Uh... Okay, I know I'm going to regret this. Badly
You see, I love writing; but whenever I try to write something about Les Misérables (especially when it's Brick!verse), I feel like it's not a great idea at all. There's something about that that scares the hell out of me: whether it be my lack of knowledge of the characters or my habitual fear of doing a mess, amplified by the fact that this mess would be about such a great novel, I just can't. Not even in my language.
Nevertheless, I decided to try, once: I came up with a series which featured awfully OOC!Éponine, a pathetic attempt to expand Les Amis' deaths and this one-shot about Gavroche. They can be found on an Italian fanfic website, but that's not important.
Since I'm too much of a chicken to actually imagine a story with the characters of Les Mis, they were just sort-of-considerations by the character. But even that way, I thought I couldn't go that far. Anyway, I'm also a masochist, so here's the translated Gavroche one: it's short, not that insightful (I feared I would distort the character) and I'm afraid it doesn't add anything to what said in the Brick. It's set after he's rescued Thénardier who had escaped from La Force: take it as a translation exercise I did
I don't know if you can use past perfect so much in English, in Italian you should because Gavroche is recalling what has happened before. If it's wrong, I apologise; and I'll do it anyway, because of this rambling
Gavroche was coming back from Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, with the steady step of somebody who had really got plenty of time. If there had been any passers-by, they certainly would have called him crazy: the rain merrily came down, and the boy was already soaked, as every item of clothing he wore, each and every one way too big for him, from the rolled trousers to the womanly shirt.
But no passers-by were to be seen, not at four o’ clock in the morning, not during a day like that. The pavements of Paris were his home, the French sky the roof over his head, that was right; but not even Gavroche would have been spontaneously around that late at night with such weather.
However, they had called him, and he had answered. Montparnasse had come, looking for him, because they needed him: a man stuck on a wall not far from la Force was to be gotten out of trouble. It’s the same, old story: grown-ups would mistreat children, but they would always end up calling them when they were in a fix. Gavroche hadn’t asked more, it was the same to him. He’d walked with the young criminal to rue du Roi-de-Sicile: there were the ruins of a house-but he wondered if he could even call them ruins: essentially, the only thing that still stood was a wall, the wall where the man in question lied. Once they had arrived, Gavroche had come across the whole Patron-Minette gang, but that hadn’t upset him at all, actually. As he had been asked, he had climbed the pipeline, tied the rope to the sash bar, and saved the man…
Thénardier, his father.
His father; he hadn’t seen him in a while, just like his mother, like Éponine, like Azelma. He hadn’t seen him in a while, but he had recognized him; he had jut out to get to observe his savior. He probably hadn’t observed him that well, though; at least, not well enough to understand who he was. In his eyes, Gavroche hadn’t been able to catch anything: not love, that was for sure, but neither disdain, nor gratitude. Just nothing: he had felt invisible.
To think that Gavroche also waited. He’d listened to them while they were discussing about some affair in Rue Plumet, a worthless heist, if Éponine was to be believed. He had kept watching them without being neither shooed nor addressed by anybody: after a good minute, he had given up.
Thénardier didn’t look back a second time: he had seen him, but he hadn’t bothered to notice him; he hadn’t understood.
“Never mind”, Gavroche thought to himself for the umpteenth time, jumping over a puddle. His father hadn’t recognized him. It wasn’t that strange after all: he would have been amazed if things had turned out in a different way. But they hadn’t: he could save the amazement for another occasion.
He stopped in the middle of the street, in the rain, letting the drops slide on him, on his clothes: he was so wet that he didn’t care anymore. After having contemplated a barred window for a few seconds, he shook himself out of that state. He reminded the Elephant of the Bastille, in which the two kids he had received the previous day were sleeping: that vision awoke the gamin's sense of responsability.
-I’d better go back to my nippers-, he considered out loud, utterly serious.
He sped up the pace, and in a handful of seconds he was gone, swallowed by the Parisian dawn.
Ici Bahorel reconnut à une fenêtre un jeune homme pâle à barbe noire qui les regardait passer, probablement un Ami de l’A B C. Il lui cria :
— Vite, des cartouches, para bellum.
— Bel homme! c’est vrai, dit Gavroche, qui maintenant comprenait le latin.