Hello my fellow mizzies :3 I'm brand new to this, although I've been lurking for a while. I hope you enjoy this, constructive criticism is appreciated. And yes, I realize it isn't EXACTLY like the book/musical/movie. I like giving things a bit of my own spin. Enjoy :]
~Masterandahalf
Disclaimer – I don't own any of Victor Hugo's characters or plot ideas.
The dark sky, filled with rumbling thunderheads, made Babet nervous. He continued to check the watch in his pocket, eyes flickering to the back door of the inn and back to the timepiece.
Thenardier had spoke to him the other day, saying he had a task for him that required no extra help from the gang. Babet had been a little hesitant, but money was money, whatever nasty job had to be done to get it. Adjusting his top hat, he prepared to rap his fist against the door. Often times, the leader of the Bleeding Layabout was passed out in a drunken stupor.
But before he could take his gloved knuckles to the door, it opened. There stood Thenardier, his dark eyes half-lidded in annoyance.
"It's about time, Bashette," he growled. Babet didn't bother to correct him, as he had been long aware of the fact that the Innkeeper rarely remembered names, only getting it correct when especially upset.
"What did you want?" Babet muttered, not in the mood to argue.
Thenardier ran a dirty hand over his unruly black hair. "I have something for you to do," he said. He turned around, and I caught a glimpse of the Inn kitchen. It was absolutely disgusting. Rats scuttled in the corners, filth and discarded bottles of booze covering the floor. Noise floated in from the actual inn, busy and full of drunkards as usual. Babet could just barely catch a glimpse of the Master's wife, bustling around the tables and stealthily slipping items into her bosom. Eponine, who was usually also helping, was nowhere to be seen.
"Boy!" Thenardier yelled. Down the stairs leading to the private quarters of the innkeeper's family ran a small child of about seven years. He wore a filthy jacket and no shoes, a makeshift belt keeping his tattered pants around his waist. Lank blonde hair peeked out from under a surprisingly new looking gray hat, most likely stolen. His face was set in what seemed to be a permanent scowl of defiance. Babet was not surprised. Most Thenardier children had that look about them.
"Yeah, Daddy?" he said, dark brown eyes mirroring his father's. Thenardier looked down on his son, his eyes void of any emotion.
"Time to move on," he growled. The boy's eyes looked like cold brown pebbles. Without saying a word, the child stepped over the threshold and out into the cold night. Thenardier raised his gaze to Babet, his expression stony and sobering.
"He has no place here," he mumbled. "He's better off in the streets. Find him somewhere else to go. I'm sick of his face." A flicker of sadness glimmered momentarily in his tired eyes, but Thenardier slammed the door in Babet's face before Babet could interpret it further.
Babet turned towards the street. The rain had started to fall, but the storm was still a ways away. He quickly located the child, who was shivering underneath a small stone overhang. Crossing the street, he stood next to the boy, feeling almost awkward. Babet spent a very small amount around children, believing them to be a useless nuisance. But there was something about this boy…something that sparked a small paternal flame.
"What's your name, child?" he murmured. The boy looked up at him, a scowl pulling his lip over his teeth.
"I don't know," he growled. Babet's eyebrows drew together.
"You don't know your name?" The child's eyes turned downcast.
"No." Babet felt a surge of pity for the child. He sat down next to him.
"Well…" he paused, thinking, "Why not give yourself one?" The boy glanced up at Babet, the scowl falling from his lips.
"I think," he murmured, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his lips, "I want to be called…Gavroche."
Babet smiled. The gesture felt alien and yet….right. "Well, Gavroche, let's find somewhere for you to sleep." He stood and offered the child his hand. Gavroche took it, his tiny hand cold and dirty.
Babet kept his grip gentle. The boy deserved it after so long being mistreated. Perhaps…he could get used to kids after all.