A/N- This chapter is specially dedicated to Broadway and Books, who has been very, very excited for this particular chapter for quite some time. I really hope I lived up to your expectations! Once again, as I did with the prologue, I'll be referring to the Enjolrai by their first names in order to avoid confusion. (Of course, you're getting rather used to that, as Éponine seems to have just taken to calling him Antoine anyway...)

Chapter 13
December 20th, 1830

Éponine was curled up in a chair before the fire. She had a needle and her husband's ripped jacket in her hands, but she was not sewing. Instead she was staring at Antoine and trying not to make it obvious that she was watching him.

He was seated across the room at the table, bent low over a book. He had declared upon arriving home that he had no choice- he was going to have to get caught up on his schoolwork before he could with good conscience go to the Musain, and since then he had been buried in a veritable mountain of parchment. His hair was tied back as usual, but one golden lock kept coming loose and falling into his eyes. He would push it irritatedly back behind his ear, but within a few minutes it was right back in his face again.

Antoine was a puzzle to her. For as long as she'd known him, she had seen him from a distance as someone cold and worlds away from her. In the week since their wedding, however, she had caught glimpses of other sides of him. She had observed the way he was with his friends, behaving almost as a benevolent elder brother to them all. She had listened to him speak about his beliefs- really listened rather than just passing over it as background noise to Marius's voice- and found unexpected comfort in the knowledge that there were men in the world who thought such things. He was a severe person by nature, but there was a gentleness and a warmth to that severity that she had difficulty reconciling with what she had thought of him before. It was a thorough contradiction, but she thought she understood now what Grantaire meant when he called him a man of fire and ice.

She had never met anyone like him before. His faith in his cause was as intense as the most devout religious fervor she had ever witnessed. He was strict with himself and she was witnessing firsthand that his almost legendary chastity was not fictitious. A man as handsome as he was, who had surely spent his adolescence swarmed with pretty women trying to catch his eye, was at risk of becoming a philanderer and a libertine. Antoine, however, was a naturally pure soul.

He made Éponine feel filthy in comparison.

She thought of Montparnasse and knew that, had he and Antoine been in each others' place, she would not have been left to go to sleep in peace each night. Montparnasse would not have cared that this marriage was just a pretense; he would have considered it his right to have her anyway. Admittedly, Montparnasse had had the privilege before, but even if that had not happened he would have had his way with her regardless. Antoine, by contrast, did not even seem to consider such a thing a possibility.

Éponine simply could not understand him. He was predictable in his own way, but he still broke every rule about people she had ever learned.

He glanced up and caught her watching him. Éponine looked away rapidly from his blue-eyed gaze, sticking her needle rapidly into the material in her hands, feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment and stabbing her finger in the process.

At that moment a loud and impatient knocking sounded outside. Before either of them could move, the door burst open and a Olivier Enjolras strode into the apartment. Éponine had never seen the man before in her life, but she recognized him immediately. He was the mirror of his son, with the exception of the color of their eyes; where the son's were blue, the father's were hazel, and they were presently furious. He fairly radiated frigid anger, his eyes landing first on Éponine sitting in the chair before he turned to face his son, who had risen to his feet.

"Antoine, what in God's name have you done?" Olivier shouted. Gone was the passive frustration of the well-bred gentleman. Olivier had passed his breaking point and it showed. His hair was disheveled and the look he had fixed on his son seemed fit to boil water. He began pacing back and forth across the apartment, the very picture of anxiety and rage, gesticulating wildly as he spoke thus:

"When we received your letter, I thought surely you were joking. My son would never do such a thing, I thought. He may be backwards in his ideas, but he understands duty and fealty. This is some strange game he and his friends have elected to play on his poor father. Still, your mother was so upset that in order to appease her, I traveled to Paris with all possible haste, quite sure that I would be able to return and tell her that all was well. And what do I find? I find that you really have got yourself a little harlot!" He did not even glance at Éponine as he threw a finger in her direction. "I repeat, Antoine: what have you done?"

Antoine contrasted his father's fit of temper with a cool resolve. "I have done as my heart and conscience commanded me to," he replied evenly, "Which is all I have ever done, Father. I believe it was you yourself who taught me the value of conducting myself in such a manner."

"Insolent child!" Olivier spat.

"I am no longer a child, I am a man grown. I am no longer yours to do with as you wish," Antoine said.

His father threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of supreme irritation. "And family loyalty, the duty of a son, means nought to a grown man, then?" he bit out. "Fine then! You wish, in all your youthful arrogance, to rebel against your father as much as you do against the crown? Very well, what do I care? But think of your maman!"

Antoine sighed. It seemed to Éponine that he was used to hearing this refrain.

Olivier glared at him. "Do not look at me like that, boy! You know how delicate your mother is! The day we received your letter, she took to her bed and to the best of my knowledge has not risen since!"

"It is your place to look after your own wife's nerves, not mine," Antoine replied.

"You would shame and upset your own mother so?"

"I have said time and again that you would serve her better by not allowing her to make such dramatics out of every inconvenient situation."

"Fine then, if you have no love for your family, surely you understand the practicalities! The engagement was all arranged. Have you any idea how long the match between yourself and Mlle. Guillory has been in the making?"

"I'm quite certain Ciel Guillory and yourself have been planning it since our infancy. But had you asked me then, I would have refused without hesitation, just as I would have refused at any time since then. Hyacinthe and I would be without a doubt the most incompatible couple ever to be wed. It is exceptionally fortunate for both of us, I think, that I have circumvented you, Father."

Olivier stopped in his pacing and whirled to face his son. "You foolish, shameless, insensitive boy! The girl is in love with you and always has been!"

"And her childish fancy is reason enough to surrender my autonomy, is it?" Antoine said with a humorless, dark little chuckle.

"It seems to me you've done so just the same, but to some slut of a laundress you found on the street rather than a lady of your own breeding! God in heaven, Antoine, she isn't even pretty! What possessed you to do such a thing?"

Antoine raised his chin. "I'll thank you not to insult my wife," he responded coldly, and now he was beginning to look angry as well.

Olivier let out a slightly hysterical bark of laughter. "You're really going to call this gutter trash your wife?"

If he had looked angry before, now he was very obviously filled with that polite, cold fury that was particularly his. "She is not trash. She is a woman, a respectable woman, and her name is Madame Éponine Enjolras. And to be perfectly frank, my wife is ten times the woman yours is."

Olivier did not even give his son time to react. He struck him hard across the left cheek with the back of his hand. Antoine stumbled from the force of the blow.

Recovering himself, he straightened up to look his father straight in the eyes, facing the older man's fury.

"You ungrateful little fool!" Olivier shouted. "How dare you-!"

"STOP!"

It was Éponine who had cried out. Since Olivier had entered the apartment she had been attempting to make herself invisible where she sat, a reflexive behavior she had built up over many years in automatic response to an angry father. Now, however, she was on her feet. Her needle and thread were abandoned on the floor, she had drawn herself up to her full and not inconsiderable height, and her dark eyes were flashing with a fierce defensive fury neither of the men before her could have imagined she possessed. Quick as a flash she was standing at Antoine's side, fixing Olivier with a steely glare.

"How dare he?" she asked hotly. "How dare you? You would come into our home and insult your son's sense, judgment, and integrity? Antoine is one of the kindest, noblest men I have ever been lucky enough to meet, and I am not going to sit idly by and watch you insult him. I will not!"

She was an impressive figure in that moment, and no amount of lavender and lace could counteract the ferocity that was spoken in every line of her figure and every detail of her expression. It was much the same effect as when an ordinarily docile cat suddenly arches its back, throws out its claws, and hisses. What once was unremarkable is suddenly terrifying. For just a few minutes, Éponine was not ugly or coarse or common. She was magnificent. Antoine felt in awe of her. Olivier was shocked out of his blind fury.

"Madame," he said coldly. "I will ask you to not interfere in my business with my son."

"Any business of Antoine's is mine as well," she said firmly. "I don't know you, Monsieur, and you don't know me, but you had better understand that I will not stand by and let you thoroughly insult someone I care for. Say what you like about me. I don't mind. Anything you have to say, I've probably heard before. But you will not say one word more to him unless you can be civil!"

Olivier narrowed his eyes, but Éponine's look clearly allowed no margin for argument. He looked instead to his son. "You have brought shame on our family name, Antoine. Understand that it is only for your mother's sake that I do not renounce you this instant," he said. "I fear it would be too much for her to bear on top of your disorderly conduct."

Éponine's glare darkened still further, and Olivier seemed to take this as his cue to leave.

"I will see myself out, I think."

He turned on his heel and marched to the door, which they all realized at the same moment had been left open in the wake of his stormy entrance. In the doorway he turned and looked at his son. "Enjoy the company of your little tart, Antoine. I hope she can fill up the time you will not be spending with your family." And with these bitter words, he was gone, pulling the door to behind him.

Éponine glared at the closed door for a few seconds for good measure, then turned to glance at Enjolras. His expression was of a very precise calm, but she could see the tightness in his jaw and the disorientation in his eyes.

She was not very good at compassion or empathy, but in that instant her heart went out to her husband. Open hostility between family members was something she understood far too well, and from the look he probably thought he was hiding rather successfully, Enjolras was just experiencing this for the first time. It was one thing for there to be hard feelings between family members, but when that turned to outright rejection it was painful. It was better, she thought, to deal with the physical consequences and let him deal with the emotional fallout privately. As much as she wanted to ask what he was feeling, she knew enough of men- and of him in particular- to know that it would not accomplish much.

She touched his jaw gently. "You're swelling up," she said softly. "Here, let me look at it." She examined the place where Olivier had hit him, clucking her tongue sympathetically. "He was wearing a ring, I think. You've got a little cut- just there. He didn't catch you in the eye at all, did he?"

He shook his head.

"Small favors," she remarked, still in the same quiet tone. "You're bleeding a little."

"It's alright," he said.

"Let me tend to it," she said. "It won't take but a minute to clean it up. It would be a shame to scar up your pretty face."

This last was said with a hint of teasing present in her eyes, enough to lift the mood without feeling forced. It seemed to work, because a little of the tension left his shoulders and the corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly.

She made him sit down on the divan, then retrieved a pan from the kitchen. This she carried to the window and, throwing up the sash, filled it with snow from the windowsill. While the snow was melting, she fetched a clean cloth, which she proceeded to soak in the cold water she had made. She wrung the excess water from the cloth and raised it to his swelling cheek. Gently, she wiped away the blood from his porcelain skin. He watched her intently, and they did not speak.

Once the cut was clean, she said, "It's not very deep. Just a little nick. But things around the head and face always bleed more."

"Yes, I know."

She dipped the cloth a second time in the clean water, and folded it over into a little compress. "Here," she said, handing it to him. "Press that to your cheek. The cold will help take the swelling down. You're likely to have an impressive bruise, but it won't hurt as much."

He did as he was told without comment, which Éponine was sure had to be a first.

For a few minutes they were quiet, both of them trying to process what had just happened. Éponine watched him as intently as she had earlier, studying the tiny changes in his expression and trying to guess unsuccessfully what he was thinking. He seemed lost in thought. Despondent was not the word- he was much too strong for that. However, despite his stillness, he bore a fretful air.

After some time, Éponine said, "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve all that."

"It is my father all over," he replied bitterly. "He has always had pretensions to rival those of the English gentry. This comes as no real surprise."

"Still. I guess sometimes the wealthy aren't any better behaved than the poor, are they?"

"That should tell you something, then," Enjolras said in a rueful tone. Then he looked intently at her, saying, "You know, I think that was the first time I've ever seen you really, properly angry."

She gave him a sideways glance. "What of it?"

"You're a little bit terrifying."

At this, she laughed. "I strike fear into the hearts of marauders and thieves!" she proclaimed teasingly. "No, really. You think I'm jesting, but just ask any of my father's comrades!" She was pleased to have drawn out a smile from him again. He looked very handsome when he smiled.

Éponine fell quiet again for a few moments, apparently debating her next words carefully. Eventually she plucked up the courage to ask, "Antoine... about what you said..."

"Yes?"

"Did you mean that? When you said that I was- that I was a better woman than your mother, I mean?"

He looked at her very earnestly. "Yes," he said firmly. "I did. I love my mother, do not doubt that. Does any son have a choice otherwise? However, my mother has always been very, shall we say, weak-willed. She belongs to a certain class of women who have never been vexed or challenged in the whole course of their lives, and to make matters worse she considers herself nervous. She has never held a conviction in her life, unless it be that sea air is very good for her constitution. I love her, as a son should, but I cannot respect her. You, on the other hand, I respect a great deal. Despite the differences in education and circumstance, I would consider you by far the superior woman."

Éponine, completely overwhelmed, threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. This reaction astonished Enjolras, until he heard her say, in a very quiet voice, "That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Feeling very uncomfortable, he put his arm gingerly around her. They stayed like that for several minutes, both of them deep in unnerved reflection.

Enjolras looked down at the little head of red hair that had leaned up against his shoulder. He really did care about her, he realized. How that had happened, he wasn't quite sure. To be perfectly frank, the best he had hoped for in this sham marriage was to avoid despising her. To actually consider her, or any woman, a friend had been so far beyond his experiences with the opposite gender that it had never even crossed his mind.

He supposed the simple fact of their proximity made it necessary to cultivate a certain affection for the other. It was not necessary to harbor romantic feelings in order to care for someone and to share a life, after all. Or perhaps, he mused, feeling philosophical, it was the intervention of a higher power. They had pledged themselves to each other before God. It was only natural that he should be inspired to care about his partner, whatever form that affection might take. A marriage built on friendship and respect was a much healthier relationship, in his eyes, than many of the marriages he had witnessed in his lifetime.

For her part, Éponine still could not seem to make anything at all of her husband. Everything she had ever assumed about the standoffish leader of the Amis was being torn down, and replaced with a very different picture of Antoine Enjolras. She had been so afraid that she was making the same mistake her mother had, settling on the man who would have her rather than waiting on the man she could truly love, but a life as Madame Enjolras wasn't really so bad after all. If there was anything in the world that was worth giving up Marius, this was probably it. Musichetta had been right. Antoine would be good to her, which was better than she'd had in years.

"Antoine?"

"Hm?"

"We're going to be great friends, aren't we?"

"Yes, Éponine, I think we are."

A/N- "I'm not the daughter of a dog, I'm the daughter of a wolf. There are six of you, what's that to me? You're men? Well, I'm a woman. I'm not afraid of you, not one bit."
^This is why I love Éponine so much. She is not taking shit, not from anybody. Guess which part of the book I just read (for about the ten thousandth time)... ;) Originally this chapter was going to go very differently but suddenly I realized, "Wait a second- this is Éponine we're dealing with! She's not just going to sit quietly in the other room and let this go down without her!"

And then everything did a total 180, and this is the result. I feel like the ending is über-sappy, but that's just what happens when you start throwing heavy emotions around in a confined space! And let's face it, even in canon Éponine tends to get mushy after an emotional upset.