"Stop right there, you scoundrels." Javert surreptitiously slipped through the darkness of the alley and wound up right behind the men attempting to open the garden gate of a bourgeois house in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The Inspector had two more men with him, young men under his command eager to make arrests in the dank shadows of a February night in Paris. Javert motioned to the other two officers to place shackles and cuffs on the men who had been breaking into the gate before they could run.

"Honest, Inspector, we were just examining the lock. Admiring it," said the man who appeared to be the ringleader. "You know... inspecting it. I'm sure you of all people, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, can understand that!"

Javert pursed his lips and only then noticed that among the gang of men, there was a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen. She eyed him with intense suspicion and loathing, but not a trace of fear. Javert cleared his throat and said to his junior officers,

"Take the men to the station. I will deal with the girl."

"Farewell, my little girl!" the ringleader of the gang called as he was roughly led away in chains.

The girl nodded gruffly to the man and pulled her thin burlap shawl more tightly around her thin shoulders. Javert cleared his throat.

"You know him well."

She nodded. "He is my father."

"Your name?" Javert took out a little writing pad and a stubby pencil. He noticed that the girl seemed quite cold indeed, huddled there in only a thin single skirt, bodice, and shawl. She shivered and her teeth clattered together. Javert sighed and considered chivalry, carefully removing his outermost coat and offering it wordlessly to the girl. She took it gratefully, muttering her thanks. The sleeves were so long that her hands didn't come out the ends of them, and the coat reached the wet cobblestones due to her short height. Javert eyed the girl in his coat and bit his lip thoughtfully. He adjusted the collar of his woolen uniform and said again, roughly, "Your name, mademoiselle."

"Éponine Jondrette," she answered. She shifted on her feet into the dim light glowing from a window above, and Javert managed to get a look at her.

He recognized her now. A year ago, he had found her family beneath the arch of the Pont Sully, and now they lived in Saint Michel. It was rumored that their true name was Thénardier, that they had been bankrupted as innkeepers outside the city in Montfermeil, that the father had been a soldier of fortune at Waterloo. So it was said. Javert had no idea of the truth. All he knew was that this girl standing before him, this Éponine, was emaciated and waifish, and that she wore a scandalous outfit consisting of a chemise and tattered maroon skirt beneath Javert's heavy uniform coat. Her miniscule waist was cinched by an old, cracked belt, and her feet were ensconced in the destroyed remnants of what were once simple leather shoes. Her hair, dark brown and wavy, fell loose in a mess around her face - her bony, filthy face that looked as if she'd not washed it in years. When she spoke, her voice cracked and was hoarse, and she coughed dryly every now and then. She filled Javert with a tempest of competing simultaneous emotions: disgust at her appearance, anger with her father for letter her fall into such poverty, pity for her sad state, and inexplicable grief.

The latter was perhaps because Javert suspected that, in another time and place, this Éponine could be very lovely indeed. She had been aged by want, roughened by destitution, had her edges roughened by insolvency. She had been rightly ruined by her poverty, and it made Javert a bit sick to think of the family under the bridge now scrambling through a life of crime in search of enough money for food and rent. Javert noticed the Jondrette girl staring at him, seemingly wondering if he was going to say anything. He cleared his throat.

"Mademoiselle, I am compelled by my duty to report you as an accomplice to the attempted burglary I interrupted here."

Éponine's eyes went suddenly hollow and filled with a dark sadness. "I beg you, Inspector, I will do anything. Do not take me to jail."

"What were you doing here?" Javert demanded. "Why did you decide to come with your father and his gang tonight?"

"I was supposed to keep watch for the police," Éponine spat, eyeing him angrily.

Javert tipped his head. "Well, Mademoiselle, it appears as though you failed miserably at your task. I should like to propose a compromise to ameliorate my discomfort with jailing a young woman who was surely pressured into crime. Likewise, it will help you avoid the just but severe hand of the law."

Éponine shifted on her feet and pulled at her tangled hair a bit. "I'm listening," she said, her voice cracking in the cold night air.

Javert nodded curtly. "Every once in a while, put a note for me underneath the Pont au Double, on the side of the Île de la Cité. Place it between the bricks in a spot where there is missing mortar."

"What should the note say?" the waif asked, looking uncomfortable as she hugged Javert's coat more tightly around her skeletal shoulders.

"Tell me what goes on in Saint Michel," Javert shrugged casually. "Whenever the police show up, everyone scatters and I never get a true glimpse into routines. Therefore, I do not know when an activity or action is abnormal for a particular person. If I patrol there, I wish to know it well."

"I can not write, Inspector," Éponine said, shaking her head so that her snarled brunette waves quivered.

"I think that an absolute lie," Javert told her confidently. "Your family had money once, no? I think you can both read and write."

She was silent then, and kicked aimlessly at a little rock between the dank cobblestones.

"Have the first note there tomorrow afternoon so that I may retrieve it tomorrow evening. If it is not there, I will come find you in Saint Michel and arrest you. Then your punishment will be far more severe than those suffered by the more willing members of Patron-Minette."

"The note will be there, Inspector...?"

"Javert," he answered, bowing chivalrously and tipping his uniform hat. "I will leave a reply tomorrow night after reading your information. Now, off with you, and find no more trouble this night."

Éponine took off Javert's heavy coat and handed it back to him, once more clutching her ratty little shawl around her tiny shoulders. She dashed down the street as silently as a cat, her ragged skirt flapping like a sail behind her as she ran.

The following night, Javert was patrolling the Île de la Cité when he paused at the Pont au Double and walked underneath the arch. There, in the bricks about four rows up from the mud, he saw it poking ever so slightly out. It was Éponine's note. Retrieving it and stepping back up into the light of the street lamp so that he could read it, Javert unfolded the note, which was written upon thick paper seemingly torn from a sketchbook.

"Dear Inspector Javert,

Today in Saint Michel was quite boring, mostly because you and your police still have my father and his friends. They create all of the ruckus that goes on around here, except for Gavroche, who is harmless. Some bourgeois old woman was coming through today and got swarmed by everybody asking her for money. I thought she might just fall down dead. Maybe she was lost. I left her alone. Thought you'd be proud to know. There was a fistfight between Pierre Gigerot and François Haubert. I am not sure what led to the fight this time, but François won, because he knocked out one of Pierre's teeth. They are drunks who fight whenever they get the chance.

I did not get the chance to tell you as I might have liked earlier - I find you to be quite handsome indeed and very well-suited to your post. You seem to take your job quite seriously and I can not say I have ever met any police as honorable as you. I wonder, Inspector Javert, are you a married man? I am simply curious. You needn't tell me if you wish not to. I hope I have helped you and kept myself from getting arrested. I will be here at the Pont au Double at eleven tonight for my answer.

- Éponine"

Javert pursed his lips after reading the note, then crushed it in his hand so that he would not be tempted to keep it. She had spunk, this little waif, and she had an attitude that belied her position and physical stature. Javert was not sure why he found that strangely appealing, or at least interesting.

He felt around in his coat and uniform jacket and realized with a frown that he had forgotten his notepad and pencil at the police station. He took out his brass pocket watch and checked the time. It was ten forty. Even if he hurried, he would not have time to go back to the police station, write a reply, and leave it here before she came back. Deciding that he would circle the block around the bridge a few more times, Javert resolved to simply wait for Éponine and tell her in person what information he wanted next.

Twenty minutes later, he saw her come silently out of the shadows and duck beneath the arch of the bridge. Javert wordlessly followed her down there, looking around cautiously to ensure that no one was near. He called her name in the darkness and identified himself. Then he padded quietly through the mud until he reached her, huddled in the cold against the slick, wet bricks.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said in greeting, tipping his hat and bowing a little. She looked back at him with her wide, glistening eyes, and this time the loathing and suspicion were noticeably absent.


The Flames, The Sword


"Come to arrest me?"

Éponine spoke with a twinge of bitterness in her voice, as though she had been betrayed, sold out... hurt. She began backing slowly away from Javert in the pitch darkness of the area under the bridge, looking for all the world like she was ready to run.

"No. No, Mademoiselle, I am not here to arrest you," Javert assured her, holding up his hands to indicate his peaceful intentions. Once again he was struck by how violently Éponine shivered in the frigid air, and once more he pulled off his heavy woolen coat and offered it to her in the darkness. She approached him as a cat might approach water, very cautiously indeed, and slowly took the coat. She looked around frantically as though she worried that this might be some sort of trap, and then hung the warm woolen coat on her bony frame as she had the night before. Javert sighed; this creature had been so attuned to the darkness that she was like a nocturnal animal of the night. She prowled so silently through the void that Javert scarcely heard nor saw her as she moved, but she had a weakness - she was cold in her rags.

"Was I helpful?" Éponine asked with a little sniffle. "Not much happened today. I told you everything I thought was important." She shrugged, trying to look indifferent.

Javert gave her a crooked little wry smile. "Quite helpful," he told her. "I now have my suspicions confirmed that it is Patron-Minette causing most of the real trouble out of there. I also know who the street fighters are, and why the bourgeoisie are always complaining about passage through the area. Why, yes, Éponine, I should think you so helpful I could positively grin about it, though I am not wont to do so."

Éponine did grin, from ear to ear, her eyes glistening in what little light Javert had to see her.

"At least one man notices I'm alive," she murmured with a sad little laugh.

"I beg your pardon?" Javert asked, for he was not entirely certain he'd heard her correctly.

She looked up at him with abruptly sad eyes and sighed. Javert towered over her, and was so broad-shouldered as to make her look like a child.

"Neither my own father nor Marius Pontmercy notice my existence," Éponine lamented. "You... you cared enough about the fact that I am a human being to make a deal with me and not just cart me off to jail. You are a man of mercy, Inspector Javert."

"I am a man of justice," he corrected. "And, anyway, I should think you rather difficult to ignore." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet on the muddy riverbank and cleared his throat, crossing his hands over his woolen trousers. He saw Éponine eye the silver epaulet tassels on his shoulders, the laurels embroidered around his collar, and the honor pin he wore on his chest. Javert tipped his head back a tiny bit, rather proudly, and sniffed.

"Well, for what it's worth, Monsieur, you are positively impossible to ignore in that uniform." Javert was not sure if she was goading him, being sarcastic, or being serious, so he chose to let the comment go. "I suppose," Éponine continued, "that many women have pined after you over the years."

Javert stared at her confusedly and finally shook his head vehemently, crinkling his eyebrows. "No, mademoiselle, indeed not," he insisted. "No woman has ever shown even a passing fancy toward me."

"I see. Then you are unmarried?" Éponine glanced down to his left hand and noted the lack of a ring. Javert simply nodded hesitantly.

"You have a warm fire in your home, I trust?" he asked. "This cold snap is quite dangerous. I do not wish for you to be exposed to the elements."

Éponine looked rather embarrassed and hugged Javert's thick coat around her body ever more tightly. She stared down at the muddy ground and shook her head no. "We can not afford a fire," she admitted.

Javert sighed heavily. "It will only get colder as the night goes on. I can not leave you my police-issued coat, but I am quite concerned about your safety with a lack of heat."

"I will be quite all right, Monsieur," Éponine assured him. "This time last year I was living under a bridge like this one all winter."

"It was not nearly so cold as this last winter," Javert pressed. "May I offer for you to accompany me to my home and spend the night in one of my guest bedrooms? That way you will have a warm, soft bed in which to sleep, with a cozy fire to keep you comfortable, and plenty of hot food in the morning for breakfast."

Éponine eyed him suspiciously. "You saw me with house robbers last night and you want to show me where you live?" she asked disbelievingly. "You know I'm nothing but a scummy little street rat and you want to offer me warmth and food? This sounds like a trap."

Javert shut his eyes and shook his head with a sorrowful sigh. "I assure you, mademoiselle, it is nothing but a genuine offering. You are more than free to decline. I bear only the most real concern for your safety and health in your present residence."

She burrowed her face into the wide collar of his woolen trench coat and inhaled deeply, as if she were taking in his scent. Finally, she nodded reluctantly.

"My mother will scarcely notice I am gone, and she certainly won't mind it," Éponine said ruefully. "Papa is still in jail. I am rather unwanted."

Javert shook his head angrily. "No one ought to be made to feel that way."

"You were, weren't you?" Éponine could see it in his eyes, that he knew the sensation of feeling unwanted far too well.

Javert cleared his throat roughly and trekked out from underneath the bridge. "Come," he said harshly to Éponine. "My home is not far."

Javert lived in a modestly sized home outfitted with quality furnishings that were practical and reasonable. He had few ornamental items and little in the way of trinkets and novelties. Javert was one to save his money. He had a housekeeper who came every day to clean, empty his chamber pot, change linens as necessary, and so on. Javert mostly ate his meals at various inns and taverns around his home and therefore the kitchen was very rarely utilized. His house had three bedrooms, one large and two smaller, each with a fireplace, four-post bed with curtains, wardrobe, and dressing table. The house also had a parlor, dining room, kitchen, and a study. It suited Javert well, and he quite liked living there.

He lit a lantern upon entering through the heavy wooden entry door, leading the way for Éponine to follow. She looked wide-eyed around the house in the flickering golden light, as if she scarcely remembered at all what it was to be middle class. Javert gave her the briefest of tours, showing her the hunter green and mahogany study and the red and gold bedroom where she would be staying. It was a little room, but more richly appointed than any other, with lovely tapestries on the wall and a carved white marble fireplace. Javert immediately built a large, raging fire in the fireplace, so that Éponine could warm herself. He heated a large pot of water and brought that as well, handing Éponine a sponge and some Marseille soap so that she could scrub her face and body. He gave her a few linen towels and one of his shorter length dressing gowns so that she might have something warm and comfortable to wear to bed. The mattress itself was made of very soft, high density linen and stuffed with a combination of soft cotton and down. On the bed were six down pillows and a few warm quilts. It truly was a very cozy bed.

Once Javert was assured that Éponine was settled into her room, he bid her adieu and shut the door gently behind himself as he left her. He departed to his own bedroom and meticulously removed his uniform piece by piece. He placed his sabre on the mantle and unpinned his cross carefully. Treating each button as if it were very delicate, Javert removed his woolen uniform jacket and hung it in his wardrobe. He shucked his shoes and shined them, then removed his stockings and dark blue trousers. He clad himself in a quilted velvet dressing gown and scrubbed at his bearded face in his washbasin. As he rinsed his skin, he heard a gentle knocking on the door behind him.

"Inspector?" Éponine's raspy voice called through his bedroom door softly, as if she was unsure that he was awake.

"Please come in," Javert answered, patting dry his face and feeling a sudden rush of anxiety at the thought of an unmarried female entering his bedroom for any reason at all. She pushed open the door and stepped carefully into the room, Javert's sapphire-colored dressing gown hanging awkwardly off of her lean frame.

"Monsieur, I did not properly thank you earlier. I was overwhelmed by your kindness," Éponine said, trying her best utilize a proper voice and speech pattern. "So now, here I am, to tell you most earnestly, 'Thank you very kindly, Inspector.'"

The robe slipped a bit from her shoulder, revealing her milky flesh in the moonlight and nearly baring her chest to Javert. He turned his head away modestly and waited for her to fix it, but she did not. Instead, she traced her little fingertips over her slightly protruding collarbone, across her smooth skin. Javert could not help himself; he saw it out of his peripheral vision. He gulped and felt his heart quicken in his chest and could feel the pounding in his ears.

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle Jondrette," he said softly, his voice trembling.

At first she did not answer, but then, as she turned to go from the room, she said in reply, "It is Thénardier."

"I know," Javert answered gravely, flicking his eyes up to watch her leave. He had a sudden feeling that inviting a vixen like Éponine to stay alone in his home with him was possibly the worst idea he had ever had.


Do Not Forget My Name


In the morning, Javert rose with the dawn despite having slept only four hours. It was actually more than he often got, with his frequently disturbed slumber and his chaotic work schedule. Today, he had a day shift, so he needed to rise and prepare some matters for work before he left for the station at ten.

Javert put his uniform on as carefully and meticulously as he had taken it off, using a lint brush on his woolen jacket before putting it on over his white cotton shirt. Once more, as had happened the night before, there was a quiet, gentle knock upon his door.

"Yes, mademoiselle?" Javert called mildly. She creaked the door open a few inches and peeked into his room.

"M'sieur, I see you are getting ready for work. I shall leave at once." She turned from the door and started to walk quickly away, but Javert called after her,

"Come back, please."

She did, poking her head again between the door and its frame and pushing it open a few more inches. She looked at him with a question in her wide eyes. Javert pulled his dark blue, richly embroidered uniform jacket around his shoulders and pushed his arms through the sleeves. He hooked the heavy clasp at his neck and began fastening the pewter buttons over his muscled torso. Éponine watched him with intense fascination, her little hand clutching the door frame as if it were holding her upright.

"Inspector..?" Her voice croaked slightly as she whispered to him in the silent room. She was clearly wondering why he'd had her come back, why he hadn't let her go gather her things and leave his house.

Perhaps she had been wanting kind words from him, or something even more than that, but in any case she seemed sorely disappointed when he reached for his coin purse and extracted eight francs.

"Use this," he instructed her, "to buy a proper coat or a cape to keep you warm, and perhaps some gloves. You mustn't freeze to death if you are to be my informant."

Éponine frowned deeply. "Makes a girl feel something like a whore, M'sieur, to spend the night at a man's house and get paid in the morning."

Javert's cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat. "There was no impropriety whatsoever," he reminded her, "and, anyway, this is payment for providing me with information." He held out the bill and coins in his thick hand to her, and Éponine cautiously took the money, nodding her thanks. "You should get some more rest. It is still quite cold indeed outside. I have work to do before I leave in a few hours," Javert told her. He adjusted the stiff, starched white collar of his dress shirt beneath his uniform jacket, glancing into the mirror above his fireplace for guidance. Once again he caught Éponine staring intently at him.

"I suppose the sun has just barely come up," Éponine admitted. "Although, I must confess, I could hardly sleep the last few hours as I've not been in a bed so soft in many years." She anxiously tapped her spindly fingers on the door frame and sighed lightly.

Javert flashed her a miniscule, embarrassed smile, no more than a tiny upward twitch of his lips. "Were you at least warm?" he asked. He sat in his wingback chair and slid on his boots today instead of just his shoes, anticipating mud in the damp, foggy day. He would also be riding, so he put on his spurs. He flicked his eyes up to Éponine, waiting for a response to her question. She looked a bit distracted, her eyes locked on his log-like legs. Javert cleared his throat, and she seemed to jolt out of a trance.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, her voice sounding slightly panicked.

Amused by her apparent girlish infatuation, Javert repeated, "Did you keep warm last night?"

Éponine smiled gently, leaning into the room on the door jamb so that Javert could see his sapphire velvet robe cinched around her microscopic waist. She nodded mildly, a look of genuine happiness in her gleaming eyes.

"Warmer than I've been in many months," she confessed. "I had cozy clothing, a significant fire, and heavy blankets atop me. Also, I feel quite clean!" She coursed her fingertips over her gaunt face, which was no longer streaked with the filth of the streets. Her skin, pale and dull in its poor condition, was at least not dirty anymore. Javert noticed, too, a faint scent of lavender coming from the doorway, and he thought it was Éponine herself emitting the pleasant aroma.

Javert could not help himself smiling at her then, standing from the chair and tugging at various places of his uniform to adjust himself and ensure that he looked proper. He grabbed his sabre from the mantle and placed it at his hip.

Now he had a bit of a conundrum. Éponine was blocking his path out of the doorway. He couldn't very well demand that she move, and she seemed as though she had no intention of moving.

Javert sighed deeply when he stood just a pace away from her, noting again with some internal conflict the lavender scent. He'd not been attracted to a woman in many years, since, he reckoned, the days of his foolish and ignorant youth. Now, this little waif had arrived and made him positively giddy - by his standards - with her pluck and gumption, the natural beauty that had been stolen from her, her wordless little smiles and her new soft scent of lavender.

Damn her.

Javert cleared his throat and stared at his feet. "Mademoiselle," he murmured, hoping that would be enough to prompt her out of his way. It was not.

"There's a toll," Éponine informed him with laughter in her voice.

"Hardly a way to properly thank a host... trapping him in his own room and demanding monetary payment to allow him exit," Javert said ruefully.

"Who said the payment was monetary, Inspector Javert?" she asked in a husky, seductive voice, drawing herself near him to close the pace's gap between them. "The toll I demand is one good kiss." Her voice was a whisper now, her face just inches away from his.

Javert gulped, hard. "Éponine," he murmured, warning in his low voice as he turned his face away from hers, "I will not kiss you. Please step away from the door."

She did, though she looked hurt and somewhat crestfallen. "As I said, I am but an unwanted soul," she declared sadly, backing through the doorway and meandering slowly down the corridor into the guest room. Javert said nothing in response. He only stood where he was, leaned heavily on the door jamb, and breathed heavily through his nose. He shut his eyes tightly and tipped his head against the painted wood, scolding himself for letting her get so close to him. He should have... he wasn't quite sure... pushed her away? How to physically restrain a woman from making unwanted advances on a man? But then, it would be easier to solve that problem if he could more easily discern that the advances were truly unwanted.

Javert completed some paperwork in his study for several hours while Éponine slept, then he left the house to get food. On the way to the little restaurant where he could get food to carry away with him, he passed an unassuming dress shop that vended ready-to-wear items including simple calico dresses that did not appear to cost much at all but would undoubtedly be greatly appreciated by Éponine. But, then, he thought, that would seem horribly suspicious, for her to come back from a night at a man's house with new clothing and eight francs.

So, he passed the dress shop regretfully and paid for food at the tiny tavern. He got for them fresh bread and salted bacon, as well as a some warm roast potatoes packed in paper. He carried it all back in a brown paper sack, ignoring the tavern-keep's curious look when he ordered enough food for two. Javert was a regular customer here, but always came alone and ordered for one. He arrived back at the house around eight-thirty, and walked as confidently as he could manage into his dining room, planting the food at two place settings on opposite ends of the table. He made a plate for Éponine, giving her a particularly generous helping of crusty fresh bread and bacon, along with a few heaping spoonfuls of potatoes.

Apparently, she smelled the food, because a few moments later, she came walking out into the dining room looking as shy as a mouse. She wore her tattered chemise and skirt, with the wide belt around her tiny waist, and had her moth-eaten gray shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her feet were once again sheathed by the destroyed leather shoes she had had on the night before. She padded silently into the dining room and sniffed like a small animal at the food on the table. She smiled happily up at Javert and breathed,

"Is this for me?" she gestured down to the plate of food before her and marveled, her eyes gleaming with tears. Javert nodded wordlessly at her and folded his hands on the table, leaning his chin on his fists.

Éponine ate with a distinct lack of grace and poise, digging into her food as though she were an animal and was on the verge of death by starvation. Javert attempted not to judge her undignified behavior, though of course it was in his nature to judge harshly. He said nothing until she had eaten every scrap of food and wiped her greasy mouth with the back of her hand, sighing contentedly with blissfully closed eyes.

"Have you had enough, mademoiselle?" he asked her cautiously, prepared to offer her his own food out of courtesy.

She nodded enthusiastically. "Such fine words to say, Inspector Javert... I am quite full indeed."

Javert curled his lips upward a bit at that and rose to take Éponine's pewter plate from the table. As he placed it in the kitchen to be washed, he called to her,

"I wish for you to know that if you should ever be wanting for a hot bath or a hot meal, you need only ask in one of the notes you leave me under the Pont au Double, mademoiselle."

"Éponine," she said quietly.

"Pardon me?" Javert asked, striding his intimidating height back into the dining room.

"Please, call me Éponine," she requested. Javert nodded mutely. He wasn't sure what he wanted to call her. Angel? Siren? God's own work of art? In any case, he knew that she had a stranglehold on him that no human had ever had, and she had only known him for a few days. His body reacted dramatically to her presence. His mind was a tempest when he tried to compose himself around her. He wasn't quite certain if he ought to treat her with pity, mercy, or reverence - perhaps all three. Maybe he ought to just take her back to Saint Michel and leave her be... never speak to her again. His chest physically hurt when he thought of that, and he had precisely no idea why. The confusion made him uncomfortable, and he shifted nervously in his seat.

"I must be on my way to work," Javert said after a brief and awkward silence.

"Then I shall take that as my cue to leave," Éponine said, pressing her lips together and averting her eyes. "Thank you, Inspector, for your kindness and generosity."

They reached the front door of the house at the same time. Javert put on his bicorn hat, dark blue felt trimmed with matching ribbon. He planted it squarely atop his head, where his graying hair was chopped short. He thought absently about how gray that hair was getting, how old he was becoming. If he did not act on corporal desires soon, he may never, ever get the chance. He cleared his throat and suddenly asked of Éponine,

"How old are you, precisely?"

She raised her eyebrows at him and scoffed, grinning. "Don't you know, Monsieur, that men are not to inquire a lady's age?"

"I am asking for many reasons, the very least of which is morbid curiosity," Javert assured her, pursing his lips in frustration. Why the blazes did she have to be so cryptic all the time, always beating around the proverbial bush and avoiding direct answers to questions?

"I am seventeen years of age," Éponine told him, then smiled as slyly as a fox and asked him, "And you, Inspector? How old are you?"

Oh, no. If there was one thing Javert would not reveal to Éponine so soon after meeting him, it was the Achilles' Heel that was his age. He was fifty-one years old, though of course he was not about to reveal that to this little waif before him. So he just shook his head and said, "Perhaps someday I will tell you."

She looked irritated and cracked her knuckles before she opened the doorknob, exposing the foyer to the biting cold air.

"Have a fine day at work, Inspector. Thank you again," she said blandly, and she began to walk out the door.

Javert rather panicked in that moment. If he let her go, she would be gone and he would have no idea when next he would see her in person. But what would he say to stop her? It felt like she was dry sand slipping through his fingers, a half of something that might have been outstanding and instead had dissolved into ruin. So, he acted quickly and impulsively. The words came out of his mouth before he decided to say them. He called after her,

"Éponine, wait!"

He felt nothing but elation when he saw her turn around over her shoulder and stare curiously at him as she padded back into the foyer. Javert earnestly shut the door behind her and took a step toward her so that she backed up against the door and he stood quite close in front of her.

"Inspector..." her voice was hesitant and unsure.

"Éponine," Javert said with a trembling voice, nervous with all his soul for what he was about to do, "You forgot to collect your toll."

He was relieved when she grinned widely, her lips parting into a wide, beaming smile. She laughed a little and nodded.

"May I kiss you, please?" Javert asked, his voice less shaky now but still wracked with nerves. His heart fluttered in his chest and his stomach felt a bit queasy. He'd not kissed a woman in about thirty years, and he'd nearly forgotten how.

Or so he thought.

When Éponine nodded her consent, Javert impulsively reached for her cheeks and pulled her into a gentle kiss. He touched his lips very softly against hers at first, a mild brush of skin against skin as light as a feather. Then, immediately craving more, he deepened the kiss by opening his mouth a tiny bit and peeking his tongue out to sweep across her closed mouth. When she squealed quietly, Javert's knees nearly buckled. He had to stop before this situation exploded out of control. He heard every manly urge in his body screaming at him to touch her here, kiss her there, moan this way, say her name. He fought to banish the thoughts and hastily opened the door.

"Adieu, mademoiselle," he said in a panting, low voice. He gestured for her to step outside, which she did, padding dreamily along the sidewalk as she hummed a little tune.

"I shall have the next letter of information for you under the Pont au Double by tomorrow morning," she promised. "I hope to see you again soon."

Javert tipped his hat to her and murmured to himself as she sauntered happily off into the cold,

"You will, Éponine. You will."


You Know What That Means


Javert rode through the streets on horseback, for it was much quicker than walking and he could cover far more ground that way. The horse he rode was a tall bay gelding called Rivage. Javert had named him soon after arriving from Montreuil-sur-Mer, having a sore pining for the seashore. He had been riding Rivage around the streets of Paris for eight years.

Tonight, both he and Rivage were terribly distracted. The horse was spooking at little noises, like laughter from inside a house. He reared when a cat crossed his path in a dark alley, and Javert struggled to stay in his saddle, for he, too, was somewhere else.

It had been ten days since he had seen Éponine in person. She had dutifully left him letters under the Pont au Double nearly every day, and he had always responded in kind. Each letter was filled with helpful information: Auguste Marbelle and Yves Destrantes were plotting to kill Auguste's wife so that he could run off with his mistress. The wife had uncovered the plot and was seeking a divorce. Nanette du Bois was leaving for Canada soon and would be taking all ten of her children with her. Her husband was already in Montréal waiting for them. Eloise Champillion had begun prostituting herself around the streets of Saint Michel to pay for her expensive opium habit. It seemed as though Éponine knew everything going on in Saint Michel, and it certainly helped Javert stay one step ahead of the crime and ruckus there. Of course, he had to let a few things slip through the cracks, lest people catch on that he had an informant among them. Some of it was little more than idle gossip; most of it helped Javert craft a profile of the neighborhood that he might spot oddities and abnormalities more easily.

The night of his patrol on horseback, early in his shift, Javert had gone beneath the Pont au Double. There he had found Éponine's note in the crevice where she always left it, her now-familiar scrawl filling the entirety of the page, front and back. Scrunching his brow as he pulled the letter into better gas light, Javert wondered to himself what on Earth could be going on in the slums that she would need to write him such a lengthy letter.

"My dearest Inspector,

I write to you tonight not with information. I apologize for that. Truly, nothing exciting happened today, and rather than present you with nothing at all, I thought I might try to put into words what I do not have the courage to say to your face - your handsome, strong, determined face.

Upon opening each letter I have received from you thanking me for information

and giving me further instructions, I have felt a fluttering in my belly and a pounding in my chest. I do not know exactly why, for I know so little about you. I wish to know more. I wish to know who you are and why it is that I find you so interesting. Will you tell me? Will you show me?

I will bare my heart and soul to you if you will only be my friend, Inspector. I have only one friend, you see, and truly that is unrequited friendship. Perhaps you do not wish for me to reveal myself in such a way. Fear not! I will stay silent. I will do whatever pleases you to gain audience with you. All I ask is to see you once more and experience again the heavenly sensations I felt when you paid me my toll.

You instructed me to ask you permission in a letter if ever I wanted to come again to your home for food or shelter. I ask not for those necessities but for companionship. Please come to the my house in Saint Michel at your earliest convenience and rescue me from the stagnation I endure in this frigid hell. I will be grateful forever.

Your friend,

Éponine"

Usually, Javert destroyed Éponine's letters by tossing them into a fire somewhere after he'd taken notes in his little book. This was so that the letters could not be traced back to Éponine. This one, though, he could not bring himself to burn. He wanted to read it over and again until the paper disintegrated in his hands, for he had never received a letter of any kind containing words of such kindness and promise.

Javert stared ahead of him as he crossed the Pont Neuf later that night, having ruminated on her letter for many hours. He hardly noticed when Rivage stopped walking because Javert was no longer urging him forward. Shaking his head in frustration, Javert snapped to life and put pressure on Rivage's rear abdomen with his heels. He used his hips to prompt the horse to walk.

Éponine... Her name echoed and ricocheted around Javert's head like an annoying insect. Never had he been distracted from his work like this. He was a focused man. He was driven. He was not to be made giddy by a little girl, and that was truly what she was - a skinny little bug of a thing. Hardly anything to her at all, but she had more clout than any figure in Javert's life. Only Jean Valjean had mentally consumed him thus, but that had felt different. That had been an angry frustration. This sort of frustration was driven by many desires - a desire to know more about the girl, a desire to see and speak with her, a desire to touch and be touched.

It made Javert feel quite small and weak to think that he was subject to such corporal distractions and liabilities, but there was truly no helping it. So, when he glanced at his pocket-watch and realized his shift had been over for twenty minutes, he decided to go to Saint Michel. Whether he was off to fetch her, see her, or simply be near her, Javert was not entirely certain, but Éponine was like a force of nature drawing him near.

He rode down the streets in the slums with caution, for it was not unheard of for a policeman to be attacked at night in these parts. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sabre, at the ready, and scanned with his eyes. The ones he called the 'night crawlers' were the only ones about. Prostitutes, pimps, their customers, and drunkards. There were also those who had nowhere else to go huddled against walls, curled into fetal positions and somehow miraculously asleep through the chaos. The unsavory characters scattered like cockroaches when Javert approached on his horse.

This was no place for Éponine to be living, he thought ruefully. He found the house where she lived, located in an abandoned, dark corner, and carefully thought about how he was to get her attention. He could go inside and demand to see her, saying she was needed for police questioning. That would be terribly unconvincing. Just as he was attempting to solve his conundrum, a young man came ambling out of the bottom floor of the house to see why the police had arrived. The boy wore much finer clothes than were to be expected in this neighborhood. Javert thought he was probably the student that Éponine had mentioned once and then described in a letter, a jaded bourgeois student called Marius.

"Good evening, Monsieur." Javert tipped his hat to the young man from atop his saddle. The young man looked rather terrified but nodded back in return.

"May I help you?" he asked cautiously.

Javert considered his next move, and then decided to be rather bold.

"Do you know a girl called Éponine who lives in this house?" Javert asked the young man, feeling his mouth go dry.

The boy looked as if he was thinking of saying no, that he had never heard of such a girl, and regarded Javert with intense suspicion. Then, at last, he sighed deeply.

"Is she in trouble?" he asked Javert.

"No, Monsieur. I need to speak with her. She is in no trouble whatsoever." Javert tried to control Rivage as he stomped anxiously around the entrance of the house.

"Your name, please?" the boy pressed, looking rather haughty.

"Inspector Javert," answered the policeman, tipping his hat again and backing his horse up.

The boy nodded and disappeared again into the house. Javert could hear his running footsteps ascending the creaky wooden stairs inside the house. Inside an upper window, a spindly little candle tried to glow through the dirty glass. Javert heard the boy enter that room, where the candle was, and he strained to hear the voices above the street.

"... police officer downstairs... Javert..." He managed to make out every few words that the boy said.

"Thank you, Marius." He recognized Éponine's voice as clear as day though he hadn't heard it in over a week. The little filthy window where the candle glowed creaked open, and then he saw the glint of her wide eyes in the glow of the moonlight.

She said nothing, but she grinned widely when she looked down the street and saw Javert gazing back up at her, a tiny smile on his normally stoic face betraying the happiness he felt at seeing her. His heart soared like a falcon, seeing her happiness, seeing the gleam in her eyes.

She shut the window as quietly as she'd opened it, and then he heard padding footsteps coming down the stairs. Then Éponine came rushing silently out the front door of the house and trotted up to Rivage. Javert was elated to note that Éponine wore a heavy woolen cape. It was a dusky gray color and nearly touched the cobblestones. It fell in a lovely shape around her, with a wide hood upon her head.

"You came!" Éponine gushed, standing beside the horse and clapping her hands merrily. Javert dismounted Rivage, feeling rather puffed-up inside and more wanted than he'd felt in all his life.

"Of course I did," Javert said casually, shrugging. He felt anything but calm inside, but he kept himself composed externally. "I should like to keep you company, as you asked. I realize it is quite late, mademoiselle, and undoubtedly it is grossly improper of me to call upon you at this hour. However, I have only just finished my work shift. If you should care to accompany me home, you are more than welcome. If you desire to remain here, of course I am entirely understanding."

His voice trembled by the time he was done, and he gulped heavily against the feeling of dread, the fear of rejection, that he experienced. He was positively gleeful, then, when her reaction to his words was to lean up against his cold, hard form and plant a kiss square on his lips. She pulled back, looking surprised at herself, and giggled nervously.

"I'd like to come with you," she whispered. Javert grinned on the inside, as brightly as the summer sun, but managed to compose himself enough to simply say,

"Very well. Let us away."

Éponine smiled slyly to herself, as if she knew that he was suppressing his reaction and emotions, trying to appear strong and stoic, trying to be the man he'd defined himself to be.

Javert wordlessly held his hands out for Éponine to put her foot in so he could boost her up onto Rivage. She swung her leg up to his spine and sat aside him, sidesaddle-style. She planted herself atop the little pad of leather behind Javert's saddle that all policemen had in case they ever needed to escort someone on horseback to a station. Javert looked up at her before he mounted the horse and thought she looked quite lovely indeed there, with her gray cape draping down around her as beautifully as if it were crafted of silk and not wool.

He pulled himself up, noting with a twinge of disdain the discomfort he was beginning to experience at his age when he swung his right leg to the other side of the saddle. It was particularly difficult since Éponine had mounted first and he was trying not to kick her in the gut.

Javert took the reins and looked around to see who was watching. The Inspector leaving Saint Michel with a young woman on his horse would be gossip fodder the likes of which had not been seen in many years. Nobody seemed to see them, other than Marius, who was watching from the window next to the one from which Éponine had looked down to Javert.

"Hold onto me as we ride," Javert said softly over his shoulder. When he turned his head, Éponine's face was perhaps an inch away from his, her little chin perched upon his shoulder. He felt an abrupt and powerful urge to kiss her fiercely, and he did not move his face away for a long moment. Her breath was warm on his lips. Her bright, wide eyes shone at him through the darkness. As Javert continued staring at her over his shoulder, Éponine snaked her hands around his waist and clasped them in front of him. She squeezed gently, as if she were embracing him rather than using him for support.

He settled on a chaste kiss upon her forehead in lieu of passion in public. He was almost certain that Marius was watching and, after all, Javert was still in uniform. That was of utmost importance to recall at all times. He faced the correct direction again and urged Rivage forward.

Éponine pulled her hood forward on her head and buried her face in Javert's shoulder in order to more clandestinely ride out of Saint Michel. When they crossed the Pont au Double, the place at which all their written exchanges had taken place, Éponine whispered into Javert's ear,

"Will there be more, Inspector?"

For the briefest moment, he wondered whether she meant more letters or more physical contact, more than the restrained chastity they'd practiced in front of her house. Then he realized that it truly did not matter which one she meant. The answer would be the same.

"Yes, Éponine. There will be much, much more."


Javert returned Rivage to the police stable about a block from his home, unloading Éponine first in an adjacent alley so that she would not be seen. Then they walked back to Javert's house, where he placed his weighty skeleton key in the lock and pushed the heavy door open. It was mildly warm in the house, for the maid of had warmed it with fires when she had been there earlier.

They moved wordlessly as Javert built the fires back up, with Éponine taking a seat in the armchair behind him. Finally, she spoke.

"I am very glad indeed that you came to fetch me, Inspector."

"Please," he murmured as he poked at a crumbling log, "simply call me Javert."

"What is your first name?" Éponine asked curiously.

How was she to know? Should he tell her the truth? He was not a liar, but he did not feel entirely ready to disclose all of his personal information to Éponine yet. He cleared his throat.

"I... was born in a prison, you see," he said softly, still crouching and gazing into the flames, "to a Gypsy woman. She named me 'Javert,' and it is actually my father's surname that I do not know. As is the case with many people throughout history, from Plato to the Pope, I am known by a mononym. I am simply 'Javert.'"

"I see," Éponine said, when he was finished. Javert was happy that she did not seem to judge him beyond those two words, and then she said quietly, "My name is always changing depending on our alibi. My father forces me to write letters begging for money, using false names. The pseudonyms I create are often quite ridiculous. And, then, I am at times 'Éponine Jondrette' to the public, but really I am Éponine Thénardier."

Javert mutely joined her, sitting in the armchair beside her, and together they silently stared into the crackling flames. He felt sorry for her, truly - for her abhorrent relationship with her parents, for her fall from grace and her descent into poverty, for the desperation it was clear she felt.

"Names are curious things, aren't they?" Éponine mused with a sorrowful little smile, her eyes quite sad. "They are the first thing with which we are identified, and yet they say less about who we are as people than anything else. I may be called a Thénardier, but I should like to think that I am better than that."

"You are indeed," Javert murmured reassuringly. He flicked his eyes over to her and noticed that she still wore the gray wool cape. "I quite like your new purchase," he noted, changing the subject of conversation. He gestured to the cape so it was clear what he was referencing. Éponine glanced down at the cape and smiled gently.

"It only cost me five francs," she bragged, "and I used the other three to buy some new shoes!" She nodded down to her feet, and only then did Javert notice that she wore sturdy short boots. They were black and plain, very simple, but they were far better than the scraps she had been wearing before. Javert smiled and nodded at her, glad that he could make her so happy with so little money.

Javert was immediately saddened, however, when he thought of all the good he could do for her. He could take care of her, truly take care of her, and make her comfortable. He made more than enough money to support another person. He spoke before he completely thought through the implications of his words.

"I have a room for you here," Javert said abruptly, "and a bath and plenty of food, and I would buy you fine clothing."

Éponine's eyes went as round as saucers and her mouth dropped open. Her face was horrified. Javert quickly realized that it rather sounded as though he had just proposed marriage to her.

"If you felt as though I were treating you as a charity case, you could replace my maid," Javert said hastily, and Éponine looked more disgusted than ever.

"Good God!" she gasped, rising quickly from the chair and looking intimidating despite her diminutive height. She planted her hands on her hips and spat, "I am no whore, Monsieur! Eight francs here for letters. Room and board there for kisses and company. I am not the filthy street slut you clearly believe me to be."

She turned to storm from the room, leaving Javert in stunned silence, but then whirled back around and continued fuming, "Do you know, Monsieur, that you are quite cruel indeed? For ten days I dreamed of you like the star struck child I suppose I am. Then you came for me and it was just as the fairy tales said - a prince on horseback. Mine came in the night and he came in a uniform, but I did not care, for I wanted you so, Monsieur. I did not realize I had a heart until you crushed it into shards as if it were glass."

She turned to leave again, and Javert felt a most unfamiliar sensation abruptly well up inside of him. It was shame, he thought. He was ashamed that he had made her to feel so cheap. He was also frustrated that he had not articulated himself clearly.

He moved quickly, crossing the room in two long strides until he reached her. He pushed the door closed with his hand so that she could not leave. Éponine glared at him with rage in her eyes.

"Let me pass," she hissed.

"I want only to help you," Javert insisted. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. He prayed she would not slap him, for that was what she looked like she would do at that moment. Instead, he saw tears well up in her wide chestnut eyes.

"I do not need help," she said, and although Javert knew that Éponine had intended to sound angry and resolute, her words came out as a cracked sob. Javert said nothing, for he had nothing to say to a creature so wretched. He simply chewed on his bottom lip and stared at her with as much warmth in his eyes as he could muster. When she met his gaze, the tears that had pooled in Éponine's bright brown eyes tumbled over her lids and cascaded down her cheeks in streams, betraying her tenacity and dissolving the mask that she wore. She swiped angrily at her tears with the backs of her hands, trying to wipe them away faster than they fell. She failed at that task, and her dogged determination to never let the world see her cry was demolished as Javert gazed upon her.

"You've been helping me for nearly two weeks," Javert reminded Éponine, his voice little more than a whisper. He wanted to embrace her, badly, but he felt that was unacceptably forward, so he reached timidly out with a trembling hand and swept her hair back from her face. "You have been a greater help than you know, mademoiselle. If you will, please, allow me to reciprocate in the way I know how, which is to attempt to ameliorate the poverty you suffer as a result of your father's foolishness."

"You... want me to live here, with you?" Éponine asked disbelievingly. "As your maid?"

"Please attempt to erase my rude suggestion regarding that from your memory. You would be my guest, Éponine. The red and gold room is yours as long as you would like it. Your meals and clothing would be covered, and you would never be forced to endure your father's life of crime or your mother's cruelty again."

Éponine had mentioned in one of her letters that she had quite a vicious mother, who viewed her offspring as an annoyance and a burden, and found more joy in pickpocketing and deception than in honest work. How could he send her back to that world, to the squalor and filth, the grating sickness and hunger? How could he kiss her in his warm and plush home and then shoo her back to such wretchedness? It was akin to banishing an angel to Hell.

Éponine stared at Javert with a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she were imagining the life he had suggested - one where she wore decent clothing and had enough to eat each day and slept in a comfortable bed. Javert swept a star tear from Éponine's cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"I would not be able to provide you information," Éponine warned him.

"I should think very much that I would prefer this arrangement," insisted Javert. "I'd much rather you be safe and happy than be a tool of the police force."

"I can never go back there," Éponine realized with a twinge of sadness in her voice. "I could never see Marius again."

At the mention of Marius Pontmercy, Javert sighed and pinched his lips together. Here he was, offering his home and finances to Éponine, and she could speak only of the damned student in the slums. If he was honest with himself, this waif frustrated him beyond belief.

"What do you care to do, Éponine?" Javert asked, pressing her for a definitive answer. He held out the door for her. "If you would like to go back to Gorbeau House and see Marius, please feel at your liberty to do so."

"No," Éponine whispered, almost inaudibly. She stared into the flames in the fireplace for a moment and then turned her face back to Javert. "I should like to stay here, with you."

Javert, his heart pounding as he realized what he had just done, readied a bed robe for Éponine and poured some wash water into her white porcelain basin. He fetched her a few towels and shoveled some glowing embers into a brass bed warmer for her. Éponine said precisely nothing at all as he completed his tasks, choosing instead to stand back and out of the way.

He had invited her to share his home. He had thought it the most foolish thing he'd done to have Éponine spend one night in his house. Now, he thought that surely this was exponentially more foolish. A woman, permanently in the house of the callous and solitary Inspector Javert? What good could possibly come of it? Javert was not a terribly religious man, not anymore, and he was somewhat unconcerned with the notion of sin surrounding the cohabitation. Nonetheless, his scruples and society insisted to him that he was, while not breaking any law, acting in an unacceptable manner.

Ultimately, the only framework within which Javert operated was the law. That was why he'd been pulled away from the Church - at times Canon and Civil Law clashed. Javert chose the Law of the Land, and he followed it with absolute rigidity, completely inflexible in his condemnation of those who chose to break it. He reassured himself more than once as he readied Éponine's bed that he was breaking no law in putting her up and exhibiting a spirit of charity.

And, yet, something else nagged at Javert. Was there something more at play beyond his want - need - to provide for Éponine? Perhaps, he admitted to himself, even the stone statue that was Inspector Javert was not immune to human emotion, including desire and attraction.

As Javert considered these many issues and questions, he prepared himself for sleep, changing from his work uniform into his nightshirt and quilted robe. He pulled clean woolen stockings onto his feet and sat on the edge of his bed, wondering if it wouldn't be a half-decent idea to pray before sleeping. Just as he was about to descend to his knees, Éponine padded into his open doorway in her robe and leaned onto the doorframe. Javert heard her clear her throat and turned over his shoulder to smile gently at her.

"Goodnight, dear Inspector," Éponine said teasingly. Javert rose, walking as quietly as he could to meet her in the doorway. He wondered as a floorboard creaked beneath his heavy step how on Earth Éponine managed to traverse the house so silently. Years of practice in the dark alleys, he thought sadly.

But this was no time for sadness. He would not be alone any more, and though he was not certain whether he ought to mourn or celebrate that fact, he knew the winds of change were gusting in his life. He ought to accept them standing.

Javert put his hands on Éponine's shoulders and pulled her boldly off of the doorframe into his chest. She leaned her ear against Javert's sternum and made a little noise with her mouth mimicking the sound of his heartbeat - a sound which, to Javert, sounded quite quick indeed.

He encircled his arms around her lean, body back, hoping that soon she would be a bit more substantive after eating properly. Éponine reached up with her spindly fingers to the ties at Javert's neck, which hung loose, and snaked her fingers beneath the white cotton. At the sensation of her fingertips tracing his collarbone, Javert breathed in deeply and held the air in his lungs, for he did not believe himself able to breathe normally at all.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, as he had done earlier in the night when he had taken her away on the back of Rivage. Éponine was clearly not satisfied with such modesty and reached her mouth up to meet his. He caught her lips against his, kissing her quite deeply indeed. Immediately, he plunged into her mouth, exploring the orifice earnestly. He nibbled upon her bottom lip and swept his tongue over her lips. He could not help himself from emitting a small noise, something between a wordless utterance and a murmuring of her name. He wanted so much more than he was taking, and it was taking every last ounce of will power to keep himself from parting her robe and hoisting her up against the wall and claiming her for his own.

Éponine kissed him back enthusiastically, pulling his tongue into her mouth with her own. She made high-pitched sorts of grunts every few moments as he did such things as trace circles on the roof of her mouth with his tongue. For a brief moment, her hands drifted around rather aimlessly, until Javert seized them and laced his fingers through hers. He squeezed her hands more tightly when she stood on her tiptoes and moved her mouth to the sensitive skin of his neck, coursing her lips over his Adam's Apple and driving her tongue ferociously around the skin under his ear. At that, Javert moaned aloud, his voice hollow with desire and thoroughly uncontrolled.

"Éponine," he groaned, sounding as desperate as he felt, "Please go to bed before I lose all semblance of control and this arrangement becomes entirely improper."

"Don't you think," Éponine paused briefly in kissing Javert's neck, "it already is?"

He did suppose it was so, that it was altogether improper that Éponine should live in his home and be subject to his charity, and that meanwhile he pined for her flesh. There were legal solutions to such problems, of course - none of which Javert was even remotely ready or willing to consider. He may not be a religious man, but he was not entirely without honor, and he would never claim a young woman's maidenhood when said woman was not his wife.

"Éponine, stop," Javert said, his voice gentle but firm. He wrenched her from his throat and held her by the shoulders, noting her flushed cheeks and panting breath. She wanted him, as well. That was obvious to behold.

No matter how mutual the attraction, Javert would not dishonor himself and Éponine by descending to the most base of his instincts. Éponine looked at him with a question in her eyes.

"Not now," he whispered. "Not yet."

Éponine nodded in what, surprisingly, appeared to be appreciation and understanding. Then she brushed her lips gently under Javert's eye and murmured into his ear,

"Goodnight, my prince."

With Order and Light

Javert had more difficulty sleeping that night than he had had in quite some time. He was known to be something of an insomniac, frequently troubled by thoughts of vagabonds and criminals who had escaped the clutches of the law, but tonight was different. His mind was racing, and he could not slow it down. It was as if his consciousness were a wolf dashing after some unseen prey, its hunger insatiable.

He had mental images of dressing Éponine up in fine clothes, of watching her eat cakes and of her reading a book before a fire. Ultimately, though, none of that seemed very much like Éponine. Wouldn't she, at least in part, always be the streetwise ragamuffin darting off to her next adventure? How could he restrain her from herself? He couldn't, quite simply, and he ought not to even try. All he could do was to offer her whatever material things she wanted and leave her completely free to decline.

After Javert wrestled with the conundrum of Éponine's financial care, he struggled with the scruples of his physical relationship with her. Javert could not help feeling, deep in his gut, that he was taking advantage of the young girl – and she was indeed so very young. He felt so profoundly old around her… positively ancient. That feeling only reminded him that he was running out of time to enjoy a woman's company properly. He'd not given his body much pleasure at all in his life, and the time to do so was slipping through his fingers like so much sand.

And here she was, an agreeable woman who wanted him, truly wanted him, and exhibited that want with mischievous enthusiasm. Here was Éponine, a bit of a siren, who seemed to want his kisses and his touch far more than his money. Why on Earth she would want him, the gruff and old man he was, Javert had no idea. He could see nothing appealing when he looked in the mirror, but who was he to question a young girl's whimsical attractions?

After hours of not sleeping, Javert rose creakily, tied his warm robe about himself, and processed out of his room down the hallway to his study. He thought he might get a bit of work done – affidavits and witness reports needed to be signed warrants needed to be issued, and Javert found no greater soporific comfort than the completion of his work.

He was quite surprised indeed to find the door of his study open and the room emitting the warmth and glow of the fireplace. Glancing cautiously inside, Javert spotted her sitting in one of the wingback chairs. She must have had perfect hearing, for she glanced up as soon as he stepped into the doorway.

"Hello," she murmured, her smile a bit too animated for three in the morning. Her eyes glimmered in the light of the fire. Javert thought she looked rather innocent there, just like that, in a robe by the fire. He knew better, though. This creature was anything but innocent.

"Mademoiselle." Javert bowed slightly and decided to regard her formally in an attempt to keep the situation from spiraling as it had but a few hours before. Unconsciously, his hands checked to ensure that his robe was tied sufficiently tightly about his waist.

"I could not sleep," Éponine told Javert with a shrug.

Javert licked his lips nervously and struggled to swallow. "I confess I could not, either," he admitted. He tensed his body where he stood and shifted a bit on his feet. "I was considering doing a bit of paperwork."

Éponine nodded. "I shall return to my chamber, then, Monsieur, and leave you to it."

"No." Javert held up his hand to stop her rising from her wingback. "Please. Stay." He walked over to his desk and began shuffling papers about, lighting a tallow candle so that he could see his work. "I should like the company," he said quietly, his voice little more than an embarrassed mumble.

He scratched his eyebrow and licked his bottom lip again, sitting rather shakily in his desk chair. Éponine watched him from where she sat as he dipped a quill into ink and began signing one paper after another by the light of the candle.

"What troubled your sleep, Inspector?" she asked softly.

Javert did not answer for a moment, pursing his lips as he considered what to say.

"Nothing in particular," he lied finally, feeling his cheeks grow hot. How could he possibly reveal to her that his mind had been tormented by thoughts of her and her alone for hours? He cleared his throat and dipped the quill in the ink again. His voice had sounded tight when he'd spoken. Javert thought with some disdain that he was a very poor liar indeed.

"I was thinking of Marius," Éponine said abruptly, and Javert felt the nib of his quill jerk against the paper. A blob of ink appeared in the middle of his signature, and he hastened to blot it, his mind suddenly fuming with the unfamiliar emotions of jealousy and possessiveness.

"I see," was all Javert could manage to say, for Éponine's silence seemed to indicate that she expected some sort of reaction to her words.

"I realized," she continued, apparently unaware of Javert's distress, "that I wanted Marius to see me leave when you took me away. I realized, Monsieur, that I was attempting to garner his attentions with my absence. Perhaps I thought he would come after me, or write for me. Perhaps I thought that if I did not immediately return to Gorbeau House that he would be mad with jealousy and pine for me. But none of it matters now, you see."

Javert watched Éponine intently as she spoke. She stared into the fire, avoiding Javert's gaze. Javert could feel his heart race and thump frantically in his chest, though from what sentiment he could not accurately discern.

"Why does it not matter, Éponine?" Javert asked finally.

She looked at him with her shining eyes, though now they were glistening with tears.

"He never looked at me more than was necessary," she whispered. "He never spoke a word to me that he didn't need to speak. He looked at me with… I'm not sure, I suppose... Aversion? Shame? In any case, it was never love. Never the kind of love I wanted. If ever he wanted me, it was for an errand or a favor. If ever I got a gift from him, it was charity. If ever he showed me affection, it was out of pity. No, Inspector, I shall not return to Gorbeau House, not ever. For you see, there is nothing for me there. I have neither mother nor father nor Marius Pontmercy who care for me enough to see me return."

Javert did not suppose he had ever heard gloomier words spoken by anyone in his entire lifetime. He bit his bottom lip, hard, and set down his quill, turning in his chair to face Éponine.

"I am sorry for you, Mademoiselle," he said softly, "but it is because I believe you to be deserving of both attention and affection."

There. He'd said something courteous and gracious. Now, could this appalling awkwardness disperse and allow him to work? Javert did not function well in socially awkward situations, and a young girl pouring out her romantic woes to him was as tortuous as Javert could sustain.

At least, that was what he told himself. In truth, he believed every word that he had said. He did believe her to be deserving of both attention and affection, and he thought he could provide both in abundance. Yet, it would require a diversion of focus from his work, and how could he possibly allow that? Furthermore, to provide such cares would soften his rocky exterior, and would that not weaken his efficacy as a police officer?

No. Javert could do both, he told himself. He could be both a man at home and a man at work. Indeed, he could flourish at both functions. To this end he resolved to triumph.

"I can give you anything you want, Éponine," Javert said, his voice more tender than he'd ever heard it escape his own lips. He rose from his chair, rather impulsively, and walked to stand before her wingback. "I am not referencing clothes or food or a place to live, though of course you may have those things. I speak of affectionate dedication to your well-being and your happiness. I speak of earnest fidelity and I speak of fond devotion."

He looked down from his great height to where she sat in her chair. Éponine did not answer his offer, but looked up at him with a fire in her eyes that he'd not seen before. She did not look as though she were withering beneath the sadness of Marius' disregard anymore. She looked as though she was entangled in a web of desire, struggling hard to find a way out and not knowing the way. Javert felt his heart quicken again and he thought he wanted very badly once more to kiss her.

He sat in the wingback beside Éponine and drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. He tipped his head back and shut his eyes, sighing heavily in an attempt to slow his heartbeat. The situation was on the brink again. He could let it fall off the precipice, or he could rein it in and attempt to regain control. Before he could make a decision, he felt a pressure on his thighs and lap, and his eyes sprang open.

Éponine was climbing onto his legs, straddling his hips and snaking her arms around his shoulders behind his back. Javert tensed his body and froze, holding his breath. What on Earth was she doing? Didn't she know that he had no intention of taking her body for his own? He would notdefile an unmarried woman – not one of her age, a virgin, for whom he bore great affection.

"Please," Javert tried to say, but his mouth was so dry that the word was nearly inaudible.

"Please what?" Éponine asked, and it was then that Javert realized he was not sure how he wanted to answer that question.

"Please…" he began in a desperate whisper, and there were several ways he could finish his request. "Please kiss me."

His hands were still gripping the arms of the chair, and when her lips touched his, his fingers clenched hard on the velvet. Their kiss grew passionate as it had hours before, with tongues intertwining, teeth gently nibbling, mouths suckling mildly.

Javert felt himself grow firm beneath Éponine and wondered if she minded, wondered if he disgusted her. Then he felt her thin little hips moving against him and realized that she neither minded nor was disgusted.

"Ungh…" At the sensation of Éponine's hips grinding against his own, Javert's hands flew up to the back of her head and crushed her mouth harder against his own. She squeaked calmly into his mouth and delved her pelvis more steadfastly against his rigid erection. She moved rhythmically against him as though she were back astride Rivage. She broke their kiss and her lips migrated to the side of Javert's neck, where she began licking, nipping, and suckling with just the right amount of pressure and force. Her right hand ensnared itself in the short curls on his chest, and her left hand played with the cropped hair on his head.

All of it was too much… too stimulating. She was here, there, everywhere at once on him. Their bodies pressed ever more tightly together as she rode him, just a few layers of fabric separating their flesh. After what seemed like simultaneously a lifetime and an instant, Éponine pulled away from Javert's neck and stared at him with uncertainty in her eyes. Her parted lips were swollen and glistening.

Javert shook his head wordlessly at Éponine, trying to catch his breath. He could not do this. He could take this no further. This depravity must end here, now, before it descended into actions that could not be retracted. Once a woman's virginity was stolen, it could never be returned. He would not be that man, that villain. Javert reached for Éponine's face and met her eyes sadly. After a moment his eyes scanned down over her disheveled body and he wished he had not looked, for what he saw only made him want to continue his wicked actions.

Her robe had parted at the chest from where she'd been writhing against him, and her breasts were nearly entirely revealed. He could see the gentle curves of those breasts, heaving with each breath she took, between the folds of the robe. Her skin looked so soft and unspoiled that he wanted nothing more in that moment than to reach out and trace his fingers across her flesh. Javert flicked his eyes back up to her face and saw that her brown hair had become tousled and wild from where he had entangled his fingers. Knowing that he had done that, that it had been his hands that made her hair look messy, only made him grow harder beneath her.

She wriggled against his erection, perhaps unwittingly, though the sensation was too much to bear and Javert nearly threw her off of him in his attempt to stave off his arousal from completion. He roared in frustration and glared at Éponine.

She stood, quickly, and wobbled on her feet. She wrapped her robe around herself tightly. Then, looking embarrassed, she scurried wordlessly from the room and was gone.

Five minutes later, after locking his bedroom door securely, Javert parted his robe and lifted his nightshirt with his chamber pot in front of him. He brought his hand to his throbbing, hard member, and his fingers felt like fire against the intensity of his pleasure. Such was the excitement she had awakened in him. He tipped his head back and struggled not to make noises as he stroked himself, thinking only of Éponine – her face in the firelight, the gentle curve of her breasts, the feel of her hips against his. It took but a moment before he finished in the chamber pot and collapsed into bed, a sweaty and panting mess.

He was more confused than ever, his mind a jumbled disarray of emotions he could not calibrate. Should he send her away? Should he tell her in the morning that this was a horrible mistake, suggesting that she live here? Should he tell her she was allowed to stay, but was required to stay five feet away from him at all times? How was he to handle the fire that burned in his chest, in his loins, in his mind and – dare he admit – his heart, for this uncouth little waif?

Before he could reach a logical conclusion, he had fallen asleep. Before he could determine the next reasonable course of action, morning had come and it was time to act.

Everyone About Your Business

"Is she to be your wife, Monsieur?"

Javert gulped heavily. His maid Pauline did not realize the loaded nature of the question she had asked. Was Éponine to be his wife? Not today. Not tomorrow. Someday? Who could say? He would not answer with a definitive 'no.' Nor would, or could, he affirmatively confirm any semblance of future plans.

Finally, Javert cleared his throat and answered Pauline, "She is my guest."

Pauline eyed him suspiciously as she prepared the bath, dumping a bucket of near-boiling water into the copper tub. The old woman nodded, slowly, and asked in a pointed voice,

"Then she is to be my mistress?"

Javert pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "You are to attend to her as you do me, in the little time you spend here. If that does not please you, by all means, feel at your liberty to seek employment elsewhere."

"Of course I will serve the Mademoiselle! I think her to be quite… quaint, Monsieur, if I may speak plainly, but -"

"If your words seek to lecture, Pauline, then you may not speak plainly." Javert's voice could have frozen the hot water in the tub. "Please go fetch Mademoiselle Éponine and tell her the bath is ready."

Pauline nodded deferentially and curtsied as she slipped past Javert, muttering a half-hearted apology. It was clear how the maid felt. The street urchin in the spare bedroom was not worthy of the dignified Inspector she served. Pauline had arrived this morning to find a strange young woman in the red and gold room, and she had not liked it one bit. That much Javert could tell. Well, he thought, he was not subject to the judgment of a chambermaid.

Javert straightened his dark wool jacket and sniffed as he stood in the center of the room, gazing upon his reflection in the still water of the bath. He saw a man no better in origin than Éponine herself, a man who had risen from the ranks of the lowly to a more prestigious position in life and society through his own hard work and determination. Why could not Éponine do the same? Why was she unworthy of escaping her poverty? Why was she to be doomed for all time to the slums and filth into which she had been so unceremoniously dropped?

And, furthermore, why couldn't she be his wife? She had no husband, and he had no wife. They got along amicably, as far as Javert could tell. He would provide for her, make her happy, and she would clearly be keen to fulfill her wifely carnal obligations. Was that not a recipe for a contented and fruitful marriage? Javert felt as though he were surrounded by a thousand ticking clocks, each ready to chime the hour at which he could no longer take a wife and expect her to bear him children. Éponine was youthful and willing. Why couldn't she be his wife? What the blazes was stopping him?

Javert sighed as he looked into the reflection of his own sad eyes. He was surprised, pleasantly so, that he did not jump or startle when another, smaller likeness joined his reflection in the water's mirror. Éponine appeared beside him, silent as a ghost, her friendly face smiling gently at him. Her small hand reached up and fingered the tendrils of the silver epaulet at his shoulder. Javert's eyes drifted beside him, to her actual form, and he saw that she wore nothing but a linen towel draped about her middle, covering just her torso and privates.

Javert's eyes went round as saucers and he took a disconcerted step back, away from her. There was too much skin. Her arms, her legs, her bare feet, her collarbone and shoulders… Javert turned his head away and swallowed weightily. His eyes flicked to the door behind Éponine to see that she had locked it.

"Mademoiselle," he breathed, staring at his writing desk. "As you can see, your bath is ready. I apologize for the rudeness my maid may have shown you. She is-"

Javert stopped, for Éponine had let the towel fall from her thin frame and crumple on the ground around her. From his peripheral vision, Javert saw the towel fall and saw Éponine's nude form revealed, and he could not help but stare for the briefest of moments. In the instant he gawked, he took in her round, soft breasts, her flat stomach, the tiny thatch of dark hair betwixt her legs and the hint of the curve at her hip.

"My God, Éponine." Javert panicked, turning entirely away from her and placing his hands on his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing. He tried to think of something, anything, besides Éponine and the image of her uncovered body he had just beheld, but the depiction was burned on the back of his eyelids.

Just as he felt the unwelcome pressure of his own body struggling against the fabric of his trousers, Javert sensed her behind him.

"Please, please put the towel back on, and let me leave you to bathe," he begged.

"I was hoping you might help me," Éponine said. Surprisingly, her voice did not sound seductive or even playful. Rather, she sounded soft and tender, her hand mildly reaching for his and pulling it gently from his head. She guided him back toward the tub, and he let her. He was not at all sure why he allowed her to take him and escort him as she did, but somewhere in the depths of his being, he thought it was what he ought to do.

Javert could not keep his eyes off of her as she sank with a hiss into the steaming hot water of the bath. He descended to his knees beside the tub and watched as the water seeped across her skin, leaving rivulets and trails where it drained off when she moved. Inattentively and distractedly, Javert handed her the Marseille soap and a sponge when she asked for them. His eyes locked on hers when they weren't exploring the beauty of her submerged body through the water, growing ever more cloudy with soap.

At some point in time that Javert would not have been able to pinpoint, Éponine handed him the sponge and turned around so that he might clean her back. He gulped and squeezed out the excess water, watching as Éponine pulled her wet hair over her shoulder. As he coursed the sponge gently across the bony expanse of Éponine's back, water ran in a little stream down his arm, soaking his sleeve. Javert thought absently that he would need to hang his jacket by the fire before work so that he did not leave for the station with a wet coat.

Everything that happened next seemed to Javert to happen very quickly, so quickly that he felt completely out of control of his body and mind. Éponine was clean, so she rose, dripping wet, from the tub, and wrapped a few towels around her body.

Javert found himself tearing those towels from Éponine's form just a moment later, ravenous like a wolf devouring its prey as he descended on her with a voracious kiss. He felt positively predatory, hovering over her naked body, himself fully clothed, ensnaring his fingers in the wet snarled tendrils of her hair as he crushed his mouth against hers and silenced her little squeals with his own rumbling groans.

He pushed none too gently against her so that she took a few steps backward toward the wall, astonished at his own behavior. What on Earth was he doing? Never in his life had he initiated something with a woman such as this, but never in his life had he watched (and assisted) a stunning

woman bathing in all her glory. His body ached for her, every tendon and muscle straining to know her, every nerve quivering with excitement. His manhood pressed insistently against the front of his trousers, almost painfully aroused.

Éponine had backed up against the wall and was now gasping helplessly as Javert ravaged her neck with his mouth. His hands clasped her wrists and pressed them hard against the wall, so that she was entirely trapped. Finally, Javert began to course his hands over Éponine's body, feeling the yielding and pillowy flesh of her breasts beneath his large, coarse hands. He felt the gentle curve of her side and guided his hand between them as she wriggled and moaned wantonly.

She was saying his name, again and again, her eyes closed as she breathlessly called for him though he was only inches away. Her voice turned into a choked sob when his fingers pressed into her velvet folds, swollen and drenched – and not from the bath water. Curious, Javert brought his fingers to his lips and tasted her metallic tang, moaning as he realized just what he had just put in his mouth. He drove his hips hard against her so that she could feel how firm he was in his trousers, how stimulated her nakedness had gotten him.

"I could claim you right now," Javert hissed into Éponine's ear, "and I probably should. But I won't. I can't do that to you."

The regret and sorrow that carried in his whisper echoed the conflict he felt within. Truly, there had never been a more opportune moment for him to engage a woman in physical relations. Honestly, he had never wanted a woman more in his life. And genuinely, he had never been surer that he should leave his clothes on.

He felt Éponine nod mournfully, almost apologetically, against the palm of his hand.

"Please do not torment me like this again." Javert took a step away from her, coursing his eyes up and down her panting nude form. "It is challenging enough to deny myself without deliberate temptation."

"You don't want me," Éponine shook her head, starting to step away from the wall.

Javert closed the gap between them and pinned her back. "I want you more badly than either words or actions could ever properly demonstrate," he asserted, "but you are not my wife." He scanned her eyes and planted a swift kiss on her lips. "Yet."