#i will never wish her happy birthday normally it's too funny to me. eiffel is seething

[commsroom]

may the fourth be with you, commander (← minkowski's birthday)

[badlesmisimaginesofficial]

21st birthday special

Imagine...

Life doesn't get much better than this. You're sat on a balcony with a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower, drinking mimosas with the love of your life. You only turn 21 once, and you're determined to make it count.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' Valjean sighs next to you. He has cleared his whole schedule to spend this time with you. Cosette has been complaining recently that she is entirely sidelined in his affections. In your gentler moments, you feel striking pity for her. The rest of the time, though, you're so delighted by your lover's company that you forget about Cosette entirely.

'It's wonderful. I feel like the luckiest girl alive,' you say, blushing.

Valjean is about to say something heartfelt - perhaps he loves you more than he loves bread - when the balcony doors burst open.

'WHAT ARE YOU DOING MOTHERFUCKERS?' it's .... Javert!

'No!' you jump to your feet. 'I don't care about your crusade - you're not taking him!'

For a moment Javert looks confused. Then his countenance clears as he realises what you mean.

'I'm not here for 24601,' he says, gruffly.  'I mean, if he wanted to surrender to the police, I wouldn't say no - '

'Javert!' you interrupt firmly. 'What are you doing here?'

He clears his throat. 'I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Y/N. And... I was wondering if you would do me this honour.' He kneels, producing a square ring box.

Your hands fly to your face. Ohmigod, is he about to -

'Y/N, would you marry me?'

'Javert! Um... this is so unexpected!' with Valjean's eyes burning a hole in your back, you know you must refuse - even though it hurts you to do so. You've never seen Javert at the mercy of his emotions before. He's normally so collected; ruled by reason and not passion.

Luckily - or unluckily - you never have to answer. For the doors behind him are pushed off their hinges, as two more people stumble out onto the balcony.

'Y/N!' It's Enjolras and Eponine, the two people you least expect to see.

'What are you doing?' you ask weakly, hoping they aren't about to confess their love.

It turns out they are - for each other.

'I have something to confess,' Enjolras admits, his muscles rippling in the early modern light. 'Oh! Javert! Hey bro! how're you doing? - anyway, I only hooked up with Eponine 'cause I thought it would make you happy. And you know me - I'm not one to commit to any one woman. All of France is my mistress.'

Eponine rolls her eyes. It's her only discernible character trait.

'But ever since I had hot, passionate sex with Eponine I've realised She's The One,' he continues. 'We're even thinking of getting a house together! I can't wait.'

Your eyes well up. Despite the chaos, it's beautiful that your friends have found love. 'That's great, you guys.'

'What do you say to my proposal?' Javert reminds you.

'I...' You open your mouth to respond, but there's a rumbling sound and suddenly the balcony is full of people.

'I love you!' Joly shouts, having thrown caution to the wind and climbed up the side of the balcony.

'Marry me!' Combeferre cries.

'I'm your biggest fan!' Feuilly throws a stack of paper fans at you.

'OHANA MEANS FAMILY,' Grantaire bellows, 'AND FAMILY MEANS NO ONE GETS LEFT BEHIND!'

It's all too much. You try to take it in - and promptly faint.

When you wake, it's not on the balcony - or even in the flat. Valjean and Javert are nowhere to be seen. Instead, you're being tended by an old man with the largest forehead you have ever seen.

'Monsieur? Where am I?'

'Rest, Y/N,' he urges, in a strong Cockney accent that makes no sense but is kind of funny. 'You were an experiment. I placed you in the book to see what would happen if pure goodness were present. (Cosette was just okay, I guess). You tore my novel apart. Everyone was falling over themselves for you.'

'Oh no! That's terrible!'

He nods.

'Is that why you brought me out? I hope your novel will recover.' You do feel a pang when you think of Valjean. He was so good in bed. But then, if this man is his author, surely that is the source of Valjean's sexual skill.

'No. It was a more selfish reason. I care not for the writing. People can think what they like of me.' The man takes your hand, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. 'I had to have you for myself.'