A/N: Thank you again everyone for your continued support!

CHAPTER NINE | FIREWORKS

Enjolras led Éponine somewhat nervously up the six flights of stairs to his apartment, his palms slightly sweaty as they clutched at the keys in his pocket. He shifted awkwardly at the plateaus between the staircases, glancing back at her just long enough to make sure she was keeping up. He could see it in the way her chest heaved that her thin, frail body was not meant to climb so many stairs at once. Unfortunately, however, the elevator was out of order.

By the time they reached the top she was breathing loudly; he could hear her strained breaths coming up the last set of stairs as he fiddled with the keyhole, trying to jiggle it open as quickly as possible to get her inside.

"Sorry," he apologized, though it sounded forced.

"It's fine," she breathed, inhaling sharply after doing so. "I'm afraid I don't climb stairs for a living, so I'm a bit out of shape." A small laugh followed her words, but it sounded odd in Enjolras' ears.

Éponine seemed unabashedly honest, which he assumed to mean that she didn't much care for or about him; she didn't feel pressured to present herself in such a way because to her, he was just some awful excuse for a writer. Enjolras was a name and a face, but that was it.

When he finally got the door open, which did take a minute or so because of the handle's rusted condition, he held it for the girl and watched as her eyes immediately began taking in her surroundings.

The couch held a sleeping cat, the table a dog-eared, propped open book, and a radio for the sake of having one was collecting dust on the table beside his writing desk. Everything was as standard as it came, save for the typewriter that was covered in its box at the tabletop.

Still, Éponine's cheeks seemed to glow a bit more beneath the low lights.

"Not much for music, are you, Monsieur?" were the first words to escape her lips. She turned on her heel at the sound of the door closing, meeting his gaze. He shrugged, causing the girl to scoff and turn back around. "You know, I only say it because the only other bourgeois' flat I've even been to had a piano, and a record player, and a stack of vinyls all the way up to the ceiling." She began listing off numerous other things she had noted at places other than his, much of it including little things like art and picture frames and the like – all things that this particular apartment did not have.

"I don't have time for music," he cut her off, already sensing where this was going. If he had invited her over for a personal attack of his home, his attitude might have been different. "Or fancy art, or photographs," he concluded.

She plopped down on the bar stool beneath the conjoined kitchen's countertop. "Too busy with other things I take it?" Something in her tone implied a sexual connotation, which was only confirmed when he caught her winking mischievously at him.

"Not the sort you have in mind, I can assure you," he said, throwing his coat off him and onto a wingback chair near the fireplace. Enjolras wasn't used to women speaking this way – or, at least, the women he had ever known. When he was around Éponine, it seemed he had to try and keep up with her.

Thinking twice before heading into the kitchen, he sighed. "Can I get you something?"

"You mean, to eat?" she asked, perking up a little.

Not really, he thought, but ended up opening up the refrigerator and offering her whatever she could find. Before he knew it, she was at his side, peering into the standup appliance with wide eyes.

"All you got's a bunch of veggies," she said grumpily.

"Is that a problem?"

"Guess not. It's just weird, is all." She paused, glancing up at him before cocking a hip mockingly. "So you're one of those health nuts, huh?"

He almost answered her, but turned on his heel instead. The pot filled with lukewarm coffee was calling his name. It was full, 10 whole cups, which Enjolras usually did end up drinking all to himself. He poured a tall glass of it and took a long gulp, then turned around and leaned against the countertop to watch the girl surveying her options. She ended up pulling out a bag of baby carrots from one of the drawers and stretched its plastic open with both hands, snatching one and popping it into her mouth before even bothering to close the fridge door.

She leaned both elbows against the counter top, looking up at the man situated to her left. "Anyway," she started again, "what you're telling me is that you had no plans for Christmas Eve, and you were to sit here alone reading a book and drinking – of all things – coffee?"

He shrugged again, and she rolled her eyes. "You could have been out there, doing anything you wanted," she said, looking through the window to the veranda. "I mean, you're rich, pretty," – at this he nearly choked on his coffee – "and you've got nothing tying you down. What you should've done was call your friends and go straight to the Eiffel Tower."

For a moment, Enjolras was quiet. "Is that what you would have done?"

"Of course," she said dreamily before a dark look quickly crossed her face.

A strange feeling suddenly hung in the air between them, which was not uncomfortable but was not pleasant, either. One didn't know how to feel about the other in regards to their keeping of company, as neither Enjolras nor Éponine knew each other very well and had, at this point, accepted this. It was almost as though they were two strangers meeting for the first time.

Enjolras took another sip of his coffee, stole one more glance at the girl beside him, and headed to the living room. Éponine popped another carrot into her mouth, watching as he left while making no move to follow him, and waited for him to come back. She got impatient after several minutes of standing in the harsh kitchen lighting and begrudgingly wound around to the living room to see where he had run off to.

He was standing near the back window, peering out at the city with a sullen look in his eyes. His lips, usually pursed in perpetual tautness, had fallen limp in a moment of unguardedness. His gray eyes were focused outward, honing on the distant horizon which met the blackened sky – so focused, in fact, that he didn't notice Éponine weasel her way up beside him.

She looked from the stone man to the faraway skyline. It appeared that Enjolras was lost somewhere deep inside himself, perhaps a place he only went when he could be sure he was alone. A darkness held his features that she couldn't be certain was caused by the sky's reflection.

"Monsieur," she blurted suddenly, startling him as well as herself. Why are you so concerned? And when she couldn't think of an answer to her mind's prying question, shame took hold of her. You don't get the luxury of worrying about anyone, she reminded herself. Especially him.

But his eyes averted from hers before she could form words anyway, and he wordlessly opened up the glass doors to the balcony outside. Without having to ask, Éponine followed him and shut the door behind her.

Enjolras folded his arms and took a thick swig of coffee, watching the girl as she pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it between her lips. Its make seemed uncharacteristically expensive, and he eyed her over once more.

"You don't have work tomorrow?" she said, though it seemed more a statement than a question.

"No," came his simple reply.

"And you don't have plans?"

An image of the Café Musain on Christmas struck him. He blinked rapidly to clear his thoughts. "No."

Éponine nodded once, exhaling a long, undeterminable roll of either smoke or steam. "Good," she said finally, "because we're going out. And you're going to enjoy Christmas Day, whether you feel like it or not." She paused, looking out at the horizon once more. "And we are going to the Eiffel Tower."

Enjolras was tempted to decline, but as the words began to form in his mouth, something stopped him. He wasn't certain what it was, but it was strong and it seemed to pull him back.

In the end, he nodded, and Éponine managed a tiny smile.

After a few minutes of standing outside, both agreed that it was too cold to continue standing around, and when they went inside to grab their jackets, the warmth of the apartment greeted them too strongly to even think of venturing back outside. They ended up in the living room, Enjolras seated in the armchair and Éponine on the couch beside the small, gray fur ball.

"Your cat doesn't like me," the girl said gruffly as she tried once again to pick up Petit, earning yet another hiss and batted paw.

"He doesn't like anyone," Enjolras said, finishing his third cup of coffee with a blasé shrug.

She scrunched her nose. "Easy for you to write him off like that," Éponine muttered. "Maybe he's mad for a reason."

Enjolras laced a finger around the lip of the coffee mug, pondering for a moment. "There's no reason at all. It's just the way he is."

As if on cue, a low growl began to emit from the cat's jowl, causing Éponine to shrink back away from the cat. She quickly cleared her throat. "So how'd you get a cat? No offense – you don't really seem the type."

He was quiet, and when he spoke it was jagged and cutting. "It was a friend's."

Something in his tone made Éponine rethink prying deeper, so she didn't. The apartment grew silent, save for the flickering of the fireplace which Enjolras soon moved to stoke with another log. His face glowed beneath the light of the flames, casting harsh shadows on his bone structure's every curvature.

As he turned back around, his eyes found hers beneath his thick spectacles. He ran a hand through his blond hair, tugging at it lightly as he did so, then allowed his hand to fall to his side. His shoulders heaved with poorly-masked tiredness despite how many cups of coffee he had consumed, and no matter how stoic he tried to present himself as, there came a time at night when, in his own home, he could not project that marble-faced façade. Perhaps there had been a time in his life when he appeared to have been carved from stone, from sunup to sundown... That time had passed through the ticking of the years and all of the loss he had endured – all the pain, all the suffering, and the deep-seeded regret that ate away at him when he wasn't paying attention.

Éponine might have asked if he would care to join her for a glass of wine (his wine, of course) had she not seen how exhausted he was. Immediately she stood, face-to-face with the man who had, by some miracle, agreed to pick her up in Clamart and bring her home with him. His home was safe, and to be safe on Christmas Eve was a feeling she hadn't known in a long time.

She wanted to thank him, and her lips parted as if to urge the words out. 'Merci beaucoup!' her mind prompted her. 'Merci beaucoup,' you ungrateful child! But stubbornness had not yet unclipped itself from her heart. She was still the same thankless Thénardier, just as her mother and father were, just as her brother and sister had been – and that would never change.

Though neither knew it, both Enjolras and Éponine stood before each other with their own crosses bared, nearly choking on their own pain, but holding it down well enough so that it couldn't be read in their eyes.

"I am tired," Éponine finally said before folding both arms across her chest.

Enjolras was not stupid, and he could tell that this girl wasn't tired in the slightest. It was for his benefit alone that she had suggested it at all, and although he was almost positive it was a lie, he didn't have the energy to fight her on it.

"You may have my bed," he said, starting toward the bedroom. "Just allow me to straighten up-"

"No, Monsieur," Éponine cut him off. She quickly spun to stand in front of him, blocking his path with her hands pressed up before her. If he would have taken one step further, they would have collided. "You don't need to cater to me. I'll be fine out here – I have slept on a couch or two in my life."

He didn't have any words for her, so he decided to let this one go with a simple nod of recognition. He stepped past her to retrieve a pillow and blanket from the closet near his bedroom then laid them neatly on the edge of the sofa.

Enjolras looked from the girl with dirt caked in her hair to the couch, then back again. Something was slipping his mind, but this sudden exhaustion was clouding his thoughts and, in turn, his judgement. Perhaps in the morning he would remember that the reason he had any guests at all on Christmas was because he was supposed to be conducting an interview, not for the sake of simply keeping company. Maybe he would remember that it was against his own morals to allow a grown woman to stay the night in his home, he who was old-fashioned in many ways including this.

But for whatever reason, he had allowed her into his home and given her a place to stay. Whether it was some form of compassion, Christmas spirit, or sympathy, he wasn't sure.

However, as much as he willed himself to deny it, a small, hushed part of Enjolras was entirely certain of one thing: he did not just invite her over for an interview.

And as he flicked off the lamp switch and bid the girl a hurried bonne nuit, an unsettling feeling started in his stomach that he couldn't shake. He shut his bedroom door behind him and tugged off his shirt and pants, pulling on a matching set of red and black striped pajamas before sliding his glasses off his nose and falling down into bed. He was too tired to continue grasping at a conclusion that didn't make sense.

He was snoring within minutes, but just outside, Éponine couldn't have been more awake. She tried coaxing herself down onto the couch, which was much more comfortable than her own bed or even the couch at Marius' apartment.

Don't start, her mind warned her. Don't think too hard or you'll start blubbering again. Which she really would have; the wounds were still fresh and the longer it had been since she saw Marius, she harder it was on her. The sound of Cossette's awful, giddy voice still rang in her ears while she battled images of Marius and her at dinner that night – a night she had sworn was a date. But, had she simply been imagining it all? Had she been coming up with some falsified relationship in her head that was never truly there? Maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see, and maybe Marius had only felt sorry for her.

She rolled over on the couch, punching one of the cushions as she did so. Damn it, she thought as pain seared through her. Her eyes pinched themselves shut tightly to stop the tears that she knew were coming.

After a few minutes, her breathing returned to normal, and she let her eyelids flutter open a fraction to test the light. Everything was dark, save for the glow of streetlights that drifted in through the windows.

Merry Christmas, 'Ponine.

Finally, after an hour of tossing and turning, she drifted off into a jagged-seamed sleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

The sound of gunshots woke him. One, two, three-four-five and bang – he jolted out of bed with wide eyes. A sheen of sweat covered Enjolras' face and chest, and he realized that he was burning up. With shaking hands, he jerked off the flannel night shirt and clutched at his shoulders.

No, he thought bitterly, not gunshots.

His feet flung over one side of the bed and slid on his slippers, arching his back slightly as he slid on his glasses and prepared to stand. He padded quickly and quietly across the floor, heartbeat racing, and made his way out into the darkened living room. As his eyes met the windowpane, a giant spark of light illuminated everything, sending shadows dancing across the room.

"Fireworks," he whispered.

As the next round went off, Enjolras jumped, still startled by what he knew was coming. It sounded too real, especially moments ago when he had been lying in bed, awoken by a flash of memories rising to the forefront of his mind. That day in October... The blood in the streets...

It was all too real. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his senses, but he was drowning. Flash after flash, burst after burst, he couldn't look out the window at the sparkling rivets that trickled down toward the earth. His breathing was becoming heavy as their pace increased, the blasts seeming louder than ever, the gunfire showers raining the crowd, the screams of protest, the cries, his friends, his friends...

A sound startled him from his regression. On the couch, Éponine stirred. Without thinking, his eyes opened, and he saw her curled up in a ball with her hands in front of her face. She was still asleep. He stepped forward, blinking several times to focus his eyesight; there was hair flung in her eyes, loosely draping over the contours of her cheeks and down her shoulders. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, evenly timed and almost too gentle to see.

Something suddenly pierced him.

As long as love will flood my mornings / As long as my body will quiver beneath your hands / The problems matter so little to me / My love, because you love me.

The song – it was her song, the one she sang at the mill on that very first day he saw her. Its melody came rushing through his ears so quickly that he struggled to catch his breath. How did you remember? he thought in disbelief. And why now?

It was almost like a distant echo, resonating from some dark corner of his mind, playing on a loop as her voice rang and rang, and for the few minutes that he watched her, the song seemed louder than the fireworks.

Petit was curled up in the crease of the couch, tucked safely in the nook between the girl's stomach and curled-up legs. He slept softly at her side.

If it had been light and Éponine had been awake, it would have been different. But here in the darkness – safe in the nighttime's black embrace – a small smile allowed itself to enfold on his lips.

A smile he would remember in the morning.