Author's notes: This is a work in progress. This version is the initial draft, but I desperately need constructive criticism on it and all of my friends are too busy to read it. Any opinions, even flames, are welcome. However, please note that my knowledge of the story is limited to seeing the school edition of the musical once. That being said please enjoy and let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any characters from it that are mentioned in the story. I do, however, own Henri and Delaine, so please ask before you borrow them.

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When Little People Fight

Rain poured down upon the barricade, as a small figure clambered atop it. A young boy's voice rose in defiant song.

"Little people know, when little people fight, we—"

A gun shot rang out. The voice faltered briefly, but rose again with determination.

"…May look easy pickings, but we've got some bite!"

A second shot rang out. This time when the boy's voice returned, it was weaker, but had lost none of its determined defiance.

"So never kick a dog because he's just a pup. We'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give up!"

The voice was faltering, the singer struggling but unwilling to admit defeat.

"So you'd better run for cover when the pup grows—"

A shot rang out for the third time.

And there was silence.

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"Will he be alright, Henri?" A young woman asked anxiously.

The man next to her sighed wearily and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know, Delaine. Three gunshot wounds is a lot to recover from, even if only one was a direct hit."

"What do you suppose happened to him?"

"Isn't it obvious? He was near the barricade. He just had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught in the crossfire. Poor child."

"How terrible! Please, Henri, let us help this boy." The woman begged. "It would be a terrible crime to allow an innocent life to be cut short."

The man looked at his wife's pleading face, then turned to survey the pale, unconscious form in the bed.

"Very well, Delaine." He conceded. "I will help him to the best of my abilities. In the meantime, please check the pockets of the clothing he was wearing. There may be some means of identifying him that will allow us to soothe the fears of his family."

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"Henri."

The man looked up from the clean bandages that he was winding for future use. "What is it, Delaine?"

"I have searched the boy's clothes. He carries no identification. Just a pouch containing a few sous. But in the breast pocket of his vest, I did find this." She held out the item to her husband.

"A red cloth? But that would mean…he's one with the revolutionaries."

She nodded sadly. "What happens now, Henri? What are you going to do?"

The man was silent. For a long while, he simply regarded the sleeping boy with an unreadable expression. Finally, he spoke.

"This changes nothing. Revolutionary or not, he is still an innocent child, injured, and I have given my word that I will help him. Go, Delaine, and fetch more blankets. He must be kept from chills and infection if he is to survive."

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It was two days later, as Henri rested and Delaine kept watch that the boy finally awoke. A faint stirring drew Delaine's attention from her book of poetry to the slight figure on the bed, and as she watched the boy's eyelids flickered briefly before opening to expose bright brown eyes. Trying not to startle him, Delaine leaned over until he noticed her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly.

The boy's eyes widened in fear and he made as if to sit up, but she anticipated his move and restrained him with a firm but gentle hand.

"Don't try to get up, you're badly hurt. Do not be afraid, I will not hurt you."

The brown-haired lad relaxed somewhat, but continued to watch her warily.

"…W-where?" He managed to croak, voice rasping from disuse.

"You are at my home." Delaine said quietly, pouring a glass of water from the jug on the bed-side table. "Here, this will help."

Carefully, she helped him sit up slightly, and when his hands shook too much to hold the glass she held it for him while he drank. The glass emptied, the boy took several deep breaths before turning his head to look at her. "What…happened?" he asked weakly.

"My husband, Henri and I found you on the ground by the barricade. You'd been badly wounded and abandoned. We brought you to our home, bandaged your wounds, and took care of you."

He turned his face away from her, looking out the window across the rooftops of Paris. "I see…" he said softly.

An indeterminable silence stretched between them.

"What is your name?" Delaine asked finally.

His reply was so quiet; she nearly did not hear it. "Gavroche."

"Alright, Gavroche, I'm Delaine. I'll bring you something to eat in a while, so why don't you get some rest?"

The boy did not reply so she rose from her seat and left, shutting the door behind her, and leaving the young Gavroche to stare out across the city.

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As Delaine shut the door behind her, Henri emerged from their bedroom at the end of the hall. "How is he?" he asked tiredly.

His wife gave him a relieved smile. "He's awake."

Henri stared at her in surprise. "Really? How is he feeling? Has he said anything?"

Delaine sighed. "He wanted to know where he was and what had happened."

Henri frowned. "Did you tell him about…?"

She shook her head. "No, that's the last thing he needs on his mind while he's trying to recover. All I told him was that we found him by the barricade and looked after him."

"Good." Her husband nodded. "Anything else?"

"I gave him some water. And," she added, "I found out his name's Gavroche."

"Alright. Let's just continue looking after him and give him some time. Let him tell us about himself when he feels he's ready."

"Of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go heat up some soup for Gavroche. He's nothing but skin and bones, and growing boys need nourishment." With that, the young brown-haired woman made her way down the hallway, turning down the stairs and disappearing from view.

Henri, however, stayed for a while longer, silently regarding the closed door behind which lay the boy named Gavroche.

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Inside the room, Gavroche lay in silent contemplation. His body may have been injured, but his ears had lost nothing of their keenness and he had heard every word the young woman and her husband had said. What puzzled him was why they were being so trusting. Here he was, a total stranger, and they had taken him into their home and cared for him. Moreover, they apparently had no intention of questioning him for further information.

One thing worried him, however. When the woman had mentioned that he had asked what had happened, the man, presumably her husband, had asked "Did you tell him about…?" and she had said no. Obviously there was something important that they did not want him to know. Well, they seemed nice enough for now, so maybe they would tell him about it eventually. In the meantime, he thought, a good meal would not go amiss…

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The first week was very awkward as Gavroche slowly became accustomed to Delaine and Henri. It was during that week that Gavroche learned the full extent of his injuries. One musket ball had shallowly grazed his upper left arm, and a second had cut his right side. The third, however, had torn into his right leg and lodged in the calf muscles, too deep to be removed. He would limp all his life, but they all agreed it was a small price to pay for one's life.

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It was on the morning of the eighth day that Gavroche finally gave voice to the question that had been plaguing his mind each day as stared out the window at the crowded buildings. "Monsieur Henri," he called quietly.

Across the room, the lean, dark-haired man looked up from his book to focus on the young boy. "What is it, Gavroche?"

"What…" he paused, trying to straighten out his thoughts. "What has happened to the revolution?"

Henri sighed. This was the question he had been dreading ever since the boy had awakened. Not answering immediately, he closed his book and set it aside, then removed hiss spectacles and cleaned them before slipping them into his breast pocket. He clasped his hands in his lap and regarded Gavroche thoughtfully before answering.

"The revolution has…it has failed." Henri began slowly.

Gavroche frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said." The older man said his blue eyes sad. "They fought bravely, but they just didn't stand a chance. I'm sorry Gavroche." Henri whispered, his voice laden with regret. "The revolution is dead." He turned away, unable to bear the shock and pain visible on the young boy's face.

Gavroche stared at Henri, eyes wide. His shoulders began to shake. "No…it can't be. They can't be dead! No! You're lying!" The boy's voice rose from a pained whisper to a desperate shout. "You must be lying! They can't be dead!" Gavroche broke down and began to sob "They can't be dead…they just can't…"

Henri watched as harsh sobs wracked the boy's small frame. Crossing the room, he sat down on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around the injured child, pulling him close. Gavroche clung to Henri, clutching the folds of his shirt tightly and soaking the man's shirtfront with his tears.

Henri held the boy for a long while, until the sun was setting and Gavroche had cried himself to sleep, face still streaked with salty tears.

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Soon, time began to pass swiftly for the three of them. Gavroche's wounds healed, leaving only pale scars and a limp to remember them by. When the limp made walking difficult, Henri fashioned him a sturdy staff from a stout oak branch. When he let on that he knew only the rudiments of reading and writing, Delaine gave him books and paper and helped him learn more. The days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and months became years. They young couple cared for him as they would their own child, and with them Gavroche grew strong and tall.

Six years slipped by without notice. It was when Gavroche looked into the mirror and saw a handsome man of eighteen looking back at him that he finally became aware of how much time had passed. And so he strengthened his resolve and set out from the house to do something that he had been putting off again and again, ever since he learned the fate of his friends all those years ago.

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As he walked the winding roads, the people became fewer and the buildings increasingly decrepit. Eventually, Gavroche was alone, with only the abandoned houses and the thudding of his staff on the cobbles for company. At last he turned the final corner and gazed upon his destination.

The sun and rain of six years had scoured the blood from the stones, but the barricade remained. Granted, the stone was weathered and the metal rusty, but in Gavroche's mind they still echoed with the voices of those long dead. If he squinted, he could almost see Grantaire sitting on the stone at the bottom, mug in hand and face reddened from wine. Or Enjolas, perched at the top and cheering the others on as they constructed the barricade.

One after another, the faces of those who had fought side by side floated through his mind's eye. Unable to bear the painful memories, Gavroche's legs buckled and he fell to his knees on the cobbles and wept.

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He did not know how long he knelt there, but the sun was setting in the west as Gavroche struggled to his feet. Looking at the forgotten wreckage, he saw the fiery colours of sundown had caught upon the barricade, turning the structure a brilliant shade of red. The same red as the flag that had been waved over it six years before.

"The blood of angry men…" Gavroche whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Came a voice from behind him.

Startled, Gavroche tried to whirl and face the intruder, only to trip on the rough stones and fall towards the hard road.

Strong arms caught him before he could hit the ground.

"Sorry," the person apologized, setting Gavroche back on his feet. "Didn't mean to startle you."

The teen looked up to see a tall man several years his senior yet disconcertingly familiar. "I was surprised to see someone else here, since this quarter is abandoned." The man continued in that oddly familiar voice.

Gavroche simply nodded in acknowledgement, his mind racing to identify that strange-yet-well-remembered face and voice.

"Well, sorry to have bothered you." The man bowed. "I'll just be on my way." Turning, the man began to walk away down the street.

As he turned, for the briefest of instants the light of the setting sun caught the man's face and erased six years' sorrow and weariness. That instant was all Gavroche needed. Recognition flooded through him as the man's name burst from his lips.

"…Marius?" He called in a strangled voice barely above a whisper. The man stopped short and looked back over his shoulder.

"How…?" he questioned.

Wordlessly, Gavroche reached into a pocket and withdrew a tattered red cap.

Marius stared at the cap. "Gavroche? Is that you?" He asked, voice strained with disbelief.

Gavroche nodded. "We little people are tougher than most people think."

"It is you!" Marius ran forward, grabbing the teen into a tight hug that Gavroche returned whole-heartedly.

"But how did you survive?" Marius queried earnestly as he released the younger man.

"I could ask the same of you." Gavroche returned with a happy grin. "I was told that all of the revolutionaries were killed."

"Short version, Valjean save me." Marius answered. "As for the long version, why don't I tell you over a glass of wine? Then you can tell me all about where you've been hiding for the last six years. I'd like to know how in God's name you got so tall."

Gavroche felt himself smile, a real, carefree smile that had not been seen since he had learned the fate of the revolution and all of his friends.

Or apparently, all but one.

"I'd like that." Gavroche said to his friend.

--Fin—

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