Notes: So, to start with, this is a May 1968 AU. A bit of background: in May 1968 Parisian university students were staging protests, which eventually escalated into full riots. There are a lot of similarities between May 1968 and the June Rebellion of 1832, so an AU works really well with it:) I tried to make this story as historically accurate as possible, but there are probably some (or many) mistakes in here, so bear with me (or if you could point them out for me, even better:D) I already have a lot of this story written, but whether or not I post it depends on reviews. So, if you want to see this continue, please review:) Even a few words would be great, and I'll love you forever!

BARRICADE

CHAPTER I

For Tiasha, who has basically beta-read every single chapter of this story and put up with my constant indecision over plot points—thanks :)

Éponine has always been distant. She works at Shakespeare and Company at number 37 rue de la Bûcherie (and occasionally sleeps there too) but Monsieur Whitman, who knows she isn't the best with people, usually just lets her straighten the permanently crooked towers of books. When she occasionally has to interact with customers, she does so perfunctorily, with politeness and a smile that reaches her dimples but not her eyes.

Ever since she was a child in the suburb of Montfermeil and firsthand experienced the abusive family relationships most other children only hear about, Éponine has preferred looking at the world through a camera lens. You see things differently through lenses—sharper. And the best part? You can focus on whatever you want.

December, 1967. A young man races along the rue de la Bûcherie. He has the perpetually frazzled look of the students, with his coat buttons done wrong, and a dark red collar sticking halfway up. His blond hair has gotten too long, neglected in favor of textbooks and essays, and it blows into his blue eyes. His name is Enjolras.

He enters number 37—a bookshop—with some difficulty, owing to the textbooks and papers and journals crammed into his arms. It's warm inside, in varying states of disarray, stacks of teetering books everywhere. A young woman sits in a corner beside the only neat stack of books in the whole shop, her dark hair covering her face as she scribbles in a black notebook.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," Enjolras says. "Do you…do you work here?" At Shakespeare and Co. there are often writers around who live in the bookshop in exchange for working there.

The girl looks up, startled. She jumps up, letting go of her notebook, and she stares wide-eyed at Enjolras. "Monsieur Whitman!" she calls out, eyes still glued to Enjolras. "Monsieur Whitman, a customer!"

"You take care of him, Éponine! I'm busy!" replies another voice from somewhere in the recesses of the shop, presumably Monsieur Whitman.

The girl—Éponine—swallows nervously. "Um…yes. Hello, monsieur, how may I help you?" Her voice comes out awkwardly stilted and Enjolras can tell that these are not words she normally has to say.

He gives her a kind smile, hoping to calm her down, and berates himself for startling her. "I'm looking for a book," he says, then awkwardly tries to extricate the piece of paper he'd scrawled the title of the book on from his pocket—simultaneously doing his best not to drop anything and cause a minor earthquake in the shop.

"Here—let me help you." Her voice has lost a bit of its haltingness, but she still seems shy. After Éponine takes a few of the books from Enjolras's arms, he is able to get to his pockets—but nothing is there.

"Sorry—I swear I had something…"

Éponine turns and looks at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind her. "Well. Do you remember the author?"

Enjolras closes his eyes, tries to recall. "I…yes. Yes, I do—I think it was Sartre." Éponine nods, then begins to hunt through the books. There's obviously some sort of method to the madness, as she is able to quickly procure an entire selection of Sartre's works.

Soon Enjolras has the book he needed, and he smiles at Éponine. "Thank you, mademoiselle," he says, and she smiles.

"My name is—" she starts, but Enjolras cuts her off.

"Éponine. Yes, I know."

She smiles again. "Yes, I believe Monsieur Whitman mentioned it."

"Yes." Enjolras seems at a loss for words now, clutching his books and staring at her.

"I believe that generally you are to say your name, now, monsieur," Éponine laughs.

He blinks. "Enjolras," he tells her. "Enjolras is my name."

Éponine smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes.

Notes: I know it's short, but I have more written! Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it and please review:)