They entered the dining hall to see Madame and Monsieur Enjolras already seated, waiting patiently and watching them meticulously. Enjolras's eyes, of course, immediately went to his father's; but before the two could commence their attempts at burning each other with their minds, Lynette took Enjolras's arm and pulled him towards the nearest open seat, flicking him lightly in the back of his bicep to remind him to tread lightly.

But as soon as they had sat down, Monsieur Enjolras l'Aîné cleared his throat in disapproval. "Junior... are you really going to sit next to your fiancé?" he asked, drawling out 'next' as if it were the most offensive term ever voiced. Enjolras had to grip the arms of the chair he was seated in to keep from throwing his fist down on the table. "Considering she is indeed my fiancé, yes," he responded with each syllable more over articulated than the last, as if mocking his father's own tone choice.

L'Monsieur perceived this, his grip tightening around his wine glass. "Precisely why you should not be seated next to her! It is the farthest thing from proper—"

"I can think of several things much more improper, actually," Enjolras cut him off daringly.

Much to everyone's surprise, Monsieur Enjolras did not take offense to this challenge... instead he just smirked. "I'm sure you can," he replied coolly, his eyes flickering to Lynette for a moment. Enjolras had a few guesses as to what he was implying, and though it made him want to jolt up out of his seat all over again, he managed to rein his rage back in with his rational thinking of, "It's probably best for Lynette to suppress your damnable pride and veer away from the subject completely," though he could tell that she too had caught the implication, and had tensed like a crouched tiger at this attack of her honor.

"Why is that considered proper, anyway? Wouldn't it be more appropriate for couples to sit side by side?" he questioned through grit teeth, steering the conversation away from the impertinent topic.

"Why does that matter? It's proper by tradition, and therefore will be enforced in this house!" l'Monsieur roared, pointing an irrevocable finger towards the floor of said house.

"Why do the origins of this law of propriety matter? Why does the tradition of propriety itself matter then—"

"Lynette dear, won't you come sit next to me? I'd love to be able to come to know you better over dinner," Madame Enjolras's feeble voice interrupted, a timid attempt at returning to the peace she'd convinced herself had settled over them since Enjolras's storming from the room and Lynette's subsequent calming him.

Now, Lynette could have done several things in that moment, the most obvious being going off on Monsieur Enjolras for his blatant disrespect, or refusing to move to tacitly rebel against the useless traditions he was trying to enforce. And for a weighted moment, it was as if her legs were bound to the chair she was seated in; she was a rebel at heart, and her radical instinct was telling her that she was not to move from this spot until someone put a bullet between her eyes.

But while she longed to give back to her fiancé's father what he'd been spitting out since they'd arrived, some other part of her untied her legs and shoved her up out of her seat, commanding her to put one foot in front of the other and make her way over to Madame Enjolras. All that remained of the insurgent was her pride, which made her absolutely astonished at her own self-control when she had been so tangibly provoked. But nevertheless, she was now seated next to Enjolras's mother, trying simultaneously to mollify his shocked, almost hurt expression with an apologetic one of her own and convince herself that this was necessary to keep the "peace" l'Madame was so convinced existed.

He took her pleading look with a huff, sitting down once more in the seat that had once been parallel to hers, staring at his plate as if wishing to shatter it with the weight and heat of the gaze. Lynette sighed, praying he understood why she'd done it, and for a moment silence hung over the room like the menacing overcast of a storm.

Though, just as even through the thickest of clouds, a single ray of light can break free, so too did Sylvie shatter the silence with the bright carelessness of a toddler.

"Oh, my Marcelin Junior... tell us about your time in Paris, your studies, your meeting Mademoiselle Lynette! You must have so much to share after so many years..." she gushed, inclining toward her son slightly in her excitement.

Lynette had always had a knack for reading people, whether it be with body language, facial expression, or tone of voice. It was part of what made her such a good leader and public speaker; she'd simply watch carefully her audience's reactions to decide where to take her oration next. So as she glanced back and forth between Sylvie and her husband, she was not surprised to see the yang to l'Madame's yin: while Sylvie sat forward, her legs and feet pointed towards her son and her arms folded neatly on the tabletop in front of her, he was leaning back in his seat, his feet pointed slightly towards the door in a direct reflection of where he wished to divert his attention to, and his arms were folded across his chest in a silent declaration of apathy for the topic at hand. Lynette nearly smirked; if nothing else, this dinner was to be a very interesting anatomical psychology study.

Enjolras's eyes met hers then, probing them defeatedly as if to ask permission to tell their tale. She responded with a tiny, understated nod and smiled; and as soon as he had perceived it he turned back to his mother. "Well, what specifically would you like to know?"

"Everything!" she answered back immediately in gleeful zeal. Lynette chuckled, and Enjolras could not help but grin at the sound, and at the mere fact that his ever-optimistic mother had rejoined in a way usually characteristic of a small child, surprising no one in the room. So, he took a moment to think—not to mention bowdlerize—through what he was going to say next: what he should reveal and what was probably better left untouched. In the end, he decided that anything relating to the revolution would be a terrible thing to bring up, and besides; doing so would feel like a sort of betrayal, a dishonor, a malicious sin. Almost as if he were handing over a good friend to their most detested rival—the quintessential display of a Judas treachery. But then, he realized, he was going to have to spontaneously rewrite most of his story... most importantly—and the thing he was certain his mother was most interested in—his meeting and falling in love with Lynette. He caught her eye that moment, and saw his concerns mirrored in her own gaze, her silent consent to play along with anything he generated for their sake and the sake of the sanity that had finally graced them.

"Well, my studies were very... interesting," he managed, though every time he thought of his corrupt, boorish professors bile built up in his throat, "as you know, I studied everything from law to Latin to anatomy, though, of course, my main focus was law. In doing so in such a capricious manner I gained a wide, well-rounded aptitude of knowledge, which I was often able to apply to my life in Paris."

He was thinking, of course, of the devices he often found himself using during the meetings of Les Amis to deliver speeches and relate to his brothers-in-arms. But he bit his tongue and refrained from saying so.

Of course, despite his prudent reserve, his father still found fault in his words. "You did not focus solely on one major?" he asked reproachfully, "How then are you supposed to receive the highest, transcendent comprehension promised by such commitment?"

"Well, there came a time in those first few months when I was not entirely sure that I wanted to be a lawyer, and so to break or solidify this desire, I tried several other fields in addition to my regular studies with the help of some of the friends I made there," he responded instantly, the words flowing out like a stream of water without a single care towards the destructive deluge it could turn into—

"Dead. All dead. Learning in the Great King's library, students no more all because of yo—"

"Still. The professors there are the brightest in France, I'm sure they plan their lessons out very meticulously, with every minute valuable and obligatory—"

"And yet now I am qualified for a variety of different careers, instead of just one. In my opinion that is much more impressive than excelling in but one jurisdiction," Enjolras retorted sharply. Lynette knew that his indecision in his studies was a very tender subject for him, and his father's attacking it could only serve as salt on his wounds. It was time for her to step in. "What he means, Monsieur, is that he put in all of the hours the absolute education entailed to indeed be considered absolute; but in his free moments, he took on extra classes and developed a more varying, well-rounded mind in the process," she cut in, smiling graciously at the Master of the house. His hot-headed son looked extremely irritated at first, as, of course, he felt that this whole conflict was between him and his father, and only them; but a moment later, his face softened and he met her eyes gratefully, accepting the fact that his father knew exactly how to incite him, exactly where his most vulnerable and weak points were, and that he couldn't do this by himself while he was constantly being stuck in the Achilles' heel.

Monsieur mirrored his son's displeasured scowl, though his did not so quickly dissipate. He stared at this beautiful, odd young woman who had cone into his home and was now jumping into conversations as if she had been the one to start them, irate that he could not fabricate a reasonable refutation to her statement. She spoke with such grace and eloquence, yet there was an underlying, commanding ring to her tittering soprano that masked itself quite prudently behind that sweet little bow-like smile of hers. And he was absolutely taken aback at the thought, the notion that he was being artfully manipulated in his own home by his perfidious son's sly fiancé. He swiftly resolved to steer the conversation elsewhere in a desperate scramble to escape the lock of her inarguable reason.

"Yes. Of course," he managed a moment later, his tone harsh and unapologetic, "you seem to know much of Junior's life in Paris. Tell me, how did you meet?"

Lynette's smile stretched a bit wider as any silly, dreamy-eyed bride-to-be's would at the mention of her immaculate love, and the lie was effortless.

"Well, my brother also attends the university, and there was one day early last year that my mother ran into the room in an awful tizzy, saying that he had forgotten an important thesis he'd been working on for weeks, a thesis that was due that very day. I couldn't help but laugh, as my brother had always been rather star-crossed, but I assured her that I would be happy to bring him the assignment. I hurried down to the university, but as soon as I entered the courtyard I got horribly lost. Soon enough, I found myself tumbling to the ground after a certain someone had knocked me down..." she emitted a giggle, turning her gaze towards Enjolras as if to silently say, "Your turn, make it believable."

He was amazed by the transformation she had undergone, trading her normally so stubborn, impassioned bearing for this flowery, sigh-filled, girlish persona. In truth, it disturbed him immensely; the whole invention was masterful. She was hardly even herself anymore, and he prayed that he would be able to play the part just as convincingly. He grinned, and continued, "Yes, I was too busy ranting about some assignment to my friends to see you, and yet as soon as you had looked up at me from the ground I was cursing myself for not paying better attention."

"And you were stammering mercilessly as you helped me up, trying to string together an apology," Lynette laughed effortlessly.

Enjolras looked down as if blushing shyly, Lynette's story playing out so realistically that the movement was almost natural. "And I just couldn't take my eyes off of you... I believe you were wearing a soft green dress, and the reflection of the sun upon it ignited your eyes so perfectly, so astoundingly..."

She was flushing. How the hell could she make herself physically blush over a meeting that had never actually happened? "Oh Marcelin dear, you remembered! And we stood there staring at each other for a moment before I suddenly realized that your hands had not yet released mine..."

"And my embarrassment swelled further when I perceived that, though it seemed you had realized such by my reddened face, because next you said to me, 'Pardon me, Monsieur, I admit I am a bit lost and was not looking where I was going."

"The fault is mine, Mademoiselle, I should have been paying better attention to my desired path of travel," she resumed smoothly.

"And, as you looked at me curiously for a few moments more—yes, remember this, darling?—you suddenly asked, 'Forgive me, Monsieur, but are you a student here?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle. I have been for many years. Is there something I could assist you with?" her voice was low and soft and polite: an exact facsimile of what he was sure the statement would sound like if he ever found himself actually saying it.

He smiled lovingly at her, persisting, "You blushed a bit then, though at the time I couldn't even begin to wonder why; all I could think of was how lovely you were... 'Oh yes, Monsieur; as I said, I was looking for my brother and got myself quite hopelessly lost,"

"What is his name, and what courses is he taking? I know this building very well."

"Henry Beauchene, law and justice and enforcement, and introduction to the judicial system."

"And then it was your turn to blush as you inquired, 'And... what is your name, Mademosielle?' bashful as a lamb, how endearing it was!"

"And you told me with one of your famous smiles, making me stammer all over again as I tried to tell you mine in return."

"And yet you managed! You told me, 'I am Enj—," she stopped, correcting herself as to avoid rekindling that debate, "Marcelin Enjolras.' Then you took my hand again and bowed, kissing it lightly, and I must admit; I was enchanted by your impeccable courtesy."

"Enchanted, my love?" he asked with an impish guise.

She made herself blush again, extending the façade by bringing her hand delicately up to her pinkened cheek. "Yes, very much so. And almost all moments afterwards, from then on and forever."

There was the slightest ring of truth in her final sentence, and he couldn't help genuinely blushing himself at the realization. "Do you know, ma coeur," he added, "that I was actually leading you in circles around that institution for a while, just relishing the sound of your voice as you spoke to me? I was rather foolishly infatuated..." as he said this, his mind flashed instantly to Marius. This whimsical tale sounded like something that would happen to Cosette and him, not he and his headstrong fiancé. And yet... had he not fallen in love with her over the course of a week or so? Wasn't this story just an over-exaggerated description of how his entire life and outlook had been changed in a matter of days, all because of her?

His innate train of thought was interrupted by Lynette's clear laugh, and he realized that though he had felt like he had been checked out of the conversation for several minutes, it had hardly been a second. "Of course I did, silly man. I just didn't say so at the time because I was too busy enjoying your company!"

"Oh, it's all so gloriously romantic!" Madame Enjolras burst out in a high-pitched squeak, betraying her excitement almost as much as her elated expression did. "You two are so very much in love... it shines through your gazes from your illuminated souls! Oh, Lynette darling, I'm so glad that my Marcelin has found you..."

Lynette looked back at Enjolras, smiling tenderly. "And I him, Madame Sylvie."

"Oh, I know! Can't you just feel the adoration resonating from them, Monsieur Enjolras? It wholly fills the room!" she sang, and Lynette suddenly got the rather amusing image of l'Madame flitting and dancing and floating about the room, flapping her hands to and fro in the way of a child pretending to be one of Queen Titania's fairies. It was charming in its own way, and it gave birth to the most miniscule semblance of guilt in Lynette's heart. She felt as if she had just told a lie to a small child who didn't know any better, who would never suspect differently.

Enjolras, on the other hand, took an immense sense of relief from her flighty reaction, as it meant he would not have to break her heart and fragile, blithe outlook with the callous reality of his glorious cause, and the true nature of how he and Lynette had met. In the middle of a street rally, with her mocking him mercilessly as he invited her to join his rebellion. Not nearly as picturesque of an image.

"Indeed, just 'resonates'," Monsieur Enjolras reiterated, though there was something in his tone that sounded as if his voice itself were rolling its eyes. Apparently, he was not as easy to convince, or even willing to believe, their story as his wife was, much to the rebellious couple's dismay. But he said nothing else, just watching his wife babble on and on about their undeniable chemistry and how wonderful their life would be together. Lynette tried to focus on her future mother-in-law's ramblings, but found that she could not peel her eyes away from Monsieur Enjolras and his hard expression. He looked senselessly frustrated... his eyes being the only exception. As he looked at his wife's euphoric smile, his gaze had softened; his entire countenance had taken on a whole new air because of it. He hardly even looked the same man anymore: unrecognizable as his cruel, unforgiving mask was torn from his face in a single, vulnerable moment. He was left bare and susceptible, and through Lynette's observation of this, she swiftly realized that Monsieur Enjolras was not completely without feeling, let alone the soulless, unrelenting automaton they'd made him out to be... maybe even that he wanted to be. He had his armor chinks, his moments of weakness, and those he let all guard down for. And here, in this moment, he was as close to happy as he could get in their current milieu, simply because his Sylvie was happy.

Didn't that sound like someone else she knew? She peeked with a sort of guilt at Enjolras, who was engaging tolerantly but adoringly with his mother, feeling as though such a thought was forbidden: a terrible peccadillo for which she would certainly be punished. But she just couldn't help it; the resemblances had rattled her! She suddenly couldn't help thinking, 'Suppose Enjolras and I have a child, and suppose that child is as headstrong and quick-tempered as his or her father. Well, then suppose they get into some sort of spat, and suppose they leave, my child, in a moment of incited rebellion. That wouldn't make Marcelin a bad man or father, just a human with faults like any other who—'

Almighty Christ, what was she doing? Marce—no, Enjolras, was not his father, she had said so herself not a few days ago. Not only would any child of theirs be loved beyond belief, but she should not be sitting here attempting to justify the actions of a man who had done nothing but bring suffering and vexation to the love of her life since he had been a boy. Marcelin Sr. was not Marcelin Jr. This bitter old man was not her Enjolras.

'But oh, how easy it is to draw ties between the two—'

But a second later he caught her eye—caught her staring—and her thoughts of comparison soared away alongside his fond sympathy. In fact, not she did not at all like the look in his eyes as he so intently watched her; it was not only cold, but possessed the look of a man who had already mentally won a battle he had not yet taken part in. The red flag shot up in her mind once more, and she recovered her caution in an instant.

"And tell me again, Junior, where you ended up living? In proximity to the university, I mean. Are you still boarding with Jules?" he asked then, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward. But the motion was nothing like his wife's, that Lynette had decrypted before. This was almost menacing, like Inspector Javert when he was questioning a most-hated criminal.

But Enjolras didn't seem to notice the ominous nature of the action, he had frozen completely. The only thing he could hear was his late best friend's name echoing in a bitterly derisive manner through his head, more painful than a mallet pounding against his skull. "Jules. Jules. Jules. Combeferre. Dead. Killed at the hands of the National Guard, probably after crying out for your assistance, calling for ammunition, or that his rifle had jammed. Died needing the help of his best friend, perhaps with the most fleeting of thoughts, 'The traitor has abandoned me, after all I have done for him...'"

Lynette knew that haunted, almost wild look in his eyes all too well by now. He was drowning, losing himself in the dark, oppressive prison his mind became whenever he thought of his fallen brothers. So too did she realize that his father was still awaiting an answer, and that he would not be responding anytime soon. So, in her eagerness to divert his attentions, she smiled and said, "Oh no, Monsieur. It was only at the beginning of his Parisian life that he lived with Jules. Now we live in an apt, comfortable flat, near the Latin Quarter—"

The look on his face as corollary told her everything that was detonating into existence in his mind as soon as she had spoken, and she immediately wished that life were like one of her speeches; if she used the wrong words, she could simply scratch them out and replace them the very next moment. But she could not, and so the words hung in the air, accompanied only by the dead silence that often settles over a crowd after a hanging.

"...We live in an apt, comfortable flat..."

A/N: Oh my... looks like the tension continues to grow. And I continue to leave y'all hanging on cliffs. Sorry about that, and about my lack of frequent updating. The summertime will hopefully bring more time to write, though in the meantime I'm doing the best I can. :P

What did you think of the "How I Met Your *Mother* Son" sequence? I think that it was hilariously fun to write, and that Lynette's a pretty good actress. I wonder if Odie is as good or better...

Shhhh... don't tell Enjolras, but he and his Pops are more alike than we originally thought. And Lynette has started to see it, or at least she had before her little slipup at the end here... uh oh.

R&R, I haven't talked to most of you in a while and would love to hear from you! Come save me from Enjolras, I think he read about the S-I-M-I-L-A-R-I-T-I-E-S over my shoulder!

Enjy: Um.. I can read. *le glare*

~ (O_O) DonJuana