A/N: One last chapter in the eye of the storm... enjoy it while you can. ;-)

CHAPTER ELEVEN | FALSE PRETENSES

"Look, Daddy! Teacher says, 'Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.'"

Éponine was snuggled up on the couch with a blanket around her, sipping on a glass of red wine as the final moments of It's a Wonderful Life played on the six-inch television set in the corner. Enjolras moved his gaze from the movie to the window, where he noticed a light snowfall beginning to cover the city. It was fogging up his windows, for the room was so warm that it was beginning to show.

With a sigh, he clicked the television off and sat up a little straighter in the armchair. He took a sip of his own glass of wine – the one Éponine had insisted he drink, rather than make a whole pot of coffee. "It's Christmas," was all she had to say for him to oblige, which seemed a good enough reason at the time.

The brunette pulled her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms, leaning the side of her face on her legs as she did so. Her eyes found the blonde's, who seemed tired once again – but from what, she couldn't tell. Perhaps he had not gotten enough sleep the night before...

"That was a good movie," she said wistfully. "I haven't seen a movie in a long time."

He took another drink. "It's probably better that way. Too much television rots your brain."

She snorted but said nothing. Instead, she leaned over and picked up a sleeping Petit from off the floor beside the couch. Ushering him to her lap proved easy as he stood with one paw still in the door of dozing off, and Éponine smiled brightly. Her cheeks were a little flushed, and when she glanced over at the bottle of wine near Enjolras' feet, she found it to be empty.

"More wine?" she asked, but it came out as more a statement than a question.

Nodding, he finished his glass then strode to the kitchen, pulled out another bottle of red, and brought it back to the living room. In his chest, there was some heaviness. His mind kept shouting at him: Fool, what are you doing? Why did you let it go this far? You have no right. She has no right. But he couldn't stop it now, with the momentum of her company fueling the course of the night. Besides, it was Christmas and he hadn't bothered trying to see anyone in years – not his family, anyway.

He still did see his friends, but they were nothing but etched slabs of stone anymore.

"You seem different," Éponine thought aloud, holding her glass out to him. He took it from her and filled it halfway, to which she rolled her eyes and urged him to pour another quarter.

"How so?"

"When I first met you," she said roughly, "you were just like all the others. Pissed me off to see you coming 'round, poking your nose into our business. You made me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass, you know?"

He was silent. Maybe he didn't know, but it didn't mean that he didn't care. Although, for Enjolras to put any ounce of his heart into anything besides work anymore felt strange, and he didn't know if he was doing it right. It had been so long.

It was then that he decided she reminded him of them.

"Anyway," she finished, looking down, "I was..."

"Wrong?"

She started to shake her head but then laughed instead, throwing her head back with a fervor that echoed throughout the apartment. "You must love it when you're right." She paused. "Makes me wish I wasn't so obvious."

Enjolras' face was unmoving as ever, but his cheeks were beginning to inadvertently blush from his consumption of wine – which he hardly ever drank anymore.

"You would have lied to me, then?" he asked. "If I had asked you before, what you thought of me... You would have had me believe you despised me?"

"I would have."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Lying is a poor trait to have."

"You're quick to condemn it," she stated openly, waving a hand through the air. "Maybe you need to be taking your own advice."

"What have I ever lied about?" the man demanded. He was becoming angry – something he often forgot he could be. It's passion, his mind prodded. It's a spark of something you used to have so much of... and she's the one who ignited it.

She smirked. "Wanting me to come over for an interview."

He didn't say a word. Instead, he stood up and headed to the corner where his shoulder bag was, to which he unzipped and plucked out his small black tape recorder.

Éponine immediately wished she could take back her words. "No, Enjolras," she started, "I didn't mean-"

"There were no false pretenses," he said hotly, standing behind the couch, peering down at her without an ounce of hesitancy eyes. "I did not mean for you to think I would have you come here, just to spend the holiday, to stay in my home with me... expecting something else."

There was a heavy silence weighing between them. Part of Éponine was insulted while the other part of her was positively astonished. She knew that it wasn't right for her to expect anything from this man, who – as he said – only desired an interview and nothing more. He wanted to tell her story, if he could, as if it even mattered anymore now that the lies had been published and accepted in France as truth. In the same token, a small part of her seemed defeated by this statement, and she didn't know why.

It was bold of him, however – something she knew he was but had not seen much of due to how detached he seemed to be. It was almost as though this drunkenness had unearthed a familiarity, brushing away the dirt that disguised the man he really was.

If he didn't used to be this way, she thought, trying to make sense of herself. Perhaps if things had been different for him, under different circumstances, he might still hold this passion.

"Monsieur, I never took you as that sort of man."

He straightened, but said nothing.

She swallowed hard and continued. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather we do this tomorrow – if you still desire a decent testimony." Something inside her was nervous to speak these words, simply because she was still unsure if she wanted anyone to know at all – and what difference would it make, anyway? Still, she tried to muster up as much certainty as she could in her eyes and met his. Her stomach was full of knots.

"Too much wine," he said finally.

"Too late now," she echoed.

After a moment, he strode back to his chair and took a seat. Something inside him knew he had gone too far, that he had said things he needn't have said – not tonight, not on Christmas – but he couldn't take them back in the same way he couldn't return the wine to its bottle.

Enjolras didn't know what else to say, and nothing he could do would cleanse the moment of its uneasiness. Éponine struggled for a moment to fill the void, which was passed only after downing her entire glass of wine – which the man seated across the room knew without so much as glancing her way.

"You know," she said in a brandished tone, "it might be Christmas, but it sure doesn't feel like it. This place doesn't have a shred of holly, no candy canes, stockings, nothing."

He shrugged. She scoffed tiredly.

"Got any paper?"

"Beside the typewriter." He motioned to the desk where it sat perched in the corner.

As the girl stood, Petit (who had been sleeping in her lap) shot up and batted once at her before flouncing off elsewhere. The brunette made her way across the room, plucked a few papers from the stack, took a pair of scissors from a cup filled with pens and loose paperclips, and flopped back down onto the couch.

"Maman taught me how to do this when I was younger." Éponine's voice was soft, which Enjolras noted as his eyes trailed back to where she sat, cross-legged and slouched over the intricate task in her lap. "Père used to hang them up by the fireplace when I was finished – and we used to make dozens, Azelma and I..." The girl seemed to forget that she was speaking aloud, or else she might not have so freely spoken.

Enjolras didn't pry the way he wanted to. He had said enough to upset her. Instead, he watched as quick snips sounded while a spray of white paper clippings slipped into the couch cushion's crease. The girl's motions were fluid, as though she'd done this a thousand times in her sleep; her breathing was irregular as she braced herself every now and then for a poor cut, which didn't happen.

A strange skill for a strange girl, he mused.

"There," she said finally with a yawn. "Finished."

Éponine held it up for him to inspect. It was elegant in a way that only the simplest of things can be. Two folds, right down the center, coming to a point with a small heart cut out of it. Tiny slits scattered across the paper's surface, and Enjolras found himself staring at the little pieces before seeing it as a whole.

"A snowflake," he murmured.

Éponine smiled triumphantly.

He surprised her as he stood from the chair at once and started toward her. She almost thought he might rip it from her hands, because of the way his brow furrowed and his chin jutted out with authority – but as he held his hand out, she rested the paper snowflake in it and watched him start toward the fireplace near the window.

From a rusted nail protruding from the wooden mantle, he hung it with care and made certain that it was straight before stepping back.

"There," she said. "Now you have a little decoration." An easy smile spread onto her lips as she said it, eyelids flickering shut with each blink. So much focus on making the snowflake, as easy a task as it had seemed, caused great stress. Maybe it was the remembering that came along with it – but she couldn't be sure. In any case, sleep welcomed her with open arms, but she fought it good and hard as she sat up a little straighter on the couch.

"You seem exhausted," Enjolras told her. "You need some rest."

"I know," she breathed, closing both eyes. "But it's only eleven o'clock, and we- we just opened that bottle..."

Enjolras almost laughed, but restrained himself. Instead, he bent down and picked up the pillow from off the floor, noting subconsciously how it smelled of cherries, and pushed it behind her in one swift movement. Éponine barely noticed the strong hand holding her forward on her shoulder until it was gone. Her eyelashes unwove themselves and as her gaze focused, she found herself alone in the room; the lamps in either corner suddenly flickered off and she tilted her head backward.

"Enjolras," she whispered through the darkness.

"Go to sleep," was his only reply.

She was quick to obey.

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The fireworks woke him again. Their sound nearly grabbed him by the throat and pulled him out of bed as he gasped for air, shaking. Their rumble echoed down the streets of Paris and leaked in through the crack in the doorway to his bedroom.

Somehow, they seemed louder than the night before.

Enjolras closed his eyes again, rubbing at them with jittery fingers, and tried not to focus on the headache that nearly split his mind in two.

Bang.

Out of instinct, he made for the door and padded across the floor to the living room, where he seemed magnetized to the window as a sheen of colorful lights burst in the sky. His eyes could barely hold themselves open, but his racing heart kept him awake and too shaken to sleep. The thought of losing more sleep and working in the morning was something he didn't care to dwell on, but it gnawed at his subconscious and made him feel even worse.

Bang-bang.

He was almost so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Petit brush past his leg, the cat purring as it did so. Enjolras grudgingly bent down to pet the fur ball, looking up and out again as his attention refocused on the lights display that illuminated the distant skyline. How often had he awoken to the smell of gun smoke, of men shouting at the tops of their lungs as women cried and blocked their children from the shower of bullets?

"You awake?"

The sudden outburst sounded like a shout in the man's unanticipating ears. He shot upright, scaring the cat into a crouched position before it darted off toward his bedroom and wedging its way through the crack in the doorway.

On the couch, Éponine stirred. He saw her silhouette sit upright, hands rising upward to meet her eyes as she rubbed them gently; the blanket that had once been wrapped tightly around her torso fell to her lap, and her hands along with it.

"Didn't mean to startle you," she said, then looked up at him through squinted eyes. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said sharply, then realized the error of his tone. "Sorry."

"You don't sound-" she started, then stopped herself. Instead, she sighed and pushed the blankets off of her and made for the window where Enjolras stood. As she reached his side, a cascade of lights lit up the sky, followed by the loud, crackling pops of exploding gunpowder.

Beneath the glow of the lights, he could see her face for what it was, finally. No hiding behind her hair, no weariness to crease her forehead, and no anger laced in her tone to change his perception. Here, she was crystal clear: smooth olive cheeks with dark brown eyes, a curved, ski slope nose, and a mop of messy hair atop her head that was both wiry and thick at once. Long eyelashes cast shadows beneath her eyes that reminded Enjolras of dark circles he had once worn on his own face, as though they had been carved into his flesh by filthy fingertips. Those were the days he couldn't go a moment without forgetting, whereas now it was more of a dull ache.

Her collarbones popped out from the t-shirt she wore, perhaps because she was tired and wasn't focused on the way it hung on her frame.

Enjolras stopped for a moment as one more flash of light lit the room, and he swore he saw a muddy purple bruise staining the skin below her neck. But the moment passed just as quickly as it had come, and she took a step further toward the window and away from his prying eyes.

"Didn't know the city had spectacles like this on Christmas," she said softly.

"It's more a pain than anything," he groaned, scratching at the back of his neck as he, too, turned to face the window. "They don't let you get any sleep, here."

"I can only imagine what that must be like – not getting any sleep." Something in her tone made him think better of the statement, as though sarcasm's flame flickered at its edges.

He glanced down at her once and removed his hand from his neck. It fell to his side tiredly. Suffice to say, his heartbeat was still racing.

"You been up long?"

The man shook his head before gesturing to the fireworks. "No. Just got up actually... these woke me." He paused, thinking only for a stint before adding, "It sounded like gunfire."

Éponine didn't say anything in reply, though she felt she should have. The way his words hung in the air was uncomfortable, and she noticed that when she looked up at him, his shoulders shook slightly.

He's... shaking? she thought in complete disbelief. The man who is always so certain and sure, the one who knows not how to smile, who knows not how to show any semblance of emotion, is shaking. But why?

Silently, she slipped her hand inside of his. He didn't look up, and neither did she. They both understood what this was: assurance. Though Éponine didn't understand, and she wasn't going to try – at least, not now – she could at least show him what she remembered of compassion. And somehow, with his hand so tightly curled around hers, the night stopped unraveling and they were the only ones awake in its stillness.

The girl's sudden words cut through the silence like a knife. "I know this all seems too good to be true," she said groggily, almost leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. "I know that it's all going to be different tomorrow, when I go back to the factory and you to your office... but it has been nice. Really."

He swallowed back the words that threatened to leave his lips: I don't want it to be over. Maybe these thoughts were merely hallucinations brought on by tiredness, or the wine that still tainted his blood, or even because she was the only one who didn't seem to mind his company. Whatever it was, Enjolras hated that he couldn't justify these ideas, and because of it, he scowled.

Éponine took her hand back and rested it across her opposite shoulder. This was their goodbye, the real one that would mean more than the farewells he had planned in the morning. It was tonight, and it was happening, and when she looked over at him, he was looking at her too.

But before she could say anything, his eyes flickered to the window.

"The fireworks stopped," he murmured with finality. "I should head back to bed."

She nodded. "Me, too."

Before he turned on his heel, he gave her a small smile – one that she could see, even through the darkness. "It has been a pleasure, Mademoiselle."

She curtsied mockingly, grinning a little as she did so, and stumbled back to the couch. And as she fell into its comfortable cushions, and as the sound of Enjolras' bedroom door closing met her ears, she couldn't help but think that – for what little it was worth – she was glad to have crossed paths with the man of marble.

Even if it was just this once.

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The next morning, Enjolras stumbled out of bed at the sound of his alarm clock buzzing loudly, sliding into his slippers and pulling on his robe as he walked in the living room. Out of new instinct, his eyes went to the couch where he assumed the girl to still be sleeping, but stopped immediately when he found her missing.

He looked left, then right, and when she was neither here nor there, he called out her name. There was no reply.

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Just outside, the girl with olive skin raced down the street, a brown paper bag clutched tightly in her arms. Her heart was beating fast, a little afraid that the man who had intended to get a story out of her would wake up too soon, and that he would come looking for her when he found her gone.

This is betrayal, the little voice inside her head prodded sadly. You said you would tell him what you knew and you left.

But despite the lingering fear, a part of her almost wished he would come down, running after her, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her back to his flat.

She wondered why that was.

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In the easing sunrise of his dingy home, Thénardier waited.