massive cw for abuse
also here you get to see the mess that happens when you don't plot beforehand.
paris turned from green to golden to frosted in silver within the space of the next month, and before eponine had realised it, christmas crept up on her again. it grew too cold for her to make her living beneath the bridge; she made money instead by running messages for people and stealing the occasional franc from a rich lady. (there were rules she set down for herself: don't steal from people who were worse off than she was.)
night was falling quickly as the snow that whirled in joyful circles through the air, and the shops were just lighting up, their warming glow dancing orange on the blue snow, a lovely lightplay that eponine stood and admired with her ratty old coat pulled tightly about her shoulders and her face pulled tightly into a smile.
she did not know why papa had pressed some money into her hands and told her with a smile to go out and buy herself something nice, only that she did not like it, and she didn't want to know where the money came from. she prefered papa properly predictable, with a glint in his eye and a snarl on his lips and spittle forming at the corners of her mouth, because she knew she could weather that storm.
thenardier, though, also had an ability to be remarkably kind and gentle. when she was a child, he would often watch eponine's hair, combing through the tangles with his fingers and he would tell her when she grew up she would be the gem of parisian society. even now, he could be kind, and the kindness cost him little, rolling casually off his shoulders when he affirmed to his wife that their daughter was not worthless ("she is valuable to me"), that she was not ugly ("she may be a match for montparnasse yet"), that she was, at the end of the day, theirs.
("a symbol of lost love, then?" mme. thenardier sneered, throwing her arms up.)
but the stillness was slippery, hard to hold onto, hard to keep. she could scream back when he hit her, scream back when he yelled, tell him that it was he she came from when he called her the scum of the earth and that if she were, then what would that make him, but she never knew how to react to his kindness. to his smiles. to his awkwardly petting her roughed hair. the kindness that was so fragile, so frail, that had her tiptoeing on thin ice around him less she said anything to shatter the peace. (something inevitably would.)
don't be ridiculous, eponine, she told herself. whatever his mood will be when you get back, you've got his money now.
she could get herself something — well, not nice, certainly, but at least functional. new.
practical eponine said that she ought to get something for the bite of winter — a new coat, perhaps, to replace the ratty old one that had become her second skin, or new shoes that weren't hand-me-downs from her mother and which didn't pinch and blister her feet when she walked.
foolish eponine said that she'd long been used to the chill, and that the pinching wasn't so bad. foolish eponine wanted something pretty, something she could hold onto — a feather for her hair, perhaps, or the cheap glass-and-paste brooch, or a book. a book was good.
foolish eponine always won, though practical eponine muttered that she would regret it later. no matter. even the temporary elation that would set this day apart from the others was better than the dullness that characterised the mere passing of hours that largely characterised what she liked to call The Rest of the Time.
bookstores still managed to cow her, but only a little now. she could stumble through the political books monsieur enjolras explained so patiently for her, though she still did not (did not yet) understand, though she often would fancy that she could understand more than a quarter of his ideas at their meetings at the musain now, and that were she to apply herself to listening more than to gazing at m'sieur marius' face, she might even understand more than half of what he was saying.
it had been nice to be in the company of so many books again, though, even if the books told tales of tyrants and tax reform rather than stories of shining, steadfast knights atop their strong steeds.
she walked into the bookstore without much of an aim in mind, beyond that she wanted something that she could read on her own terms (no more esoteric rousseau) - a fairy story, perhaps, or an illustrated book.
sooner, rather than later, she found herself lost among the shelves in front of the translated texts of some german man.
undine. she could not understand all of the introduction — it mentioned too many people she didn't know (what was paracelsus but a name to her?), but she did understand that the story of undine drew parallels to melusine, an old childhood favourite. curious half-faylings who perhaps too easily forgave the men that violated their trust did so attract her interest.
so she bought it, she had it wrapped, and she could pretend it was a christmas gift from her father. even better, she had enough money left over for sweets, or for the roasted chestnuts she'd been craving since one of the panes in their windows had been punched out and the smell of the vendor's wares drifted up to their little set of rooms in place saint-michel.
—-
the walk back to the apartment took no time at all, and eponine's spirits were cheered. she paused on the steps before their landing to compose herself — pat down her hair, wipe away the tears that the biting wind had brought to her eyes, straighten her coat — in case monsieur marius were to see her.
which, given that he did bump into her on his way out of his apartment, was a good idea.
"'ponine!" he laughed, taking her by the shoulders. (don't tense up breathe regularly look him in the eyes.) "you look well today."
"i feel well today," she chirped, smiling back up at him. she couldn't help it; his joy was infectious. "where're you off to, mister?"
"there's a meeting today at the musain that i'm obligated to attend, unfortunately, but do remind me that i have a gift hidden away somewhere for you, 'ponine."
"but it's christmas eve!" she exclaimed, deliberately avoiding thinking about the second part of his statement. (she'd save it for later, when there was time enough to smile over it.) "surely monsieur enjolras can't expect you to meet on christmas eve!"
marius shrugged. "we've no place better to be, and besides, he said that the revolution waits for no man. there are worse ways of spending a christmas eve."
"i can't think of any."
his gaze flickered towards the stained door of her rooms but he said very gently, "i'll be with my friends, we'll be drinking hot beer and debating the later philosophies of diderot. enjolras might eviscerate me and bahorel is likely to get into a fistfight with someone again, but they're my friends and i'll enjoy myself more with them than i would in church, so i may as well. and god knows what enjolras will do to me if i fail to show up."
"well then take care that you don't drink too much. i know your friends, m'sieur marius, and they're a rowdy lot. it's cold outside now and people are needing coats and shoes and money and it's not the easiest thing to get back home with all the things you left it in."
"i — yes, thank you, 'ponine. you take care of yourself as well." he tipped his hat and stomped down the stairs with such gusto she could feel the entire skeleton of the house keeling to his weight.
staring after him, eponine came to the startling realisation that he was so young. oh yes, he was older than her in years, but she felt as if she'd seen so many more winters, as if time lay on top of her bones to come smother her in its weight until she bent low to the ground, while it sat lightly on him, a fine mantle of nobility that lent him an aristocratic air.
god, she was so pathetic.
she let herself in, and shut the door loudly to announce her return. (there was no need for words when noise sufficed; the thenardiers communicated in a system of grunts and groans, in slamming doors and the sick, silver sharpening of knives.)
mme. thenardier in the corner did not even look up from where she was mending up her husband's coat, an old frayed patchwork thing that had perhaps once had some structure but was now a misshapen lump of mismatched fabric. thenardier himself was lounging like a king, albeit one seated on a rotten throne, at the rickety old table they'd picked up a few months ago from someone else's pile of garbage. there was one candle to light the entire room, but papa had piled firewood high.
"montparnasse and his friends are coming by tonight. make sure you look presentable for them."
perhaps, eponine thought sourly, papa did not realise the patron-minette did not care if she were dressed up in fine silks or served to them naked on a silver platter; montparnasse would have his way with her anyway, and she would acquiesce, even if she hated herself for it, because he was beautiful and he was human and he was someone to hold, if only for a little while.
(it was just as likely he knew, but didn't care.)
still, she liked when the four of them came around. not that she particularly enjoyed their company ('parnasse aside, and that was only when he wasn't playing the ne'er-do-well for his friends), but at least then the thenardiers could pretend like they gave a damn about each other. mama would fret and coo over eponine, because that was what mothers were supposed to do, and papa would turn on his oily charm, and 'ponine would smile and allow herself to be fussed over. they could hold court in their squalid parlour and eponine was the princess dressed in rags, and they could act like they'd never left montfermeil.
"where's the money i gave you for christmas?" her papa asked from his chair.
"i spent it all." (lie.) "i don't have anything on me anymore." (another lie.)
thenardier chuckled. "always so eager, my little eponine. what did you spend it on? some paste jewelry to rival the rubies of the paris élite? pretty baubles for your hair? a nice new winter frock with little stones in it so you can catch your monsieur marius' eye?" he sounded almost tame.
"nothing like that," eponine muttered, keeping her eyes down lest she somehow offend him and wreck his cheer. papa liked to think he knew his little eponine so well, and liked to think that she was still the girl-child who fancied little more than lacy things and pretty dolls, and it made him cross to discover otherwise.
"out with it, girl, i want to see what daddy's money has bought you."
she doubted it was 'daddy's money' that bought her anything, but she drew undine outfrom under her coat.
he stared at it.
in silence.
and eponine didn't like the silence, because the silence meant something was surely to break, because it was always quiet before the storm, because —
"this useless thing is what you get with the money i worked so hard for? this? what do you think you are, you gutter rat, some sort of fancy lady living in a manor in arrondissement de passy? it seems i've raised nothing but a fool these seventeen years, a fool who buys books — books —" here, he flung the slim volume against the wall, where it slammed into the wood with a hollow thunk "— instead of anything useful, instead of anything that might help her marry that rich bastard next door and secure a future for her maman and papa, anything that might pretty her up and earn a few more dollars on the streets. i have raised a selfish bitch of a daughter, and what's more, she can't even read the books she brings home."
"marius will never love me, papa!" she howled at him. "and you may as well stop acting like it's going to make a difference whether or not i have feathers in my hair whether he notices me in that way or not. i'm ugly, papa. ugly and sick and poor and you and i both know the men who pay for my services will pay whether or not i buy pretty brooches with the money you stole, and neither 'parnasse or m'sieur marius will look twice my way for marriage if i paraded before him in damask and velvet, let alone the cheap toys your money your money could afford."
the slap fell before she saw it coming. "he would if you'd actually try, instead of mooning after him like a cow. fitting, if not completely useless." he did not scream. he did not yell. he did not even raise his voice, but there was venom enough in his whisper to poison the entire ocean.
eponine was hunched over, one hand fisted against her stinging cheek and the other pressed against the concavity of her stomach. she would not cry before her father. she would not cry before her father.
(at least she knew what to expect now.)
"i can't be the person you expect me to be, papa. i'm not a child any longer, and you don't know me half as well as you think you do," she bit out, turning to look him in the eyes. "and i know you a lot better than you think. you've been looking for control all your life and i'll tell you this — you've none over me. you can deny me a home, you can force me onto the streets, you can expect that i whore myself out for your benefit — and you've done all of that and i am ashamed of none of it but don't think that you can control my mind. don't think that you can mold me to be who you imagine i am. i love you, papa, and i even love maman, and i'm sure i'll find it in me to miss you someday, but gavroche was right. and i'm leaving."
"all this for a book," mme. thenardier tsked from her corner, but she did not look up from her sewing.
"he hit me over a book! you've heard him call me variations of the word garbage for the past five years, maman; you couldn't have expected that i put up with it forever."
her mother did not respond, only pursed her lips.
"you're being ridiculous," thenardier informed her, his voice deadly calm. "it's the middle of winter, and you've no place to go. you'll be back before dawn tomorrow, and i'm telling you, lass, that i'll make you sorry you ever opened your mouth to talk back to your father."
those were all just words, though, at least for now, and eponine walked slowly over to pick up her poor little broken book before turning to walk out.