A/N- Yeah, I skipped Christmas. So sue me. There just wasn't a whole lot to interest regarding Christmastime in Paris, to be perfectly honest. Or maybe it's that I literally just wrote Christmas, 1830 in CoC and I just didn't feel like doing it twice in less than three weeks? There's a reason it only comes once a year... Whatever. New Years' is more fun, anyway! At least insofar as French traditions serve my evil purposes... I feel like when both culture and historical fact fall into line with your plans, that's like the cosmos telling you it's okay to love E et E. ~_^

Chapter 14
December 31st, 1830

Another few weeks slipped away in much the same manner as the previous ones, and if there were any changes, they were intangible. Enjolras, as Éponine had predicted, spent several days walking around with a large purplish bruise across his cheek where his father had struck him. None of the Amis chose to comment on this, which was suspicious, but whatever the reason, Enjolras was grateful for their silence. He did not particularly want to discuss what had transpired with anyone. If Combeferre had asked he would have explained, but he felt that it was quite bad enough that Éponine, who was the cause of it, had witnessed the argument.

As for Éponine, she spent her days much as she had before Olivier Enjolras's unwelcome intrusion. She had moved on from Descartes and was now struggling through an immense book that purported to be a complete history of France. This she did not find as abstruse as the metaphysical musings of the philosopher-mathematician, but not nearly as interesting.

She continued to conceal this habit from her husband. She wasn't sure why. Antoine is a good man, she told herself, he won't try to stop you from reading. But years of intellectual repression held sway, and the daughter who had hid as much of her cleverness as she could from her father in self-defense became the wife who pretended, by lie of omission, to ignorance.

New Year's Eve arrived, and with it all the gaiety and festive atmosphere one might expect. Courfeyrac hosted a large number of his friends in honor of le Réveillon de Saint-Sylvestre, primarily the Amis and their mistresses. Apparently this had been a tradition for as long as Courfeyrac had been friends with Combeferre and Bahorel, which had now been expanded to include all of the Amis. He had taken it upon himself to fill his flat with mistletoe, and a roaring fire had been built up in the fireplace, and the whole party was full of an atmosphere of fraternité and holiday cheer.

Enjolras had not originally intended to go, but Éponine had said quite plainly that she was going one way or the other and so he found himself tagging along after her. As was usually the case in these situations, he was glad he had come after all. He was not very used to spending a great deal of time socializing for its own sake, but invariably he found once he was actually in the middle of it that he enjoyed the company of his friends even when not in the midst of talk of the coming revolution.

Éponine had started the evening keeping company with Musichetta, whom she had not seen since the day of her wedding and whom she was surprised to find she missed. The pair complemented each other well. Éponine had a sweetness and free-spirited charm to her that hard living had all but destroyed, but under the influence of Musichetta's laughter and bubbly personality, something much closer to her natural temperament was drawn out from behind her guarded cynicism. Musichetta and her flights of fancy, by contrast, were checked by Éponine's practical-minded wit and teasing.

"The pair of you together could make even the National Guard turn tail and run!" Marius joked, overhearing their conversation at a moment when they were playfully eviscerating Joly over his latest bout of hypochondriatic nerves. "How could they stand their ground against two ladies of such rapier wit?"

Éponine pushed at his shoulder playfully. At this point, Musichetta found it in her best interests to drag Joly to the nearest mistletoe-bedecked corner in order to kiss him better.

Marius smiled at her, and she felt a flutter of butterflies in her stomach at the sight. She loved Marius's smile. He might not have Antoine's beautiful blue eyes, but he had such a sweet smile. That was what had first made her look at him, actually. He had smiled at her- at her, who was little more than a gamine!- and that kind look had captivated her.

"And how are you, 'Ponine? I've hardly seen you in weeks!" he said, sitting down beside her.

She laughed. "You've seen me practically all the time at the cafe!"

"Yes, but you're not there for every meeting, and when you are you hardly talk to me!"

"That's because I'm really listening to what your friends are saying," she responded, a little put out. Oughtn't he be happy that she was taking an interest in the things that were important to him?

"Didn't you listen before? You've been coming to the Musain with me for ages!"

With you! Because of you! she screamed at him in her head. All for you!

But he wouldn't know that, of course. "It's different now, though," she said, not really sure how to explain. "I... Antoine has explained so much of what you're all doing, and it all makes more sense to me now."

It was Marius's turn to chuckle. "Oh, is that it? Now that you're married to our fearless leader, you care as fiercely as he does, then?"

"Hardly!" she protested lightly. "I just understand better now is all."

Marius accepted that without comment. Then, after a short spell of companionable silence, he asked, "So... how goes it with Enjolras, then? You get along, I hope?"

Éponine nodded. "Antoine is very good to me. I did not really expect that."

Marius looked at her very earnestly and said, "I'm glad to hear that. I know it was me who first suggested this idea of the two of you marrying, but once it was all decided upon, I confess... well, I confess I had some doubts."

"Like what?"

"It seemed so brilliant when I first dreamed it up. He'd be able to get out from under his father's thumb, and you'd be off the street. It seemed like such a good idea. But then it seemed to me that the pair of you are both such strong personalities that it couldn't possibly end well. You would surely wind up hating each other."

"Hardly!" Éponine protested.

"I would hate to think that it was me that pressured you into rushing into something like that," Marius persisted. "If you were miserable, and it were my fault... I would hate it if you resented me, 'Ponine!"

"I could never resent you," she said firmly, laying a hand on his arm to reassure him (and maybe a little bit just to be able to touch him). Then, more reflectively, she added, "And I don't think I could hate Antoine, either. You were right- he's one of the best men I've ever known. You're the only one better."

Marius blushed. "That's not true at all, 'Ponine! I'm not that good," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

She shrugged. "Say what you will, I think it's true."

Across the room, Enjolras was watching this tableau. As Éponine rested her hand on the young man's arm, Enjolras felt a surge of annoyance. Could she not lay her obsession with Marius to rest? What on earth about Pontmercy appealed to her so, anyway? He was a good sort, a bit of a dreamer but brave, but really, why was she so fixated on him?

"You know, mon ami, you could at least try to stop staring at your wife long enough to listen to me," Combeferre said good-naturedly.

Enjolras looked away from Éponine and Marius quickly. "I was not staring," he retorted.

"You were," Combeferre said. "Come now, what's bothering you?"

Enjolras shrugged as a sort of delaying tactic. What, precisely, was bothering him? "It is not important," he said firmly. "I find her continued infatuation with Marius to be rather irritating, that's all."

"Jealous?" Combeferre asked, but it was plain from his tone that he did not believe it. Enjolras was glad. Any of his other friends would have tried to deliberately misconstrue his thoughts and actions to mean that he had feelings of a romantic nature for Éponine. Combeferre might tease, but he knew Enjolras well enough to know how unlikely that was, and would leave it at that.

"Not in the slightest," Enjolras replied.

Combeferre grinned, then asked, "In all seriousness, Enjolras, things are well? You and Éponine seem to get along nicely enough."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. We are friends. It is a strange arrangement, to be sure, but she is good company." He glanced at Éponine, who was still fawning over Marius, and repressed the urge to sigh in annoyance. "I had not expected that. I do not know what I thought she would be, but I know it certainly was not what she is!" He took care to note that none of the other Amis were within hearing distance, then said, "She yelled at my father."

Combeferre nodded. "Yes, I overheard."

Enjolras looked at him shrewdly. "So you're the reason no one bothered to comment on my rather visible souvenir from that encounter, then?"

"Quite correct. I assumed you would rather it not be discussed, and took matters into my own hands. You don't mind, I hope?"

"Certainly not. I'm grateful you took the liberty, as it saves me the trouble!" This laid to rest, Enjolras returned to his original point. "François, she shouted at my father. No one shouts at my father. Not even I shout at my father, and I am perhaps the only person who's ever had the nerve to disagree with him in the whole course of his life!"

"Yes, I know," Combeferre replied. "It was rather dramatic."

"She's an unusual girl," Enjolras said quietly. "It saddens me that she was forced so young into such a bitter life, for no fault of her own. She has such remarkable spirit."

"Is it not possible, though, that this is in fact a direct result of the conditions she has been living in?"

Enjolras mulled that over. "No, I do not think so. Tempering in the fire may fortify the rod, but the wood was strong to begin with. Certainly one may argue that her experiences have cultivated certain aspects of her self, but these things do not appear out of nowhere. There are some qualities that are innate."

Combeferre smiled. "You admire her a great deal, don't you?" Enjolras gave him a look, and Combeferre was quick to amend, "No, I know you too well to imagine you to be at risk of falling in love with the girl, but you admire her nonetheless."

"Yes. She is the very definition of a rough diamond, I think."

"Potential may be found in the most unlikely places," Combeferre mused. "Such is the maxim of the schoolmaster, and perhaps it ought to be considered more closely outside the classroom as well."

Enjolras nodded. "That is the principle reason why the monarchy must be toppled," he said seriously. "Seeds have been scattered throughout the gutters of Paris, but no rose can bloom with the shadow of a tyrant blotting out the light of the sun. Éponine is starting to find her way, but how many more like her are there? How many good girls, driven to misery and hunger and prostitution and God only knows what other privations, populate this city alone?"

"There is no need to say these things to me," Combeferre said, a hint of amusement crossing his features. "I know them as well as you do, mon ami."

From there, their conversation turned to lighter subjects, lighter still once Jehan tore himself away from the pretty young lady he was courting and whom he had brought along with him for the evening.

The evening crept on pleasantly. Wine was plentiful and the conversation, as usual in the close-knit band of friends, was excellent. Around eleven o'clock, Musichetta and Bahorel's lady-friend discovered Courfeyrac's piano, at which point nothing could divert the two ladies from entertaining the entire company with their playing and singing. A few of the men were coaxed into joining them for duets, notably Grantaire, who despite the tremendous amounts of alcohol he consumed regularly had managed to retain a rather fine singing voice. It was, as such performances tended to be, a bizarre blend of the latest popular arias as well as songs from the comédie en vaudeville, much to the amusement of those who chose to keep silent and listen.

As the much-anticipated hour of midnight drew nearer, however, Courfeyrac resumed a line of thinking that had become a bit of a theme with him and which was most unwelcome to Enjolras.

"Come to think of it," he said to his blond friend with a deceptively innocent air, "I've seen every man in the room take a turn under the mistletoe."

"Yes. Even Grantaire saw fit to steal a kiss from Musichetta!" Joly interjected, glaring daggers at the shamelessly-grinning drunkard. Musichetta, for her part, had the grace to blush.

"Indeed, everyone!" Courfeyrac proclaimed, and Enjolras, who had anticipated just such an event, cringed inwardly. "Everyone except... you, Enjolras!"

Not for the first time, Enjolras wondered if it were Courfeyrac's mission in life to deliberately make him miserable. Really, he knew that Courfeyrac was a splendid fellow but it was times like this, when his joviality and cleverness exceeded his good sense, that he found himself wondering why he tolerated the other man.

"The only married man in the room cannot be the only man who fails to make use of the mistletoe, not when I took such great care to acquire it!" Courfeyrac said gleefully.

Bahorel, who evidently had decided the most entertainment could be gleaned from becoming Courfeyrac's accomplice in this mischief, grabbed Enjolras by the elbow. Before he could react, he had been pulled from where he was standing and planted firmly next to Éponine, who was most unfortunately placed rather near a sprig of the very plant which Enjolras was quickly developing a distinct antipathy towards.

"Oh, leave them alone," Jehan said, but it sounded a little half-hearted.

"Hush, you!" his lady-friend said playfully. "A man has a duty to kiss his wife, and often!"

This prompted a brief and very silly debate between these two, which served as a distraction for a handful of the Amis, who joined in the teasing of Jehan with gusto.

Courfeyrac, however, could not be dissuaded. "Come, you two! It is New Year's Eve! Whatever you may say, it's customary!"

Enjolras let out a resigned sigh and glanced at Éponine. She gave him a shrug and a look that said quite clearly, we may as well humor him, or he'll never leave us alone. Unfortunately, Enjolras knew this was probably true. He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Now that really is pathetic," Marius teased. Éponine's eyes shot away from her husband to latch onto the young Baron Pontmercy. "Is that really the best you can do, Enjolras?"

Enjolras was standing close enough to catch the slight narrowing of her eyes, the squaring of her shoulders. He knew the look she got when she had accepted a challenge she couldn't back down from; at the sight of it on her face now, he felt positively unnerved. This could not end well.

Éponine turned her eyes very deliberately back to his own, fixed him in that assertive dark gaze, and before he had a chance to diffuse the situation, she had placed her hands along the sides of his face, drawn his mouth down to hers, and kissed him very decidedly and thoroughly. It was, Enjolras thought dazedly, a very different experience from that hesitant first kiss at their wedding. That had been nervous and reluctant on both ends, not merely his own. This, though, was anything but- at least on Éponine's end of things. As she plied his lips with her own, it became very apparent that she knew precisely what she was doing. The composure which Courfeyrac's teasing had frayed was well and thoroughly done in by Éponine's attentions.

And then it was over with. Éponine pulled back, winked conspiratorially at him, threw a self-satisfied glance at Marius, and walked away.

Enjolras stared after her, utterly thrown.

Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder, smirking. "Careful, mon ami, that you don't leave your jaw sitting on the floor where someone might trip over it."

Enjolras couldn't help feeling that he might have just acted as the unwitting pawn in his wife's attempt to make Marius jealous.

Miles away, on the opposite side of the city, a very different sort of celebration of the new year was taking place.

Montparnasse did up his trousers, slipped a few coins into the girl's outstretched hand, and went his way, wholly unsatisfied. Whores were good, he supposed, but they never put up much of a fight. Even when he told them that was what he wanted, it was still hollow. He knew all too well that he was paying the girl to do exactly what he pleased; she would have done just as well if he told her to just lie there. There was no victory in such a fight. He liked the feeling of pursuit, of desperation, which he had only ever gotten from one source: Éponine Thenardier.

He hadn't seen the girl in weeks, maybe months, and despite himself he actually rather missed her. He wandered in the direction of the Gorbeau house, thinking he might be able to find out where she'd scuttled off to now.

Upon arriving outside the tenement however, he heard raised voices, male and female, echoing down from the broken window of the Thenardiers' apartment. He smiled sardonically to himself. Anytime money got the least bit tight (well, tighter than usual), the Thenardiess would start grumbling and sooner or later it devolved into a full-scale argument which only avoided coming to blows because not even Thenardier was fool enough to strike a woman who so far outclassed him in height, weight, and strength.

Underneath the bellowing of the man and lady of the house, a quieter sound could be heard.

Montparnasse pricked up his ears and followed the soft noise to the alleyway behind the Gorbeau house, where he discovered the shivering little bundle of rags that was Azelma Thenardier, sobbing into her arms and trying to be quiet about it. Briefly, he wondered if Azelma was as good in the sack as her sister, but disregarded that notion. He had no interest whatsoever in the other Thenardier girl. Her figure might be far better than her sister's, but she wasn't as pretty and she was so easily led... no, there was no fight in Azelma whatsoever. No challenge.

Still, she could be of use to him in another way.

"'Zelma," he hissed.

She looked up at him, those big green eyes gleaming in what little light filtered into the alley. "'Parnasse," she said, and her tearstained face broke out into a smile, showing off her yellowing teeth.

He reached out a hand to her and pulled her to her feet. "Where's your sister?" he asked.

Her happy expression fell a little. "How should I know?" she mumbled.

"Come on, 'Zelma," he whined, in a tone he knew very well she wouldn't be able to resist. He took a step closer to her; she took a step back, so that she was leaning against the brick wall. "She's your sister. Surely you know where she's gone to."

She shrugged. "Some handsome fellow came after her a few weeks back. I don't know anything else."

Montparnasse took another step closer, placing his palms against the stones on either side of her, framing her body between his two arms. "What fellow?"

"I dunno. Some sort of student, I guess."

"Some bourgeois prat decided to keep himself a private whore, then?"

Azelma shook her head. "'Ponine's better than that," she protested.

"Yes," he said lasciviously, entendre dripping from every syllable. "Yes she is."

Azelma shuddered, but he saw something reluctantly kindled in her eyes and he grinned. He leaned in closer to her, so close their bodies were almost touching. He could feel the heat from her body radiating in the cold December air, could see her pupils dilate and her breath jump in her throat.

"Find her for me," he whispered.

"What?"

"Find her for me," he said again, closing another few inches of space between them.

"What will you give me?" she asked, looking closely into his eyes.

He smirked, and leaned in so close his lips just touched against hers. He felt her try to kiss him, but his mouth brushed right past, skimming her cheek until his lips were right beside her ear. "I see how you watch me, 'Zelma," he whispered seductively. "I see you looking at me. You see me with your sister, and you wish you were in her place, don't you?" He felt her nod helplessly, heard her breathing deepen in response to his effectively intimate tone. "You want me to kiss you like I've kissed her." He pressed his lips in a line down her neck, tasting her pulse point, taking perverse pleasure in being able to draw such a response from her so easily. "You want me the way she's had me." He nipped gently at the place where his lips had just rested, and heard her gasp softly.

Abruptly, he pulled away in one fluid motion, leaving her lurching after him to no avail. "Find her for me, and I just might give you what you want!" he said, smirking at her.

He turned and walked to the mouth of the alley. Then he turned back and, with a nod in the direction of their window, said, "You may as well start looking for her now. It doesn't sound like they're like they're going to quit screaming anytime soon." And then he was gone.

A/N- I'd like to formally apologize for this chapter being so late. This is what college does to me. I tried to make up for it with a bit of a longer chapter. Also, I usually like to take a kinder perspective on 'Parnasse because I really do like the boy. In this fic, though, he kind of went Evil Supervillain on me and I wasn't too motivated to stop him. Therefore, you're going to have to deal with evil!Montparnasse.