used to be.

Tripping over her too-long skirt, she made her way out of the garden and wandered for a couple of blocks before she found herself on the bank of the Seine. The Seine that was always waiting for her, always promising her a cold but ultimately restful final embrace. She sat on a stone for a long while. Thinking about how it had been about a month since she'd been shot, and there were things she didn't recognise about the girl who had jealously wanted to die with Marius on the barricade. Thinking of her family. Thinking of Erik.

Whether it was a shift in the air caused by a new shape blocking it, or a footstep or some other hardly detectable sound, she wasn't sure, but her hyper-aware senses told her that she was no longer alone. Someone else had appeared behind her. She swallowed, and her heart started to beat a little faster. But just before she could turn to see who was there, and what action she needed to take, someone was sitting next to her. Long, spindly legs clad in fine black cloth.

"I am told I have behaved childishly."

Frowning and staring straight ahead at the water, Éponine said, "You're told? What do you think?"

"I think... I think that is a very mild way of putting it. Perhaps not the word I would use."

She turned her head and looked at Erik. He was pale, and he slouched and looked incredibly forlorn. "How did you find me here?"

"You told me that you used to stand by the Seine and think of—" His words cut off abruptly. He couldn't seem to bring himself to talk about her throwing herself into the river. She was surprised he remembered her mad ramblings from that first night at the house on the lake, when she had tried to make him feel better by telling him about how she had wanted to die many times.

His arm was bent and draped itself across his leg, and she placed her hand on his forearm. "You remembered that?"

Without looking at her, he very carefully covered her hand with his, which wore a glove of soft black leather. "Éponine, I wanted to find you, and this was the only place I knew to look. Still, I hoped I wouldn't find you here."

She leaned to put her other hand on top of his, and gently squeezed the top of his knuckles through his glove. "I didn't come here for that...at least, I don't think. I came just to see."

They were quiet for a moment, and neither met each other's eyes. They looked at the Seine, at their little stack of hands, at the cloudy summer sky, but not into the eyes of the other person.

Finally, in a voice that was very low and thick, but not wobbling, Éponine said: "I am a little bit mad. I understand if you don't want to have me around any more."

Erik did not respond, and Éponine waited until it was quite uncomfortable, and the silence on its own became an answer that she thought she understood. With a humourless little laugh, she pulled her hands away, and got herself to her feet. Out of her periphery, she saw that Erik was looking at her, but she couldn't read his expression without actually looking at his face, and she was unable to meet his eyes.

"Well, then... Goodbye, I guess. Thank you for everything, Monsieur."

Erik flew to his feet and gently grasped her by the shoulders. Éponine, staring straight ahead, fixed her eyes on his brocade waistcoat. An intricate black-on-black design. "Why do you say you are mad?" he finally asked. Very carefully, as if he was afraid of the answer.

Éponine leaned her head forward, resting it against his chest. Looking down at his shoes and her muddy hem. "I'm mad because I just am. I have been for a very long time, Erik. But—but not... I mean, what I told you earlier? That wasn't madness. That was true. And your face... I mean, anybody should be able to understand that you don't get to pick and choose pieces of people, and if you care about someone then you're not going to stop just because they happened to be born looking a certain way. And I also think..." She struggled a minute to find the words for her thought. "Well, sometimes I think that everything that happens to us makes a difference. I think—I hope that I could have been a different person, if my life had been different."

From her head being against his chest, she could feel that he was about to speak, so she hastened to continue before he could, unwilling to be interrupted: "If you had been born with a different face—if both sides of your face looked like this," without moving her head, she reached up and brushed her fingertips over the mask, on the non-deformed side of his face. "Well, maybe you wouldn't have ended up being you. And I know it's not all good. I know you have dark moods and have done things I wouldn't like—and probably you don't like, either. And you did behave like an arse when you ran away and left me. But I...I'm very happy that you're you, Erik."

He let go of her shoulders, and before he could move away, she flung her arms around his middle, thereby flinging herself closer to him. Pressing her face into the silk of his waistcoat, not caring if the buttons would leave strange marks on her skin when she pulled away.

Hesitantly and very delicately, he laid a hand on her back. They stood there for a few moments, and then she slowly peeled herself away so that she could look up at his face. He seemed to be deep in thought, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Can I come back to the house on the lake?" she asked softly.

"If you wish it."

She buried her face in his waistcoat again to hide her embarrassing tears. She needed a hug, after everything that had happened. It felt so nice, even if he didn't return it. But this time, he did actually return her embrace, enfolding her in his lithe but strong arms. Bending down slightly, he buried his face into her hair. Then, after a few seconds, he lifted his head and said, "Do you smoke?"

Éponine pulled back and looked at him confusedly. She shook her head.

"Only, you reek of tobacco." He sniffed again, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "And dreadful cologne."

Éponine laughed. "I ran into an old...friend." It was the simplest word to use. "An old friend who lives in a cloud of both." Her face fell, and her eyes started to fill with tears again.

With a timid hand, Erik cupped the side of her face. "What's wrong?"

"I just...I got some bad news about my family. That's all." Rubbing her fist over her eyes, she forced out a laugh to reassure him. "It's all right. That's life. Like it or lump it."

He offered her his arm, and they turned and left the water behind them.

"I wish your life could have been different," Erik said softly, "but I am likewise very glad that you're you, Éponine."


A/N: Awkward but sweet hugs are very much a personality trait. My favourite one, in fact.