2460nodone

[2460nodone]

Hell is a Relative Term (1/2)

Title: Hell is a Relative Term  Category: Plays/Musicals » Les Misérables Author: AliceInSomewhereland Language: English, Rating: Rated: T Genre: Supernatural/Romance Published: 05-21-13, Updated: 05-22-13 Chapters: 2, Words: 9,662

[Part I] [Part II]

Summary: Eponine is one of the few who stand between humanity and hell, sworn to fight evil and protect the helpless, even if it costs her her own life. Vampire slayer!Eponine. e/e. Rated for language/content

Original author’s note: Ok guys, here we go with fic #2 for the Fic War on tumblr! This one was a prompt from tumblr user poeticbibliophile: "Modern AU prompt? One line for you, m'amie — 'Are you afraid of the good you can do?' from Les Miz, V. Hugo. Tag me if you chose this. TY!"

Part I

What if I told you the stories were true?

What if you knew that there really are things that go bump in the night? Things that live under your bed and in your closet just as much as they live in your mind, things that stalk you in the dark and prey on your terror? That all the monsters your parents ever promised you were pretend exist? That sometimes, people die, evil wins, and that the light cannot always banish your fears?

*

The world was hell.

There was no other way to put it.

No one really knew why these creatures existed, but they did. They ruled the night, mauling and feasting and terrorizing the population all the world over. It had always been this way; God had long ago forsaken the world and its inhabitants. Hell had swallowed Earth, and its demons walked with sorry humanity.

But there were people to fight it. Men and women, chosen for their strength, their character, their skill. They were given tasks, they learned the weaknesses of the different creatures, and eventually specialized in one specific type of Hellbeast.

*

"Eponine!" a voice shouted.

A young woman, olive-skinned, brown-eyed and dark-haired, stopped short, closing her eyes in trepidation before slowly turning.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," the man said sternly. He was middle-aged, with a close-cropped, graying haircut and a beard that matched. "I want you to patrol tonight."

The girl, Eponine, clenched her jaw. "I promised my brother I would be home tonight. He needs me. You have Musichetta, send her instead."

"Don't question me," he scolded. "I'm sending you."

When Eponine opened her mouth to protest, the man cut her off. "You are a vampire slayer, Jondrette. This is your job. This is your duty. You were chosen to protect the people of the world, and you will patrol tonight."

"One of those people I have to protect is my brother, Javert," she snapped. She loved the man, but he so frequently forgot that she was one of the rare slayers who had people at home to take care of. She had yet to lose everything, and she planned on keeping it that way. "I have a duty to him, too. And I promised him I would be there tonight. Send Musichetta instead."

Without waiting for his response, Eponine turned on her heel. She knew that Javert would probably punish her later for her insubordination, but she didn't care. Gavroche needed her.

*

Eponine was a vampire slayer. One of few slayers, in fact. Most of the women who became slayers died young.

It was not a fate she coveted.

In fact, she hated everything this life. But she had been chosen, as Javert constantly reminded her, by a power bigger than herself. And since he was her Guardian – the Guardian of all the slayers in this quadrant – and essentially her boss, it was he she answered to.

She was on the train, headed home to her brother. The dark world rushed by her, and she wondered how many vampires were out and active tonight.

She hated them with a burning passion. When they Turned, they kept their souls, but the bloodlust was so intense that they rarely heeded what little remained of their consciences. Eventually, most lost themselves in the Hunger or went insane from the guilt of what they did when their urges were unbearable. Most that she had met, however, loved killing. She had yet to meet a truly guilty vampire.

True to legend, they could not be in sunlight, and a stake to the heart or a clean swipe of the head from the shoulders would kill them immediately. Crosses, churches, hallowed ground – all unbearable to them. They couldn't even speak the name of God; that's how damned they were. They were vicious, evil creatures, and she wanted nothing more than to kill them all.

She hated being a killer, but she loved the fight, loved the moment when they lost. She would watch them victoriously, almost arrogantly, as they died in front of her. It gave her a rush, and afterwards, she would run through the streets, high on adrenaline, hungry and horny and happy.

She would find Montparnasse when she could, but otherwise she would grab a burger and indulge at least one of her urges until the high wore off and the real world crashed down on her again.

*

Several weeks later found Eponine back on patrol and deep in the throes of combat with a vampire. She could almost taste her victory when she felt, rather than saw, the presence of more of the loathsome bloodsuckers.

Panic bubbled up in her; she faltered and was knocked to the ground. She could feel blood trickling down from her brow, and her opponent, standing above her now, bared his teeth menacingly. She was surrounded

"Good job, little 'un," a grating woman's voice cooed.

Eponine felt her insides go cold. From her place on the ground, she stared up into the eyes of her mother.

She had hated her parents when they were alive, and had not been surprised when the police showed up one night, delivering the news of their deaths. She was, however, surprised when she saw them months later, their faces twisted as they sucked a woman dry.

But that was years ago, well before she was a slayer.

"Hello little Eponine," the creature that was once her mother sang.

Eponine pounced, fighting like a madwoman. But she was outnumbered; she only managed to slay the original vampire she was battling before she was repeatedly beat down… by her mother and her father and the rest of their gang.

Her father wrenched her head back by her hair, exposing her neck. This is it, she thought, fighting against those who were pinning her to the ground. I'm about to become another dead slayer.

The vampire broke her skin with his teeth, followed on the other side by her mother, and Eponine heard herself cry out. It all seemed to be happening from somewhere else; she knew and understood that she was dying, but she couldn't feel it, barely noticed it. Heaviness spread through her body, and her eyes began to get heavy.

Just before they closed, she became aware of a movement to her left. Her mother was ripped away from her neck.

Then everything went black.

*

When Eponine woke, she felt like she had been out drinking all night. Her body was heavy, her head was pounding, and she felt sick.

When her eyes adjusted to the daylight seeping in through a crack in the curtains, she looked around – turning her head slowly so as to prevent the exaggeration of her nausea and headache.

The room was simple, bare. There was some framed art on the gray walls, though her eyes were too weak to make out the pictures. A small flatscreen TV was on a small bookshelf that was packed with more books than DVDs, and even more books were piled on the dresser near the bed, as well as on the nightstand next to her. Those, she could make out: The World According to Garp, an anthology of the works of Sartre, Catch-22.

The bedspread was red, the sheets were white. Thick, black curtains were pulled together, though a ray of bright sunlight streamed through a crack.

Where was she?

Eponine wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she was several pages into The World According to Garp (whoever lived here had great taste in literature – this was one of her favorite books) before a gentle knock rapped on the door and it opened.

A man stepped in. Tall, curly blonde hair, casually dressed in dark jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt (that gave her a peek of just a little hair on his chest below a defined collarbone), and a black jacket. He was like a marble statue come to life. His eyes, she noticed, were impossibly blue, and his face was achingly handsome. A small bit of stubble covered his jaw and the top of his neck. She had no idea whatsoever who he was.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked. Eponine, in spite of herself and the weirdness of the situation, found that she liked his voice.

Instead of answering – Eponine hated answering direct questions, especially when she didn't know the inquirer – she countered, "Who the hell are you, and how did I get here?"

The man perched himself on the edge of the bed, purposefully staying as far from her as he could. Still, he smirked at her. "I saved your life last night, Slayer. You were outnumbered by the Thénardier Coven, and they would have killed you."

Eponine glared at him. "They took me by surprise," she grumbled. Then, "How did you know I'm a slayer?"

The man snorted. "You slayers wear your rank like a badge of honor. It's impossible not to know."

Eponine actually felt a little affronted, even though he had answered the question lightly.

He shrugged, apparently aware of the insult, and added, "Plus I was watching you."

"What?" she asked, dumfounded and staring at him.

The man grinned again. "I was following the Thénardier Coven, and so were you. You fell for their bait, you know. They were planning to ambush you. You should be more careful," he admonished.

Eponine raised her chin indignantly, but said nothing.

"Yeah, you would've died if it weren't for me," he continued.

He was actually fishing for a thank you. She couldn't believe it.

"Slayers are only women," she pointed out, ignoring his comment.

He ignored hers as well. "You're sleeping in my bed, you know. I saved your life, brought you back here at my own personal risk, nursed your wounds. A 'thank you' wouldn't be unwelcome," he said pointedly. It angered her that he seemed to find all of this so humorous.

She sniffed, realizing that he wouldn't talk about anything else unless she voiced her gratitude. "Thank you," she said tightly.

He smiled. Dear god that was a beautiful smile. "Why, you're welcome," he deadpanned.

"Now, who are you? Where am I?" she asked impatiently.

The man frowned. "You may stay as long as you need. At least, until you are well enough to make it home. Get some rest, and I'll bring you some food. You need your strength," he said, ignoring her questions. He stood, reaching the door in two short strides.

"Why won't you answer me?" she asked, before he could take his leave.

He stopped, hand on the doorknob, the door partially open. Then he shrugged, turning back towards her and seriously replying, "This is the last time you'll ever see me, so it doesn't matter." Then he was gone.

*

Montparnasse was a vampire.

What was worse, he now belonged to the Thénardier Coven. They were the most violent of the covens in this part of the world, and the most deadly. But also one of the biggest.

Javert had lost many a slayer trying to eradicate their ranks, their power.

Eponine was determined not to become one of them. Especially since she was the human daughter of the clan leaders.

But Montparnasse had been her last friend from her old life. He was in love with her, as a human, but he knew she was uninterested in him, even before she had become a slayer. Still, he had let her use him (not that he didn't console himself with some on the side, anyway – he was no virtuous man).

She felt guilty about how she had treated him now, though. He hadn't deserved to be used for sex. He was a good looking guy, and could've found someone who might have loved him back, even if he had some issues with alcohol and was kind of a klepto.

Eponine found that she was crying as she drove the stake into his heart. She hadn't noticed during their fight, as she was far too entranced by their dance to the death. But she would not lose.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him as he died.

This time, she felt neither hungry nor happy, and definitely was not horny.

It was Montparnasse that she had gone to for that reason. And here she was, responsible for his death, in so many more ways than just this one.

When she looked up, tears flowing freely from her eyes, she thought she saw a flash of blue eyes and blonde hair disappearing into the shadows, but she couldn't be sure.

*

Marius, Azelma, and Gavroche were the only good things in her life anymore.

She had met Marius not long after becoming a slayer, and had fallen in love with him almost immediately. Sometimes when she had gone to Montparnasse, it was because she wanted Marius, and she could close her eyes with the other man and pretend that he loved her too.

The thought caused a wave of guilt to flow through her body. The hurt of Montparnasse's death (by her hand) was still very close.

Marius was kind to her, though. He was a sweetheart, always stopping to chat and inquire after her and her sister and brother, always ensuring that she was uninjured and being safe on her patrols.

She hoped that he might someday fall for her too. Eponine felt less damaged and depressed and hopeless around him. Perhaps he would even be willing to put up with the uncertainty of her life, her future, for a few passionate years by her side.

But one evening he ran up to her, more excited and worked up than she had ever before seen him.

"'Ponine! Oh, 'Ponine, I've fallen in love," he told her dreamily, taking her hands in his and spinning her gaily.

For a fleeting moment, Eponine thought her meant her.

"She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her hair is long and so blonde, her eyes are beautiful, and my god she probably has a wonderful soul to match."

Eponine gave him a strained smile.

"Can you find her for me, 'Ponine? You know your way around, and you're good at finding people."

Before she could stop herself, Eponine heard herself agreeing to help him.

*

She found the blonde beauty, all right.

Her name was Cosette.

She was the daughter of Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean was the patriarch of the Fauchelevent Coven.

That idiot Marius had gone and fallen for a vampire.

Jealousy and contempt bubbled up inside of Eponine. She didn't know what to do with herself. Or with Marius. And when she had told him what she had learned, he had dismissed it.

"Not all vampires are bad, 'Ponine," he insisted. Eponine wanted to punch him for his stupidity. He might as well have been suggesting that he take a leisurely swim in the ocean in the middle of a hurricane. "She's a good one, I just know it. Besides, the Fauchelevent Coven has always been fairly peaceful. They don't attack humans, not like the Thénardier Coven or the Tholomyes Coven or the others."

Eponine stormed out, going on a hunt.

She would kill something tonight. She could only hope that it was a vampire, not that idiot, love struck boy she had left in the bar.

A few hours later, Eponine was on her third kill (she had been on the offensive tonight, though it wasn't strictly protocol to hunt alone and without a secure plan that Javert knew).

That's when she saw him.

When the vampire woman was dead, Eponine spun on her heal, flicking her sweaty hair out of her eyes.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

The blonde man regarded her seriously. "You seem angrier tonight than usual."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you stalking me?"

He gave this some consideration, before replying, "More like ensuring that you don't get yourself into any sticky situations again."

She took an involuntary step closer. His eyes were so blue. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You're not like the other slayers."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

He thought for a moment. "They're all driven by something. You just go through the motions, but you're so talented. What's keeping you from rising to your full potential? You could be the best slayer alive, if you wanted. You could eradicate the entire Bloodluster population if only you tried."

Eponine regarded him incredulously. "I don't even know you, I'm not talking to you about my reasons for slaying!"

He was watching her closely, looking for something in his face. "Are you afraid of the good you can do?"

Her face darkened. "Look, bro, my reasons for slaying are my own, and are certainly none of your business. And, I will have you know, I'm not afraid of anything."

"Whatever you say," he scoffed.

Eponine shoved him back angrily; he grinned, lazily taking a step back to keep his balance. It only pissed her off more.

"You're intriguing, little slayer," he said, quirking a half-smile at her.

Without missing a beat, she replied, "And you're an annoying jackass, mystery asshole."

He laughed at that.

*

Eponine still did not know his name, but she began to enjoy his somewhat constant presence when she patrolled. Somehow, he always seemed to pop up in time to see her fight, and ended up staying with her until her patrol was finished just before dawn. Then they would go their separate ways.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked as they walked slowly together through the empty streets. No one was ever out at this time of night except for the slayers or the occasional other fighter. She often wondered what his specialty was.

"Don't you?" he countered.

Somehow he always kept things balanced between them. She wasn't sure whether he answered her questions with questions of his own because that's what she did or because he wanted to maintain a certain balance between them. She was fine with boundaries, but the more time she spent with him, the more curious she became. She liked this marble man, this beautiful boy that seemed to gleam with the light of the sun even at night. She wanted to be his friend. She enjoyed hearing about his true friends, the ones that knew him as more than the Marble Man, and she found relief in telling him about her own fucked up life.

Rather than taunting her by knowing her name (which she had never actually told him) while she did not know his, he mostly referred to her as "Slayer" or "Little Slayer." She couldn't decide whether the whole thing was creepy and whether or not she liked his nicknames, nor could she decide if, when he did call her by her name, the shiver that went down her spine was because it sounded so foreign on his tongue or if it was because she liked hearing her name on his lips.

They had become friends, somehow. She wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but she truly did appreciate that he had saved her life, and he hadn't left her alone since, for whatever reason, and she had grown to like his company.

He was driven. He talked a lot about his dreams of helping the people, saving them from these circumstances, finding a way to eradicate the violent covens and hopefully rehabilitate the rest.

Eponine was less in favor of rehabilitation, but her Marble Man insisted that not all covens were violent like Thénardier. He told her frequently that she was blinded by her hate for her parents and what they had become. When he said this, she told him to fuck off and mind his business, usually storming off and leaving him behind. And he usually let her go.

It irritated her to no end that he knew her so well – seemingly without even trying – when she knew nothing about him. Was she that easy to read? He always seemed to guess her emotions – which she had spent so many years learning to hide – without any effort at all. He was always telling her about her potential, about how her circumstances could improve if she only tried a bit harder. He knew her name, he knew her story, but she knew nothing about him. Not even his name.

So one night, she asked him. They had been friends now for a few months. He had watched her fight, had even stepped in a few times when she got a little too close to death for his comfort (though she loved the rush that just escaping death gave her).

"What's your name? You know so much about me, but I know nothing about you."

He was silent for a long moment, and Eponine was fully expecting him to change the subject or stay quiet until she felt humiliated enough by her prying to change it herself, just as he always did. But tonight:

"I'm Enjolras," he told her quietly.

She froze in shock, unable to keep walking. He had actually told her. Her Marble Man had a name, and he had finally given it to her.

After a tense moment, in which she stared at him with an unattractively open mouth and he stared back with trepidation and dark eyes, he stepped up to her. She couldn't read his face as he searched hers, slipping his hand into her own.

Eponine wasn't sure what he found in her face, but he must have been satisfied because he was suddenly turning away, tugging on her hand to pull her with him so they could resume their walk.

But she didn't move. Instead, she tested his name, whispering it into the slight wind. "Enjolras…."

He immediately turned when she said his name, cupping the side of her face with his hands and bringing his lips urgently to hers.

Eponine was waiting for him; her lips parted almost immediately against his, her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed herself into him just as he pulled her closer with his free arm.

Enjolras deepened the kiss, meeting the tongue that had only moments ago held his name so tenderly. She shivered as his hand traveled down her rocky spine to rest at the slight valley that had formed at the small of her back.

He kissed her passionately, and she rose to meet the challenge, just as she did with her slaying. His kisses moved from her lips to her jaw, to her neck, to her collarbone. His hand preceded the actions of his lips, tracing their route before he made it. Now, his fingertips traveled down her chest, lips following as he unzipped the jacket she was wearing to reveal her cleavage.

Her hands were entwined in his hair and god she had forgotten how good this felt, and his fingertips and lips and tongue had just reached the top of her breasts when he cried out in pain, leaping away from her.

Eponine stared as a bit of smoke rose from his fingers, as though he had been on fire. He was staring at her with a torn, almost heartbroken, and pained expression.

She knew that she was staring back in horror. Her hand found the pendant buried in her cleavage – a silver cross. It was meant to protect her from her foe.

Anger like she had never before felt suddenly overtook her and she wanted nothing more than to kill him where he stood.

He just continued to stare.

"You're a fucking vampire!" she screamed at him. She could hear the hurt and anger and fear in her voice. What had she done?

"Eponine–."

"No!" she snapped, cutting him off. The way he had implored her with her name – without even needing to say anything else – had twisted her heart in her chest. "If you ever fucking come near me again I will stake you through the heart, and cut your head off, and cause you a lot of fucking pain as I do it!"

Enjolras listened to her scream, holding his burned hand in the palm of his uninjured one. Staring at her with almost heartbroken eyes.

Then he was gone.

[2460nodone]

Trophies

Title: Trophies Category: Plays/Musicals » Les Misérables Author: AliceInSomewhereland Language: English, Rating: Rated: T Genre: Drama/Romance Published: 05-19-13, Updated: 05-19-13 Chapters: 1, Words: 3,671

Summary: They meet on their respective fields - his, baseball, and hers, soccer - and it changes everything. Enjonine modern AU for the Fic War on tumblr! Oneshot, rated T for language.

originally written for the e/e fic war and posted to ffnet. prompted with “soccer AU, baseball AU” by tumblr user samthenardier.

Chapter 1/1

He's not quite sure when he first noticed her.

Perhaps it was the weekend Courfeyrac hit the ball out of their diamond, and, as he played in the outfield, she reached him first to return it. He hardly paid her any mind, only nodding in thanks. She was clearly just as busy as he, covered in dirt and soaked with sweat, her shin guards smeared with grass stains.

Perhaps it was the weekend that it rained. Bahorel and Grantaire, playing on his team that weekend, were highly distracted when the women with whom she was playing declared their match to be shirts versus skins. She seemed to be the chief in insisting that it be the girls who played as skins, against the shirted boys.

The boys on his baseball team couldn't help but stare as the girls stripped, their shorts rolled low on their hips and clinging to their thighs in the rain, their tops bare, save for their soaked-through sports bras.

He noticed that she and her friends were frequently shooting glances in the direction of the baseball diamond, delighting and giggling when his teammates and opponents fawned over them.

Perhaps he noticed her the weekend that it was so hot they almost had to cancel – she, again, was shirtless, but this time her sports bra was soaked with sweat. They watched as she poured cold water over her face and head and shoulders – his teammates with hunger and desire, he with disinterest.

Perhaps it was the weekend he saw her running to their diamond, soccer ball under her arm and her hand entwined with another girl's, one with dusky skin and dark hair. They sat in the bleachers, watching and cheering and laughing. It was quite distracting. Afterwards, he watched as she made a beeline to Marius, just as Joly and Bossuet appeared to be racing to talk to her friend first.

He paid her little to no mind, though he did notice when she wasn't there sometimes, especially because his baseball team (and often their visiting competition) and the eternal pick-up soccer game that she participated in often went out for drinks together after their respective games were over. It seemed oddly quiet when she wasn't there, rare though that was, but it also irritated him when she was there, because she spent the whole damn time mooning over Marius and trying to get that freckled fool to pay attention to her.

He never bothered to interact with her; in fact, he didn't even know her name. Nor did he try to learn it. Whenever she came into his peripherals, he merely acknowledged her mentally as "Marius' Shadow."

However, everything changed when he was leaving the park one day, and came across her corned up against a tree, an older man who must have been her father screaming in her face as she cowed. When the man hit her across the face, he lost it.

He dropped his things, and suddenly he was next to her, then in between her and the man, then shoving the man away and shouting things that he didn't remember later. They tousled briefly, resulting in a bloody nose on his face and a black eye on the old man. The man stormed away, screaming and cursing at them.

When he turned, he didn't even have time to react before she slapped him sharply across the face. It left him momentarily dumb; he wasn't sure whether to pinch his nose to stop the bleeding or hold his smarting cheek. Then she was shouting at him.

"I don't want your help! I'm not some sort of damsel in distress that needs rescuing from some bourgeois knight in shining armor!" She shoved him, though it was hardly strong.

Her lip was bleeding and was starting to swell from where the man hit her.

Ten minutes later, he was in the dugout, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Hey," a voice said behind him, startling him. He turned, and there she was – fat lip, messy dark hair, long, thin legs and a torso hidden by an oversized jersey. She held a plastic bag in her hand.

He just sniffed blood, trying to keep it from running down his face more, and stared at her. He was hardly forgiving; if she resented his interference, he wouldn't interfere. He had a bloody nose and probably a black eye (try explaining that one at work tomorrow), all because he was trying to help her. So as far as he was concerned, they had no reason, especially now, to interact at all. He wanted nothing from her.

"Sit down," she ordered. Her tone surprised him; it reminded him of how his mother or his teachers would talk to him as a child. He wondered where she picked it up. Then he sat.

She put the bag on the bench beside him, digging around inside. From it, she pulled gauze, an ice pack, hydrogen peroxide, and band-aids. Without a word, she began mopping up the blood on his face.

"I'm sorry I slapped you," she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the blood that was still gushing from his nose.

He shrugged.

"It was my dad. It wasn't the first time," she told him quietly. He wondered why she was telling him this; from the look on her face, she was wondering the same thing. Then, "I'm Eponine. Eponine Jondrette."

He regarded her for a moment, and she finally met his eyes. They were a beautiful, bright brown, flecked with gold, but were dark and angry from the memories that were undoubtedly cycling through her mind. He looked at her lips; dried blood had trickled onto her chin, though she hadn't seemed to notice.

"Enjolras," he said. "Gabriel Enjolras."

Eponine's lips twitched into a small smile, then she got back to work on cleaning him up.

When she was finished, she threw the first aid supplies into her backpack. "I'll buy you a beer," she offered, "as a thanks – and an apology."

*

He's not quite sure why he kissed her.

It was several months after the day he fought her father.

They were heading off to the park together. His league's season was over, but he and his friends still met each weekend for pickup games. She had wormed her way into his friend group, and they had invited her along, eager to teach her how to play baseball. In return, she was going to teach them a little bit about soccer.

She met him on the corner near his apartment – it was more convenient for her to cut through his neighborhood to reach the park, as she lived a few blocks away.

"We need to run to my place," she said when he found her, not bothering to greet him. "I would've gone alone, but my phone was dead and I didn't want you to think I was ditching you.

Though they lived relatively close together, there was a marked difference between his neighborhood and hers. His was more affluent – he was a lawyer, the only son in a wealthy family, and therefore, his apartment was large and well decorated and safe.

Eponine's apartment, however, was one room of a giant, sketchy-looking complex. She joked that this was where the meth-heads came to die.

He worried for her safety.

Inside, however, she had done her best to make the place comfortable. It was colorful, but tasteful – very bohemian, but it worked because it was so Eponine.

She had hung curtains to separate her small bed from the rest of the room, and disappeared behind them for a few moments.

When she reemerged, she beckoned him over. "Enj, these are my soccer trophies from high school. I was being scouted for college, being offered scholarships and even full rides, but then I blew out my knee."

He hadn't known. He knew she was good, but not that she could have started in college. Nor did he know that her knee had ruined her opportunity to get out of – well, out of this life. It broke his heart; she could have truly been something quite incredible. She was smart, she was driven and talented, but lacking the resources to rise out of the life she so despised. To have come so close, only to have an ill-timed physical issue rip her chances away – he couldn't even imagine.

"That sucks, Ep, I'm so sorry," he told her sincerely.

She smiled warmly, though he could see a touch of bitterness in her eyes. "Whatever," she shrugged, "I have all these crazy trophies for my trouble!"

And she did. There must have been more than 30 of all colors and sizes, from participation awards to tournament placements to MVP's.

"My collection would totally kick your collection's ass," he teased, nudging her with his elbow. "I was given a partial scholarship to play in college. I wanted to go pro. I didn't have time for anything else, not even girls. My entire life revolved around baseball and school."

She looked at him. "What happened?"

He stared straight ahead at a trophy she had won her sophomore year of high school for most valuable player. "My priorities changed," was all he said. He could hear the hardness in his own voice; out of the corner of his eye, he saw her searching for something on his face before she turned back towards the trophies. He cleared his throat. "Anyway," he said, reaching out and touching a medal, "all my trophies are at my parents' house."

"I like having mine home with me," was Eponine's soft reply.

He looked at her. There was a faraway look on her face, an absent smile on her lips. "They help me remember a time when I was happy." She seemed to be talking to herself now, and he wondered if she remembered he was there.

He couldn't take his eyes off her, all of a sudden, and he felt something building inside of him that was foreign and, if he had to admit it, a little frightening.

When she turned to him, a questioning look on her face and an inquiry forming on her lips, he kissed her, swallowing whatever it was she was about to say. She responded immediately against him, and he pulled her body flush against his instinctually when her lips parted against his.

*

He's not quite sure why he slept with her.

He had never been with a woman before.

And she was vulnerable; he couldn't shake the feeling that he had taken advantage of her.

Marius and his girlfriend, the perfect, blonde Cosette, had gotten engaged.

Eponine had showed up at his door, in tears and completely inconsolable. So he ordered pizza, and ran to the liquor store around the corner for a bottle of Jack.

Three hours later, she was straddling him on his couch and kissing him wildly, half the bottle abandoned on the table behind her.

The whole experience, as intoxicating and wonderful as it was, was like being with a hurricane. It was wet and strong and dangerous, but he loved every second of it.

When he woke the next morning, she was in his kitchen, dressed in one of his t-shirts, making breakfast.

She kissed him good morning.

*

He's not quite sure when he fell in love with her.

They were out all night.

It was a warm night, in the middle of spring, a summery breeze sweeping through her hair and toying with the hem of her dress as she skipped around him.

Eponine didn't want to go home, and had talked him into staying out with her all night and going down to the docks to watch the sunrise.

"I've never seen the city when it sleeps," she had said.

They weren't together, per se, but Marius was married and Eponine was putting him behind her and now whenever she saw Enjolras she kissed him. He didn't hate it.

They had sat on the docks, swinging their bare feet inches above the water.

She grabbed his hand, humming a song into the wind. She was being strange; it was that mix of happiness and sadness that he'd learned to associate with her. Like she's almost ready to be happy, almost ready to let go of her problems, but she just can't.

She took his hand as the pre-dawn sky turns purple.

She kissed his cheek and then his lips when it turns pink.

When it turned orange, its bright glow lights up her face.

When the sun broke free of the water, she laughed. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

And that was when he knew: he'd fallen for her.

*

He's not quite sure why she wouldn't let him save her.

Eponine was stubborn, and always refused his help. He frequently reminded her that it was his job to help people, that it was his calling, but she would just snap at him that "a calling is a thing for entitled bourgeois boys," and that those he was "called" to help did not always want it.

When her little brother died, hit by a car in the middle of the night, he was not sure she'd ever come back to him.

She pushed him away. Stopped seeing him, stopped meeting him for baseball or soccer, stopped coming to his games and stopped showing up to her own. She wouldn't even answer her calls. Nor would she talk to any of her other friends.

Musichetta, her soccer friend, and Joly were dating, and even Musichetta had not heard from her in weeks.

When he finally saw her again, her face was gaunt. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, and hadn't eaten in weeks. Her already thin frame clung to her bones, her cheeks were sunken in, her hair was dirty and unkempt, and her hollow eyes had dark circles.

He didn't know how to save her, but for god's sake he tried.

*

He's not quite sure why she left him.

It isn't fair – that's the only thought that's cycling through his mind right now.

He's been sitting in this chair for, well, he doesn't even know how long. His friends keep coming to check on him, but he barely hears them. They can't say anything helpful anyway. They don't know.

All he can think of is her, of those precious moments by her side, as he stares straight ahead.

Directly in front of him is her casket. And he can't take his eyes off it, off her lifeless body laying there for those attending the wake to gawk and cry over.

He can't cry, he can't eat, he can't feel. He briefly wonders if this was how it was for her when little Gavroche was killed, and if that was the straw that broke the camel's back in her life.

He wonders, much more extensively, why he couldn't save her. He was always reminding her that saving people was all he wanted to do. He just wanted to help.

Why hadn't he been able to help her?

It was a sunny afternoon. They were sitting on the stairs of her fire escape. She was under his arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Not everyone wants to be saved, Enj," she told him. "Not everyone will let you."

"As long as you let me save you, that's fine," he replied.

She said nothing for a long while. "It might be too late for that," she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

And it was. It was far too late.

She was gone.

The only woman he had ever loved, ever cared for, ever had time for, was dead.

This was a woman who had opened up an entire new world for him, and he would never see her again.

He's not sure what comes next; now that he's lived in this world of hers, he isn't sure if he can live without her.

When he's angry at her, angrier than he's ever been before, he curses her name, screaming at her ghost for leaving him behind, for ruining his life.

He hates her; she destroyed everything about him, everything he was, and left this empty shell behind. He was fine before - he didn't know what he was missing, and ignorance truly was bliss. He was settled in his life. But then she appeared in it, and turned it upside-down.

He tries to breathe.

Azlema, her younger sister, walks up to him.

She wraps herself around him, and he lets her, squeezing her tightly. She, of course, knew Eponine too (in a way that his friends didn't), and just as he lost the love of his life, she lost her older sister - and her baby brother. So she understands.

"She loved you, Enjolras," Azelma murmurs, her voice shaking with emotion and thick with the tears that spill from her eyes. "I know she never told you, but she told me. She loved you, and she would've wanted you to know."

He cries.

*

He's not quite sure how he picks up the pieces.

It's been forever, but it's also been no time at all.

His nights are cold and lonely, and his days are torture.

Grantaire has moved in with him, though perhaps that wasn't the best decision on the part of his friends, as the other man is so full of anger and sadness himself that all they do is spend their time drinking.

Combeferre seems to catch on, because then he comes to stay, too.

Suddenly, he's forced to eat the food Combeferre has cooked. He's forced to look at Grantaire's artwork and give his opinions, he's forced to go to work and do a good job again.

He's forced to look at her photographs every day (but that one he does to himself), too. In them, she seems happy. She's bright and beautiful and alive. God, she used to be so alive, even when she was miserable, even when she was depressed. She could be in the worst mood, but being around her was like being in the middle of a beautiful storm.

He misses that.

Eventually, Courfeyrac convinces him to come play a pickup game.

It feels good, being back on the diamond. The power of the ball as it flies from his hand, the feel of the wind in his face as he runs from plate to plate. He especially likes being at bat, because smacking that fucking ball into oblivion is suddenly the most therapeutic thing.

And then the game is over and his friends leave and he's slamming his stupid bat into the ground, raging in the middle of the field, screaming at her at the top of his lungs and undoubtedly causing quite the scene.

He collapses, and then someone is there – Jehan, perhaps? – speaking to him, trying to calm him.

But what does it is Eponine.

No, she's not there, of course, but he sees her team playing soccer on the next field. Or maybe it's a different team, he isn't sure if her friends play here anymore.

He looks up into the overcast sky, closing his eyes to the clouds, and can almost hear her laughter carried to him on the wind.

He goes home, pulls out the trophies he took from her apartment and those he took from his parents' house. He places them in pairs around the apartment, wherever they fit - his next to hers and hers next to his wherever he can find the room for them.

"They help me remember a time when I was happy," she had said that first time he kissed her.

And she was right.

There they were, once again – playing baseball, playing soccer together, just like when they had become friends. This time, however, their endless games were in his apartment. But looking at their trophies together was, for some stupid reason, extremely comforting. It made him feel like she was there, in these dumb objects she had been so proud of.

He sees her in them. They make him think of her. And he misses her, he does, but she would want him to be okay.

She would want him to keep on playing, because she wasn't able to.

And that's exactly what he's going to do.

Fin.

[2460nodone]

Breaks

Title: Breaks Category: Plays/Musicals » Les Misérables Pairing: Enjolras/Eponine Author: AliceInSomewhereland Language: English, Rating: Rated: T Genre: Drama/Romance Published: 05-24-13, Updated: 05-24-13 Chapters: 1, Words: 3,788 Originally posted: fanfiction.net

Summary: When Eponine trips over Enjolras and breaks her hand at a party, he's the only one who can take her to the hospital. But suddenly it becomes less about her hand and about so, so much more. e/é (fic war prompt on tumblr)

Original author’s note: Ok, here's yet another for the e/é fic war! This time, the prompt (from tumblr user stargazingandsunshine) is: "A very drunk Eponine accidentally trips over Enjolras, and she breaks her hand. He has to take her to the hospital. Bonus points if Eponine is a flirty drunk (not that she wouldn't be anyway, but... you know)."

Chapter 1/1

Enjolras isn't quite sure how he ended up here.

No, actually, he is sure. Courfeyrac and Grantaire.

Somehow those two morons always talk him into going out with them and the rest of the Amis, and for some reason, always against his better judgment, he gives them the benefit of the doubt and agrees to go along. Tonight is no different.

The party – yet another graduation party (they graduated from college three weeks ago, for God's sake!) – was at Bahorel's apartment, and it was loud, smoky, boozy, and just about everything that wasn't Enjolras.

So he went out on the balcony, where the breeze was cool and the air clean and the noise confined to normal nighttime sounds rather than the bad DJ skills of Jehan (he was playing "My Heart Will Go On" when Enjolras exited, and that was the last straw for many of the recent graduates).

He was surprised to find Courfeyrac out there with that girl, the one who was in love with Marius Pontmercy. She shadowed him – around campus, at parties, at bars, she was everyone. To his credit, Pontmercy seemed to genuinely like the girl, but he was too thickheaded to see her feelings for him.

Enjolras had no time for nonsense like relationships. He was headed to law school in the fall, and was going to make a difference with his life. Women didn't fit in to that.

But as he stepped outside into the cool night air, he realized he had interrupted Courfeyrac and what's-her-name. They were making out, of course.

Enjolras couldn't help but roll his eyes. Courfeyrac was a manwhore, and as far as he knew, this girl was a tease of a drunk. And given that Marius and his blonde girlfriend Cosette were inside canoodling on the couch, it was not surprising to find what's-her-bucket sucking face with someone kind of random.

According to Courfeyrac, they hooked up semi-regularly. But this was the first time Enjolras had seen it; usually, when she was with their friends, she was either following Marius like a lost puppy or "brochilling" with Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Grantaire (at least, that was the word Courfeyrac gave it).

When the couple realized that they were no longer alone, Courfeyrac pulled away, grunting and wiping his mouth, glaring at Enjolras, who simply shrugged in return.

Then Courfeyrac actually high-fived what's-her-bucket and left. Enjolras rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe that these were his friends.

She turned to him. He could smell the liquor emanating from her person.

"Enjolras, right?" she asked, flashing a winning smile and flicking her dark hair off her face. He had never officially met her before (hence why he did not know her name), and had actually never been this close to her. She was much prettier than he had previously noticed, with a round face, olivey skin, and dark brown eyes. Her hair was thick and fell in easy waves around her shoulders; it was mussed in the back where Courfeyrac's hand had been anchored.

"Yeah," he said, uncertain of how to tell a woman he didn't know but had spent ample time around that he had never learned her name.

"I'm Eponine," she announced. He wondered if she had realized he didn't know her.

"Nice to officially meet you," he said formally, wishing that she would just go inside and leave him out here in peace.

"Not your thing?" she asked, jerking her head towards the party.

Enjolras shook his head. "Not really."

Eponine stepped closer. He noticed that, despite her sober manner, she tripped over her own feet a bit.

"It helps to be drunk," she offered.

He just looked at her.

"Ah, but that's not really your thing either, is it?"

Enjolras wasn't sure whether she was simply making an observation or teasing him, so he remained silent. Instead of answering, he busied himself with sitting on the floor, against the wall. Courfeyrac had moved all the chairs from the little balcony inside for the night.

Eponine sighed exaggeratedly, moving to sit next to him. It displeased him; he didn't want her company. She would most likely chatter drunkenly next to him for the remainder of the party, avoiding Marius and Cosette (though he was certain she would force him to talk about the couple for hours) and all the other people she could be making out with.

Then he wondered if she would try making out with him. The thought made him scowl. Women….

Eponine stumbled on her way over to him, and he belatedly wondered if he should get up and help her. But it was too late, because she went too far and tripped on his leg and–

She fell to the ground with a thud and an alarming, sickening crack.

"Shit, Eponine, are you okay?" he asked, reaching for her shoulders to help her up.

"Son of a fucking bitch, oh mother fucker that hurt!" she cried as he sat her up.

Enjolras caught sight of her wrist and hand, swollen and looking a bit… off. Eponine followed his gaze, and the impressive stream of cursing began again.

"Let me see," he muttered, reaching out for her. But when he gently touched her arm, she cried out in pain and alarm and wrenched away from him.

Sighing – this is not how he wanted his night to go – he ordered, "Wait here."

Eponine just nodded, hissing through her teeth in pain.

Enjolras went inside, looking for Courfeyrac. But when he found his friend, he was too busy vomiting into a trashcan. Grantaire and Bahorel were both too drunk to do anything, and the rest of his friends were either making out with random people, too drunk, or missing in action. Marius he didn't even bother; the boy made no effort for anyone else when Cosette was around.

He returned to the balcony, opening his mouth to speak, but stopped when Eponine turned away from him, sniffing. "Hey, you okay?" he asked her awkwardly.

Her good hand went up to her face, wiping her eyes. "Yeah, sorry, just a little painful is all," she replied, turning back and giving him a watery smile.

Jesus, now he not only had to deal with a drunk, injured girl, but he had to deal with a drunk, injured, crying girl, he thought. Just his luck.

Still Enjolras, ever the gentleman, offered her his hand. She took it with her good one, and he easily pulled her to her feet. "Let's get you to the hospital," he murmured, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt.

He held onto her arm as he escorted her to his car – which, when they reached it, Eponine announced she loved (it was a vintage red Mustang. He explained that he had saved his money for it for years, and had fixed it up himself. She replied that she loved a man who knew his way around a car, and that car oil on a man was extremely sexy, and a surprisingly good lubricant. He hoped the dark hid his blush).

When she was buckled into the passenger side, and he settled in and driving and trying to keep her from messing with his radio settings (though she seemed impressed with the classic rock station he had blasting), Eponine fixed him with a disconcerting stare.

"I never noticed how cute you were before," she informed him bluntly.

Enjolras flushed. "Oh… thanks."

"Yeah, I get why your friends call you 'Marble Man," she continued with a grin that was a little too mischievous for his liking, especially considering the very real possibility of a broken hand or wrist. "You know, with that chiseled jaw of yours and those text-book good looks." Eponine glanced at him sideways before sliding her good hand towards him. "Unless there's something else that's marble that might've earned you that nickname," she said, walking her fingers up his leg towards his crotch.

Enjolras jumped at her touch and did his best to squirm away from her. When did this car get so small? And how did he get stuck with the job of driving the drunk girl to the hospital? It took him a moment to realize that she was laughing at him.

"You're cute when you're flustered," she informed him.

He had no response. Nor did he respond very much to any of the other things she chattered about on their way to the hospital – it was a fairly short drive, thank god – other than to try and remove himself from her grip when she flirted with him. It didn't take him long to realize that she was teasing him so much because she was getting such a rise out of him, but he couldn't help it. He didn't have any experience with girls, didn't want any girls – especially not silly, drunk ones like her.

*

Enjolras was walking Eponine into the emergency room, her injured hand cradled against her torso, when she stopped short, just before the doors.

"Are you going to be sick?" he asked, already worn out from her antics.

She just shook her head, slowly shifting her eyes to meet his. She looked wary. "I just don't like hospitals," she said quietly. It was the first time all night, perhaps ever, that he had not seen her drunk or being loud and disruptive and trying to get attention. He wondered if it was because Marius wasn't here.

Something in her face, however, indicated that it was not just Marius' lack of presence that had her mood shifting. It almost looked like fear.

Enjolras walked up to her, gently grasping her shoulders. She looked up at him. "The sooner we go in, the sooner we get out, right?" he asked, not unkindly. He suddenly felt a little sorry for her, and was curious about the memories that had a girl that had always seemed so boisterous and fearless suddenly so small and timid.

Eponine nodded slowly, staring into his eyes as if she would find some sort of strength there.

He put his hand on her back, giving her a very gentle push through the door, and following her in.

"Your eyes are very blue," she told him. It was clear that she was trying to get back to where she was in the car, but her voice had lost its flirtatious edge.

*

Enjolras waited for her as the nurses took her back to take her vitals. It took only a few minutes, and she joined him in the waiting room almost immediately, still trying not to trip over her feet.

"I hate it when they know I'm drunk," she grumbled.

He wondered what that meant.

"Did they say how long we'll have to wait?" he asked, trying to stave off his curiosity about her experience with hospitals.

Eponine shrugged. "A few hours, anyway. They have to wait for an available doctor, then I have to get x-rays, then probably a cast. Damnit I'm stupid. Look, I appreciate you bringing me, but you don't have to stay. I'll be here all night, and I hardly know you. There's no reason for you to spend your night in the ER with a stranger. Go home, I'll figure out a way home later," she urged.

Enjolras liked the sound of going home, of crawling into his bed and passing out. But his conscience could not let him leave this girl here alone – not when she was drunk, in pain, lacking transportation and company, and obviously a little freaked out. Plus, he was suddenly a little curious about who she really was, apart from her infatuation with Marius, and he was eager to learn more.

"No, no, I'm not going to leave you here alone. Besides, this is like the last hurrah of college, right? My college experience wouldn't be complete without a night spent in the ER."

Eponine gave him a rather large, grateful smile. "Thank you," she whispered, taking his hand in her good one and squeezing it. She laid her head on his shoulder then, and was promptly asleep, her hand still clasped in his.

Enjolras had had the foresight to bring his backpack – which had been in his car during the party – into the ER, and as she dropped off surprisingly quickly into unconsciousness (where he hoped she would sleep off some of her drunkenness), he found himself digging around inside it to find his book (it was his third read of The Brothers Karamazov. He would never get tired of it). All the while, he kept his hold on her hand.

*

She woke up about eighty pages later, however long that was.

Enjolras felt her stirring against him, and realized that he was still holding her hand. He promptly tried to drop it, but she was clasping him as she came to with a groan.

"Good book," Eponine rasped.

"You've read it?" he asked, surprised.

"Of course, no book has ever taken me on such an emotional journey or made me question my faith the way that one has," she replied, sitting up with a whimper and rolling her neck. "God you have a bony shoulder!"

"So I've been told." Enjolras was incredibly impressed with her. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Any less drunk?"

"Ugh, yes, now I'm hungover. And the booze was good to keep the pain from my hand away, but now that hurts like a bitch too," she responded miserably.

Enjolras realized their hands were still clasped, so he squeezed hers supportively.

*

They had been reading along together after Eponine woke up. She still would not let go of his hand.

"You read slowly," he remarked teasingly, grinning over at her. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. She wasn't the obnoxious drunk girl he had always perceived her to be; she was smart, sharp-witted, funny, and extremely well-read. He had entirely too much fun distracting her from her hangover and the pain in her hand by debating different authors and books. Then they had settled into sharing his book.

Eponine shrugged. "I like to really soak it all up, you know? Each word and each sentence. Writing is so beautiful, and authors spend so much time and put so much of their souls into their work. I feel like I'm doing them a disservice if I don't take my time and let what they're saying really settle in."

"You sound like a writer," he joked.

Eponine flashed that beautiful smile at him. "I am a writer – or at least, I want to be one. Someday."

"Really? What do you want to write?"

Eponine was quiet for a moment, mulling over his question. "Happiness," she finally said, her voice seeming a little far away as she stared off into space. "And people," she added, shifting her gaze to meet his. "I want to write about girls who find their way out of their miserable lives and find happiness, about boys who overcome their obstacles and live the life they've always dreamed of."

"Those sound like good books," Enjolras appraised.

She just shrugged, looking off into whatever yesterday her eyes had previously been fixed on. "I used to believe that you couldn't adequately write about something without experiencing it. But I don't believe it anymore. Writers are observers. I don't have to have a happy life to understand what one is and to write well about it. I can be miserable and write about happiness very easily. And I'll get to experience it along with my characters, so that's something, right?"

The depth of Eponine's statement actually kind of shocked him. "You just graduated college, Eponine," he reminded her softly. She looked at him with eyes that were heavy and, surprisingly, a little teary. "What's not to be happy about?"

Eponine smiled patiently and squeezed his hand. "I'm happy to have graduated. It doesn't fix my problems, though. It doesn't fix my life or my past or my family. It doesn't even secure my future. So I'm happy, yes. But it's just a fleeting happiness, not a life changing kind." Her smile was noticeably sadder now.

Enjolras didn't know what to say. She was so much more than he had judged her to be, and he found himself suddenly wanting to find a way to make her happy. He was actually about to tell her as much when the nurse called her name.

Eponine stood with a groan, and he opened his hand to let go, but she pulled him along. "Come on," she murmured, waiting impatiently as he marked his page and threw the book into his bag.

"Eponine Jondrette?" the nurse at the ER door asked.

Eponine nodded. "This is my boyfriend," she said, utterly shocking Enjolras. "I'm bringing him back with me."

The nurse hardly gave him a second glance before leading them back to a curtained-off empty bed. He helped Eponine settle on it – she was awkward with only one working hand – before lowering himself into the empty chair next to her bed.

He waited patiently as the nurse asked Eponine some information – feeling very uncomfortable when they briefly discussed her period (though Eponine didn't seem the least bit distressed) – and then left.

"Enjolras," Eponine said, the humored edge back in her voice, "Your cheeks are red. Is discussing my period a little too much for you?" she teased.

She waited a moment or two, gleefully listening to him stutter, before sobering. "Sorry to drag you back here and call you my boyfriend and everything. I just – I just hate hospitals and didn't want to be back here alone," she told him.

"Why?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

Eponine gave him an appraising look, but did not refuse him the information. "I spent a lot of time in the hospital growing up. For injuries of my own, then when I would bring my little sister and brother. My parents – well, they weren't the most loving…." She trailed off, turning her head away from him as her voice strained.

Enjolras was fairly certain that all this meant that she and her siblings were abused as children. The thought sickened him. No wonder she acted like she did, with one personality for around her friends and another for when she was alone in the darkness. His heart broke a little for her, though he could hardly show it. Somehow, he knew she wouldn't thank him for that.

So instead, he stood up and took her hand in his while she was still turned away. He slid partway onto the bed next to her – it was fairly narrow, and as she was sitting in the center, he had to keep one foot anchored on the ground – and smiled as she turned to look at him in surprise.

"I'm here," he reminded her.

Eponine gave him a timid smile, and actually turned away, hiding behind her curtain of hair.

The potentially very awkward moment (or very touching) was cut short by the return of the nurse, who took Eponine for an x-ray.

*

An hour later, they were leaving the hospital. It was close to five in the morning. Eponine had broken the part of her hand between her pinky finger and her wrist, and was now grumbling about being in a cast for the next six weeks. Although, the cast was bright purple, so Enjolras suspected that, at least for the time being, she was somewhat content.

When they were back in his car, he dug around in his glove compartment. Eponine looked at him questioningly until his hand found what he was looking for. She smiled as he pulled out a sharpie.

"Might I be the first to sign your cast, mademoiselle?" he asked, smirking at her.

Eponine nodded enthusiastically, smiling as well, and offered him her purple hand.

He gently held it, twisting her arm to where he wanted to sign, then signed his name (and drew a smiley face) right over the break. For some reason, he wanted her to know that he would be there as she healed. He wanted her to know that he would always be there, breaks or no. That suddenly, he wanted to help heal the breaks in her soul in a way that he couldn't heal the break in her hand.

Enjolras let go and she twisted her hand around to look at it, smiling widely.

"You signed over the break! Are you breaking up with me?" she punned, wiggling her eyebrows.

He snorted. "Well, your hand has to heal before you can have that purple monstrosity taken off. So technically, it's like I'll be there, stitching you back together."

Eponine's smile faded from a teasing one to a rather shy one. "That's harder than it looks," she whispered.

He wanted to remind her that her wrist was already set, that it would heal no matter what, but he knew they were no longer talking about her physical break. And he did not hate the thought of healing her other broken parts, because maybe he had some of his own that she could help with.

Eponine was not the girl he previously thought she was, and he suddenly wanted to be there for everything with her, to learn everything about him.

"Challenge accepted," he replied, grinning at her.

Eponine just smiled back and slid her hand back into his. Enjolras' heart quickened at this; he had come to like the warmth during their night in the ER together.

Eponine cleared her throat – it would seem she did not like sentimental moments (even better, as he hated them too) – and said, "Well now I only have one working hand. So let's take a shower, I'll need someone to wash my hair!"

Enjolras felt his face flush and he started the car, hurriedly driving away as though he could leave her teasing laughter behind at the hospital. She was cackling, completely aware that she had succeeded in flustering him, and stroking his hand with her thumb where it was clenched in hers.

[2460nodone]

é/e masterlist *in progress*

as the death knell of fanfiction.net is sounding, i (the blogger/writer formerly known as 246nodone) have decided to clean house and move all of my enjonine fics here.

this list includes fics from the roughly 2012-2014 range, and has works from the 2013 fic war, and the @31daysofenjonine​ challenge from 2013 december, as well as other drabbles, oneshots, and multi-chapter fics.

Oneshots & drabbles Trophies Breaks for life is not a paragraph Your Rocky Spine

Multi-chapter Tides (complete) [Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4, Pt 5, Pt 6, Pt 7, Pt 8, Pt 9, Pt 10, Pt 11] Solstice [Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4, Pt 5, Pt 6] Hell is a Relative Term (complete) [Pt 1, Pt 2] Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks (incomplete) [Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4, Pt 5, Pt 6]