title: gray or blue
fandom: les misérables
pairings: enjolras/éponine
rating: t
summary: Éponine begins working in Montparnasse's coffee shop, and her life becomes entangled with the students in the bar downstairs who talk of revolutions.

Chapter 12

Thursday, February 14 dawned without Éponine.

She knew something was wrong when she woke up to the sun turning the inside of her eyelids a glowing red. As soon as sunlight registered in her fogged brain, she was gasping out a Shit!, throwing back the covers and lurching for her cellphone on the floor across the room.

In Éponine's crappy apartment complex, sunlight only hit her window between approximately 11 and 2.

12:14, read the damning number on her phone.

Along with an alert: 6 missed calls. She hit ignore, since she didn't need confirmation to know who those were from. All her alarms were still set: one for 4:13, one for 4:26, and a last-minute alarm for 4:44.

Impressive, Éponine, she told herself in disgust. Well done, really. You slept through three alarms and six calls from your unstable boss. You probably have no job, but hell, at least you're well rested!

Pressing a hand to her heart, which hadn't slowed in the least, she gulped in a few deep breaths and tried to think. Shower? Later. Clothes. She bent to shake out a crumpled pair of jeans on the floor.

"Don't think about what time it is,"she chanted, lips barely moving. "Don't think about it, don't think, don't think." She flung her sweatshirt on the floor, fished her bra out of the sheets. After clasping it, she realized it was twisted in the back but didn't bother to fix it.

"It's going to be fine," she muttered to herself. "Fine." A splash of red poked through a tear in a half-unzipped, as-of-yet-unpacked suitcase in the corner. Crossing quickly, Éponine tugged it out: a cashmere sweater found, among other things, in the suitcase of some distracted rich woman, snatched in the Montparnasse train station. It was pilling by now, and was hardly the most practical garment, draping low to show her collarbones, but it was soft, almost luxurious. She slid her arms into it and pulled it down, silently wishing herself a Happy Valentine's Day, 'Ponine.

She grabbed her phone, bag, and coat, and banged the door behind her.

"Miss Thenardier graces us with her presence," Montparnasse said loudly when she strode in the front door, spreading his arms wide and bowing.

"Jondrette," she hissed out of reflex, eyes wide and darting around the café as she rushed towards the counter. "Look," she began again when she reached it, trying to soften her rough voice into something like appeasement. "I'm sorry I wasn't here, I slept through everything. You should have sent someone."

"Eh, I was feeling magnanimous. Thought I would indulge you on Valentine's Day." He shrugged slightly, eyes lighting on her sweater. "I was there when you pinched that, wasn't I?"

"Shut up." She pulled her coat more tightly across her chest, hiding the red material. "We need to talk about my hours."

"Oh do we?" He leaned against the counter as she circled around the counter.

"Yeah. We do. I'm exhausted, 'Parnasse. I'm working upwards of eighteen hours a day. Sleeping twenty-four straight hours on Sunday isn't enough to let me survive on four hours of sleep every other night."

"I thought you needed the money," he said, examining his fingernails.

"Which is why you're going to give me mornings off and a raise," she continued smoothly.

He jerked his head up, and she reveled in the ability to catch him off guard. "You're lucky I'm not firing your ass," he cut back, still gaping. "And now you want half the hours and double the money?"

"Not double the money," she corrected. "Double the rate and half the hours. The same money. Actually, more money would be nice, too, but I'm willing to table that for later negotiation."

Montparnasse finally seemed to recover his smugness. "And what makes you think—"

"Because I've practically been running this place, meaning that a, you need me and b, I know this place isn't self sufficient." He pursed his lips in the way he did when he was trying to look nonchalant. It worked on most people.

Éponine cocked an eyebrow. "Come on. I see the kind of traffic we get, how much materials cost. I'm filing receipts and shit. There's no way you're not funding this from somewhere else."

His shoulders were tense, but he shook his head easily. "If you're trying to blackmail me, 'Ponine..." he purred.

"I would never," she said sweetly. "I have absolutely zero desire to know what you're doing on the side and what function, exactly, this café serves." He looked almost disappointed at that. "But I think you want to keep me happy. And it would make me very happy if you gave me more of the money that I know you have and hired someone else."

She looked up at him through her eyelashes. This was a gamble. This was banking on Montparnasse's sentimentality, libido, and an empty hunch.

A young woman on the other side of the counter timidly asked for a croissant, and Éponine broke eye contact with Montparnasse to reach into the case, drop the pastry into a paper wrapping, and take the coins.

"Fine," Montparnasse said finally as she punched the amount into the cash register. "Butonly because it's Valentine's Day and I'm indulging you. Mon Dieux," he laughed suddenly. "Instead of getting fired, you swindle me into all this. You are your father's daughter."

Don't say that, she wanted to say. "Don't pretend my father could have accomplished that much," she said instead, with forced coyness, and hoped he didn't notice the way she slammed the register shut.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't too long before Montparnasse tried to reclaim the ground he had lost by noting, obviously, that it was Valentine's Day.

"I have Fight Club tonight," he said working on screwing the milk steamer back onto one of the espresso machines and casually avoiding Éponine's gaze. "If you don't want to come, I'm free after."

It was so verytempting to make a comment abouther not coming, but Éponine kept plinking a handful of coins into their proper slots in the cash register. In her peripheral vision, Montparnasse wiped a palm over his jeans, back and forth. "If you're worried you didn't make your bed, I'm pretty sure my apartment's nicer than yours, anyway," he drawled, but the bravado didn't quite ring true.

She looked over at him: one hand braced against the counter, the other rubbing at his thigh, trying to pretend he wasn't watching her as closely as he was. Objectively, she thought, he was attractive, and the flask he kept in his jacket pocket couldn't make her forget everything else about him, but it could wash her in the sweet fog of apathy. He was something of a devil, maybe, but she knew him too well to be disappointed in what he was and what he wasn't, and didn't people say "better the devil you know"?

Better than what? she thought. Then the front door clanged and her eye caught a shock of blonde curls unwillingly.

The half-constructed vision collapsed. "Not tonight," was all she said.

"Well," Montparnasse said, too easily, as if he had anticipated her. "How about coming to the fights, at least?"

She pulled a face.

"Big night tonight," he continued. "In honor of the holiday. It's Nuit Rouge."

"I don't suppose the participants hold hands and recite sonnets instead of pummeling each other," she muttered, flicking at the coins in the register absentmindedly to avoid looking at Montparnasse or Enjolras, who had bypassed his usual seat at the window in favor of an armchair uncomfortably near to the counter. "Or is it more of a slam poetry thing?"

"You're cute," he responded, unruffled. Shame. "We still fight."

There was something lurking in his tone, and she looked at him sharply. He merely lifted his eyebrows.

Her stomach twisted. Fight Club—or whatever it was actually called, as he still refused to tell her—was more than just brutal and vaguely repellent. Éponine grew up Thenardier; she knew how dangerous places like that could be. Small-time, back-alley crime was often the most reckless. Fewer rules, more casualties. As for Nuit Rouge—Red Night—that could mean any number of appalling things, and she was opening her mouth to decline when he spoke again.

"You do owe me now," was all he said, smiling serenely.

The devil you know.

"I'll let you know if something better comes up," she said, dropping the last euro into its slot viciously.

"It won't," Montparnasse told her, and nudged her shoulder with his on his way past to the back room. Unbidden, her gaze slid to Enjolras, who appeared to be squinting down at his smartphone. Rather than his normal arsenal of books, notes, and writing utensils, he had only a small leather notebook that rested on the arm of the chair. Éponine blew out a breath, leaning against the counter and waiting for him to approach, but he didn't move, just kept typing rapid-fire on the screen of his phone. She raised an eyebrow and reached for the espresso.

Ten minutes later, Éponine placed an enormous mug on the short table in front of Enjolras' armchair, a mound of whipped cream shivering delicately on top, dribbled heavily with chocolate sauce, all of it managing to not quite spill over the rim. He looked up, squinting through his glasses, the smartphone casting a glare onto the lenses.

"What is this," he said flatly, clicking a button on his phone that made the screen go dark. He poked the whipped cream as if expecting it to spring back and frowned down at the resulting smear on his finger.

"Raspberry truffle mocha," said Éponine with a smirk. Then Enjolras made to lick the cream off and she dropped her gaze hurriedly, eyes settling on the notebook, which was now open. Unfortunately—fortunately?—she wasn't fast enough to miss the way his lips curled around his finger, and Enjolras casually flicked the notebook shut before she could make out the diagram smeared in pen.

He picked up the coffee, eyeing the whipped cream as if unsure how to approach it. "How much does this cost?"

"Oh, don't worry," she told him. "It's Valentine's Day, so pretty customers get free drinks." He looked up, apparently unimpressed, and she smirked. "Unless that was meant to be a grander metaphysical question about the oppressive nature of the gourmet coffee industry?"

Right on cue, the front door clanged, and Éponine looked to see Marius ushering Cosette inside, gloved hands laced together, a bouquet of red roses tucked into the crook of Cosette's elbow. Marius, pink-cheeked and beaming, kissed Cosette's temple as they took the corner table.

Éponine recollected herself after a long moment, forcibly released her bottom lip from between her teeth, and looked back at Enjolras. He had been watching Marius and Cosette, but looked back at her, expressionless.

"I'll make you something else if you don't like it," she said, not quite meeting his eyes, picking up a crumpled napkin from the table and trudging back to the counter.

Marius approached the counter, awash with glowing joy that made his freckles even more prominent and his eyes an even brighter green. He ordered two white chocolate mochas and sighing happily to himself while she made them, all the while insisting he didn't want to put her to the trouble of bringing them out to the table.

"I hope your Valentine's Day is happy, 'Ponine," he told her with those shining eyes, smiling holding out a bill as she set the finished drinks in front of him. Éponine paused with her fingers poised above the cash register, taking in the way his coat was growing threadbare around the cuffs, seams stretched at the shoulders, his brilliant grin that she could hardly bear to look at.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Marius," she said, hating herself a little, waving away his money.

He looked a little shocked. "Éponine—won't you get in trouble?"

She shrugged and tried to smirk, tried not to stare at the tremulous gratitude on his face. "I can handle myself, don't worry."

Marius reached forward and patted her hand where it rested on the counter. "You're the best, really." Éponine froze, fighting the urge to rub the tingling sensation out of her hand, praying that she wasn't blushing. Marius picked up a whipped-cream laden mocha in each hand and turned to nearly run into Enjolras.

"Oh god!" It was almost a shriek. "I, er, hello, meeting, yes, today. That is, I know."

Enjolras raised both eyebrows. "Hello Marius. I'll see you in half an hour." He rested his hand on Marius' shoulder heavily, and Marius, incapacitated by two cups of coffee, merely squeaked. "Don't be late." He stepped aside to allow Marius to edge around him, and Marius did so, gratefully, it would seem, not quite, but almost, running back to his table.

"This is disgusting," Enjolras said, turning to her and setting his mug, which was still about half full, on the counter. "I don't even want to know the sugar content."

She smothered a grin and took the mug. "I see you drank most of it anyway."

He was running his tongue over his teeth with a grimace. "It feels like my teeth are wearing fuzzy blankets." Éponine snorted, turning to rinse the mug, at that as he continued. "I think I prefer my caffeine more honestly administered."

"The social activist is becoming a coffee snob? Who could have predicted?" she tossed over her shoulder, setting the mug in the tray with the other dirty dishes. When she turned, he was regarding her with that strange, disarmingly serious expression again.

"They call it Nuit Rouge because they fight with knives," he said after a moment. "It would be wise for you to stay home tonight."

She licked her lips, which suddenly felt dry. "Nice of you to pass on the information, but if you'd give me my day-planner back, I'd like to manage my own social engagements, thank you."

His brows furrowed. "I'm trying to help you. Why do you have to be so hostile?"

"Haven't we had this argument already?" she snapped back, resting one hand on her hip, rubbing the other over her eyes. "You don't understand,"she muttered, feeling childish, but unable to stop up the words. "Things aren't that simple in my world. I don't get to do what I want and rest in the assurance that my parents will clean up the mess."

"I'm not speaking to my parents anymore," he told her, an edge in his voice that was almost proud, almost petulant.

She scoffed. "And I imagine you're paying for your own Sorbonne education, right?"

Enjolras actually flushed at that. "My education has nothing to do with the circumstances of your employment," he still retorted, leaning forward onto the counter. "Or whether or not you spend your free time doing dangerous, stupid things."

Éponine felt her mouth drop open. He stared back, flushed, but still haughty. She mirrored his posture, leaning forward, bracing her hands on the counter. "I might not have a university education, monsieur, but I am not stupid. You and your little boys' club are playing some sort of childish game with some of the nastiest crime in this city, and you think because you're rich and educated, you can actually change things." She laughed, short and bitter. "You will end up facedown in a filthy alley with a bullet in your back, and men will keep punching each other for money, and I will already be slipping away in the shadows, alive." She shoved back from the counter. "I don't believe in change. I believe in survival. And I will do what I have to do."

Enjolras was glaring at her, white-faced, and just as he opened his mouth again, his phone vibrated. "One moment," he said, as Éponine moved to leave. Lips twitching into a frown, he yanked his phone out, surveying the message for a moment before typing furiously. While he typed, Éponine concentrated on unclenching her hands, looking at him steadily, focusing on the specks of dust on his spectacles, trying not to notice the way his impossibly long lashes swept over his cheek. It took a long time, perhaps several minutes, before he stopped, but he seemed calmer when he looked back up.

"I—apologize," he said a bit stiffly. "Combeferre is always telling me I care too much about causes and not enough about people. Well, Combeferre's not that blunt, but that's what he means." He looked down at the counter between them, tapping his fingertips, apparently struggling for words. "I don't know your circumstances, or why you insist on putting up with your clearly exploitative work situation, or what has so thoroughly jaded you at your age."

"If you're expecting me to tell you my life story and cry—well, reign in your expectations, she told him flatly. "Also you're shit at apologies."

"Combeferre says that too," he said, and, reaching into his pocket, tucked a bill into the tip jar before she could stop him. "For the coffee, not the customer service."

She muttered a begrudging "thanks." Cash was, unfortunately, cash.

He was winding his scarf back around his neck. "At the risk of undoing my apology—" she couldn't resist snorting—"please don't come tonight."

"Why not?" Éponine said challengingly, gesturing to his phone, which was back in his hand. "You're going, aren't you?"

Enjolras gave a half-smile, sliding the phone back into his pocket, eyes glinting at her. "You do look good in red," he said, eyes flickering down briefly.

He turned and was leaving before she could respond, marching to Marius and Cosette's table and saying something. Marius looked dismayed but leaned over, craning his neck to kiss Cosette's cheek, and then Enjolras practically hauled him up and out by the shoulder. The two opened the door to a blustery breath of cold, the wind ruffling Enjolras' curls and sending Marius burrowing his nose into his scarf. They had disappeared around the corner before the door clanged shut again.

Cosette was left alone at the table, chin propped on one hand, watching the corner where Marius had been for a long moment before pushing her—apparently empty—coffee away and pulling several slender books out of her book. Placing them in a neat stack, she selected one, an old cloth-bound volume in gold-green, split it open, and began reading.

The two coffee cups sat innocuously at the edge of the table, and Cosette kept reading, motionless, her perfectly undone curls falling to hide her face. Perhaps it was sheer curiosity to see Mademoiselle Fauchelevent up close, see if her leather boots were scuffed or if she had split ends; perhaps it was sheer emotional masochism. Either way some strange impulse moved Éponine around the counter towards the table.

Grab the mugs, retreat, she told herself, already regretting each step. Don't fire until you see the whites of her eyes.

She edged towards the table, trying not to eye Cosette's boots too obviously, reaching for a mug with each hand—

"I probably look like a huge book elitist, coming in here with this huge stack all the time."

Shit.

Slowly, she turned to look at Cosette, who was smiling up ruefully.

"But it's actually a carefully crafted illusion. I'm a terrible reader," Cosette continued. She held up a page with only a few lines of text. "See? Poetry. Minimum words, maximum emotional payoff."

Éponine "hmmed" noncommittally, biting back something along the lines of You are literally the last person I want to speak to on February 14th. She picked up the mugs—Cosette's, marked with pink lipstick was empty; Marius still had most of his left—but Cosette continued, tucking her hair behind her ear, gesturing with the hand that wasn't pinning the book down.

"I like novels, too, but I'm just bad at sitting still and reading. I can never focus. I get distracted by people walking by or music playing, or anything. It's ridiculous. I can get through them if I listen to audio books, but I—" she bit her lip, seemed to catch herself—"I don't exactly get to travel around the city much alone. So there's really no good time to do it."

"I can turn the music off," Éponine said coldly, stepping backwards with the mugs.

Cosette's smile dimmed slightly, but she merely shrugged. "Don't bother. Surprisingly, electro-indie-pop pairs well with Neruda."

Éponine was 98% sure Cosette had pulled that genre of music out of her dainty ass. "Let me know if you need anything else," she said, aiming for frosty, landing closer to wary, turning as Cosette gave a tiny nod.

"If you're not busy later—" Éponine whirled around, the cold remnants of Marius' coffee sloshing over her hand, and Cosette's voice faltered slightly. "Would you like to see a movie or something?" she finished with a hesitant smile. "I really don't want to do homework on Valentine's Day. And...with Marius busy—"

It was the wrong thing to say.

"I'm working," Éponine snapped and stalked away.

A/N: Hello, readers!

Well, asking for forgiveness is almost too mortifying, but thank you all for your kind reviews. I hope some of you are still around, anyway. Life Stuff came up and marooned me in a big ugly writing rut for several months. But I still have a plan for this fic, and believe it or not, the end is sort of in sight, by now. At least, some pleasing developments are. ;) Again, thanks so much for sticking around.

P.S. I've had some interesting reviews about Cosette. I hope that including her more directly in this chapter, rather than filtering her through Éponine's perspective, lends some insight.