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“I can’t,” Combeferre says as soon as he opens his apartment door, brandishing a heavy textbook in his arm. “I have an exam on Monday, and I don’t know any of the material.”
Eponine pushes past him, ignoring his protestations. “It’s Friday night, Combeferre,” she says in her trademark husky voice. “You can study the rest of the weekend.”
“Eponine,” he says, running his fingers through the rat’s nest that is his hair.“I can’t—”
“Oh come on, you know this shit. I know you do. You know everything.” she interrupted him, taking the book out of his hands and tossing it on the kitchen table, where it landed with a loud thud. “And besides, I have popcorn,” she says, pulling a bag of microwave popcorn out of her bag and tossing it at Combeferre, who deftly caught it with his left hand. “And my favorite Christmas movie of all time,” she adds, waving a DVD in her hand.
Combeferre removes his glasses and wipes them on the hem of his sweater, squinting at her quizzically. “And that would be?”
“Love Actually,” Eponine replies. “It was Cosette’s favorite movie growing up, so I was forced to watch it a lot with her. She loved that scene where the addled stalker guy shows up at her house with those stupid cards, you know?” Combeferre shakes his head, unfamiliar with the film. “But, you know, it kind of grew on me. Plus Colin Firth is wicked hot.”
“Hotter than me?” Combeferre asks, replacing his glasses and peering at Eponine, the corners of his mouth finally twitching into a smile. He watches her as she strips off her bulky coat and kicks off her boots, finally flouncing onto his ancient sofa in leggings and a sweatshirt that is three sizes too big for her.
Eponine cackles. “Only if you make the popcorn and bring me a soda,” she quips, snatching the remote control off of the coffee table and flipping through the channels idly. “There’s nothing sexier than a man in the kitchen.”
Combeferre can’t help but to laugh and disappear off to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later balancing an enormous bowl of popcorn with a can of soda. “I’m not making you that microwave stuff, though,” he says as he hands her a drink and flops down beside her. “Do you have any idea how any chemicals are in that?” he asks, visibly shuddering.
“Someone’s been studying with Joly for too long,” Eponine says over her shoulder as she rises from the couch to insert the DVD in Combeferre’s ancient player. “Remind me again why you don’t have Netflix?”
“I really don’t need the government knowing what I’m watching,” Combeferre points out, taking a handful of popcorn and tossing it into his mouth.
“Someone’s been hanging out with Bahorel for too long,” Eponine says, plucking a random kernel off Combeferre’s wool sweater and popping it into his mouth, hoping to stop the inevitable rant about government wiretapping.
Combeferre makes an affronted noise, but as the movie starts he silently puts an arm around Eponine, who tucks her feet underneath her and sighs contentedly, snuggling closer to him as she sips her drink.
As the intersecting storylines begin to unfold, her eyes flutter and close — only to fly open at a sudden shout from Combeferre. “Prime Minister Hugh Grant? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“He’s cute,” Eponine replies, burrowing closer to him.
Combeferre shakes his head in disgust. “No fucking way,” he mutters under his breath. He goes silent again, only erupting during the scenes at 10 Downing Street. “Right, like he’d do that the American president,” he scoffs. “And I’d think the Brits would be smart enough not to elect some asshole who dances to the Pointer Sisters,” he grumbles.
Eponine pulls away and smacks him on the arm. “Shut up and watch the fucking movie,” she says, a note of irritation creeping into her voice.
Combeferre rolls his eyes, but he obeys, setting his mouth in a firm line for the rest of the film, until they reach the scene when Emma Thompson discovers her husband is cheating on her — and Eponine hears him sniffle. “Are you crying?” she teases, as Joni Mitchell croons about lost love.
“No,” he says quickly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. “Allergies,” he explains.
“I see,” Eponine answers, suppressing a laugh at the expense of the suddenly emotional Combeferre.
When the final credits roll, she reaches for the remote control and flips off the TV. “So what did you think?” she asks, tousling his blond hair.
“I think you and Cosette both have terrible taste in movies,” he replies with a grin.
Eponine straddles him and kisses him on the lips. “That may be true,” she says, rearing back to look at him. “But I’ve developed much better taste in men.”