Archive of Our Own ^beta

She's staring doggedly at the menu while she waits in line, glowering at the endless list of mochas and lattes and stupid, frilly drinks she never has time for, but you know what, she's a good friend and she deserves something stupid and frilly today. She's determined not to think about what a damn good friend she is (why, why is she a good friend?), even though she is, wandering around campus looking for some all-important ray of sunshine so Marius blankety-blank Pontmercy will give her the time of day (and that smile, her traitorous mind reminds her mournfully) is like, the definition of a good friend (and pathetic, don't forget pathetic), so if she wants to treat herself, she will. Although, she thinks grumpily as she squints at her options, at these prices, she ought to have that one Swedish dude from the commercials present her drink to her on a silver platter before taking her in a manly fashion. Swedish Dude, who probably trailed after wispy little vocal students, too. Dammit.

"Éponine?" a familiar voice asks.

Éponine jumps.

Combeferre is smiling at her from behind his glasses, gently tapping out some private melody on the countertop. He’s in an apron, and it takes a moment for Éponine to connect the dots.

"I didn't know you worked here,” she blurts. Combeferre just shrugs a shoulder, still grinning as if pleased to see her.

“Yep. What can I get you?”

It occurs to Éponine that for all her staring at the menu, she hasn’t done a very good job of figuring out what she wants to order.

“Er,” she hedges. The person behind her makes an irritated huffing noise. Great. “Just, uh, surprise me?” she hears herself saying, and Combeferre raises his eyebrows at her.

“Okay,” he agrees after a split second pause. “What size?”

“Small,” she replies. “Smallest one you got. I’m not really a coffee person,” she explains, and the person behind her actually groans.

“Gotcha,” Combeferre says, though it’s clear he doesn’t. “I’ll surprise you, then.” He gives her an odd, searching look, but she deflects it with a smile, which, typical Combeferre, he returns, and goes to find a nice, solitary table clearly meant for one person, where she can sit by herself. Alone. At her single table.

She really should stop being such a good friend.

She stares moodily out the window for a while, watching little flakes of almost-snow flutter down from the grey mass that is the sky. It’s soothing, in a monotonous way. She wonders if Marius has plucked up the courage to talk to his ray of sunshine, yet. Cosette. She wrinkles her nose. She would be named Cosette. Cute. Shy. Completely Marius’ type. They were going to fall in love and get married and have a whole slew of adorable, freckly babies, and Éponine would just be over here at her table for one, sipping her exorbitantly priced cup of pretentious organic-mocha-latte-thing-with-the-Mona-Lisa-recreated-in-the-soybean-infused-imported-vegan-foam or whatever. Because she's a damn good friend. Someone clears his throat, and Éponine jumps again.

"You're very thoughtful today," Combeferre remarks, holding a little coffee cup, sky blue and actually kind of pretty (if she were into that sort of thing). She accepts it, sneaking a surreptitious little glance to see if she does in fact have a Mona Lisa foam picture. She doesn't - it's just whipped cream - and she's not quite sure if she's disappointed or not.

"Thanks," she says belatedly and takes a wary sip. "Oh, this is good," she exclaims, pleasantly surprised at the sweet taste. Her other forays into coffee had left her largely unimpressed, but she supposes that if you pay a fortune, it ought to taste better than gasoline and desperation. Combeferre cocks his head at her, lips twitching.

"It's hot chocolate," he admits, and she stares at her cup then back at him, exasperated. He grins, a little sheepish, his glasses slipping down his nose. She has the sudden urge to push them back in place. Or slide them off (and shove her tongue down his throat).

Whoa.

"Well, I did tell you to surprise me," she says aloud, waiting, slightly unnerved, for another bizarre urge, but nothing. Nada. Weird. She squints up at him, considering. "Hey, do you want to sit down for a sec? If you have a minute?"

"Sure," Combeferre responds, hooking a chair with his foot and dragging it over to sit down across from her, "I'm on my break. What do you need?" Éponine blinks at him.

"What?"

"There's a reason Courfeyrac has me in his contacts as 'Momma C,'" Combeferre says wryly, and then he just waits like this - playing therapist, Éponine surmises - is a daily occurrence for him. And given the amount of melodrama in their circle of friends, she supposes it is; Combeferre is the voice of reason in the middle of what can and does deteriorate into a squabbling mess of super intense three-year-olds at least twice a week. He has plenty of practice talking someone off a ledge. Éponine can't help but wonder if he ever gets tired of it. He'd certainly be too polite to say anything if he did, anyway.

It's funny. She's known Combeferre going on half a year now, and she doesn't think she's ever talked to him like this. One-on-one.

"I kind of," she starts, then stops. "I dunno. I kind of just wanted to talk."

"Okay." And then he waits again, patient with that smile, that half-shy, tucked away smile that hid in the corner of his mouth, and what if she eased it out into the open with a nip of her teeth and wait no what the fuck.

"How are you?" she asks quickly, taking a gulp of her hot chocolate. It scalds her tongue

"I'm well, thank you," replies Combeferre while her eyes water and she attempts to rearrange her face into what she hopes is a totally normal expression. "How are you?"

"Good. Great," Éponine manages. Weird weird weird. "How are you? Shit, no, I already asked you that."

"Still doing fine," Combeferre assures her, eyes twinkling, and why did she ask him to sit down with her, she needs to leave, she needs to go, because it is disturbing how much effort it takes not to laugh embarrassingly loudly at that completely unfunny joke. She's lonely and so she's attaching herself to the nearest available male who happens to be Combeferre and Combeferre does not deserve her crazy. Combeferre is a good guy - she should just go. Instead, she opens her mouth.

"Just, um, just checking." Yes. Yes, she is the most intelligent person in the entire world. And the most articulate. Yes. "I worry about you, Combeferre. You're just so maladjusted."

He laughs. She ducks back into her cup. When she resurfaces, he's grinning.

"What?"

"You've got - hold on - " He swipes at her nose with his thumb. It comes away with a dollop of whipped cream, and she fumbles for a napkin. He sucks the whipped cream off his thumb - not fair, not fair - and she really needs to go.

But then he starts to talk, easy and comfortable and so very Combeferre, and she doesn’t have the heart to leave. They talk about the weather and the upcoming rally and other things, things like the no-joke-three-month moth phase Combeferre went through in the seventh grade and Éponine's addiction to bad Spanish soap operas. They talk until his manager, a tired, stocky man, raps his knuckles on the table.

"Break is fifteen minutes," he reminds Combeferre, who leaps to his feet, looking mortified. Éponine lifts her chin.

"My fault," she says firmly. The man - Mabeuf his name tag reads - appraises her. "Completely my fault." She turns to Combeferre. "Would you mind ringing me up?" Combeferre nods, shooting her a little, guilty grin.

She lingers at the register a little longer than necessary, perhaps, ignoring Combeferre's boss lurking around, wiping off tables that are totally spotless.

"You're a good guy," she says honestly when Combeferre slides her the receipt. He blinks and adjusts his glasses.

"Thank you," he replies after a moment. He wipes his hands on his apron, and Éponine wonders if it's because they're sweating, if he's nervous. "You're not too bad yourself." Éponine can't help but laugh at that, and the tips of Combeferre's ears go pink.

What the hell, she thinks. Why not?

"We should do this more often," she comments, gesturing back and forth between them.

"This?" he repeats, echoing her gesture. Éponine grins.

"Yeah," she answers teasingly. "See you around, Momma C." He scrunches his nose at her.

"Bye, Éponine."

She tosses him a wave over her shoulder as she walks back into the cold and damp. It's snowing properly now, good snow, snow that catches in eyelashes and tastes crisp and sweet on the tongue.

But not as sweet as surprise hot chocolate, Éponine thinks, and maybe she grins, maybe she doesn't.

(If Mabeuf notices they've picked up a regular, well:

He knows it's not really the coffee.)