I'm not sure which versions of canon this is necessarily consistent with; I'm uploading it as a book fic to put it alongside my other Purimgifts stories.
The barricade is loud.
Among everything, in some sense Eponine finds that the strangest of all. That they aren't keeping quiet, listening to someone important go over plans or double-checking their weapons or retreating into silent prayer for their friends, their homeland, their enemies. No, it's a group of—by and large—restless young men, and they're singing and talking and getting drunk.
Behind her, she catches a particularly raucous voice expecting a full-sized cup of wine to drown his sorrows. Or, berating the ancien régime for his lowly state. Or, indeed, insulting the leaders of the uprising for being too academic and insufficiently inclined to the experimental method of barricade construction. This, Eponine thinks as she coughs on what she hopes is dust flying through the air, is a bit of an unfair exaggeration.
Indeed, the lyrics make less and less sense, so she turns skeptically only to find Gavroche in what passes for his uniform, who greets her with a playful smile. "Good morrow, citizen!"
They stare at each other, with identical expressions inquiring surely you're not hypocritical enough to ask me what I'm doing here.
"Good morrow, citizen," she finally replies, guardedly. "Is your arsenal ready?"
"It can always be readier," he retorts, "but never mind."
"What if this revolution is achieved? Then what will you need to be ready for?"
This shuts him up; he stares, almost dropping the basket he carries (although it's low enough to the ground already that this would have been little drawback), as if the possibility had never occurred to him.
"Counterrevolutionaries," he mutters half-heartedly, "people turning against me, supposing I'm too young to help out."
"Do you want to help out?"
"If the king is overthrown? I suppose," he shrugs, switching the basket from one arm to another, "the revolution shall not devour me, I'm not one of its children. I am the child of Paris..." cuing another ditty that surprises Eponine only in how vulgar it isn't.
"If?" is all she can bring herself to echo.
"So you believe in it?"
"I have a weakness," she says, "I cannot but believe, even when it is a doomed hope."
Gavroche stares at her, as if he wants to muster up the energy for pity but does not have time in his day. "That must be some trouble."
"Oh, hardly at all," she responds immediately, and begins humming back-perhaps a lullaby her parents sang to her, once, or something they crowed to each other. The conviction that things would fall into place, never mind you working for them, God's grace and your luck would suffice.
"Bravo!" Gavroche applauds, whirling his hands together and almost spilling his basket once more. "Now you are completely absurd, a proper revolutionary. Shall I get you a glass of wine? I will not even mix it with water because you are small, you deserve to get wholly drunk and make a fool of yourself for all of us if you wish."
"I..." she begins, then stops herself. These hours, the wine shop is as safe a place as any, and he won't take kindly to being sent there any other way. "If you would be so kind."
"Anything for you, citizen!" He bows low, pausing a minute to adjust his collar, then wanders off.
His face is turned from her, and she cannot tell if there is something distant in his gaze, someone he wishes he could sing lullabies to.