([AN: Yay! My third Les Miserables FF! So, I got this idea while re-watching Anastasia (the 1997 movie) and I just thought that Dimitri and Anastasia remind me SO MUCH of Enjolras and Eponine with their cute little banter. So, this chapter (I'm thinking about making it a stand alone muti-chapter fic [which means the chapters aren't completely connected], I'll need some pretty good convincing though, I tend to be quite lazy...) is pretty much the train part. Yes, it's short. Hopefully, if I feel like it, the next chapter will be longer (If there is a next chapter... MUAHAHA!). HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS ENJONINE AS MUCH AS I DO! Review, Fave, and Follow if you enjoyed it!])

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis, or the Marble Man and Shadow, or Ferre (although...)

The fiacre bounced gently as it made its way through the path, the cold winter air hitting its windows. Inside the fiacre, though, its occupants could barely feel the chill. The fiacre was occupised by two young monsieurs and a mademoiselle sat—or in the case of the young mademoiselle, slouched—contentedly in silence.

Both young men were reading books and the young mademoisellecontented herself with humming under her breath and playing with her silver necklace. The young monsieurs wore slightly bourgeois seeming clothes and the young mademoiselle had on a man's trench coat—probably one of the monsieurs—over a thinning grey dress.

The young mademoiselle seemed no older than nineteen, with wild auburn hair and doe-like eyes. Her skin was tan and her lips a fading red, but that seemed to add to her quiet beauty. One of the young monsieurs—the one who sat on the side opposite the young mademoiselle—was fair skinned with messy brown hair and spectacles over his warm brown eyes. He looked as if he was in his early twenties and had on a thoughtful expression and seemed the center of calm. The other young monsieur—who sat next to the young mademoiselle—had a mess of curly blond hair and strikingly deep blue eyes. His bowed lips were curved into a frown and his brows were furrowed deeply. With his face ever stoic, the air around him seemed much more mature than he looked—for he looked no older than twenty three.

The trio continued to ride in silence for another few minutes before the blond looked to his seatmate and noticed her slouching.

"Éponine, sit up straight," the blond chastised the girl. "And stop fiddling with that thing, you're supposed to be royalty."

"How do you know what royalty does and doesn't do?" she—Éponine—challenged heatedly, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I make it my business to know," he replied coolly, his eyes returning to the book in his hands.

"Sure, Lord Enjolras," Éponine rolled her eyes, still slouching deeply and defiantly.

Enjolras—the blond monsieur—sighed, placing his book on his lap with his thumb stuck in it as a bookmark. He turned to Éponine, a frown still on his stony face, "Look, Éponine, I'm just trying to help."

Looking up the his book, the brown haired monsieur—Combeferre—rolled his eyes, knowing that his friend was only doing this for the reward. They all were—but not as much as Enjolras.

Éponine sighed, sitting up straight and tilting her chin up, "Enjolras."

"Hm?" he quirked a brow.

"Do you really think I could pass as royalty?"

"Definitely."

"Do I seem like royalty?"

A royal pain, Enjolras thought but replied, "If you acted properly."

"Do you see me as royalty?"

"Ever since you signed up for this job, I've seen you as royalty. You are royalty."

Éponine smirked, a victorious glint in her eyes, "Then since I'm royalty, stop bossing me around."

She turned away smugly, leaving Enjolras at a loss for words. She had a point there.

"She sure acts like royalty," Combeferre smiled, looking at his friend's sour reaction.

"Yeah," Enjolras whispered—or he thought he was whispering, honestly, he couldn't whisper to save his life. "I hate that woman."

Upon hearing this, Éponine turned to stick her tongue out at his back, earning a chuckle from Combeferre. Enjolras turned to her with accusing eyes but her tongue was safely in her mouth by the time he had turned. She smiled innocently at him before returning to watch the scenery pass by.

Enjolras scowled at her back before returning to his book, trying to forget about her. Combeferre smiled at the pair's interaction, subtly pulling a piece of paper from inside his coat and unfolding it to reveal a scoring sheet. Ever since they had left Calais, it seemed the great orator had floundered in Enjolras and Éponine's great wit had won over most of the pair's banter and arguments. For the first time, Enjolras was losing his tongue. Smirking slightly, Combeferre placed another line under Éponine's name.

Enjolras—3. Éponine—29.