Author's Note: Hi! This is my first fanfiction that I actually got very far in to. However, along the way, I learned a few important things. One: I'm terrible at writing smut. Two: I'm only a little better at writing really dark things than I am at writing smut. Therefore, as you read this, please leave me advice on what to go back and change. Since this is a fanfiction website, it should stand to reason that I do not own these characters. However, allow me to reaffirm that Victor Hugo is not, in fact, a 21st century fangirl with computer access. I also did not write the musical. I'm throwing that in there since most of the dialogue in this first chapter is musical-oriented, rather than from the book. Ah well, c'est la vie. As it is, enjoy!
"Give me the spy, Javert. Let me take care of him." Valjean breathed to Enjolras, seeking to avoid the attention of the other students. Enjolras studied the man hard. Valjean's dark curls were streaked with grime, the same as everyone who had stood the day on the barricade. He had a pleasant face, and thus far had tended only to the wounded, refusing to lift a gun against any man, government soldier or otherwise. And yet, something about the set of his face suggested that Jean Valjean wasn't just putting on airs - Enjolras correctly surmised that the man and this Javert had some point of high contention between them. The spy had to go, certainly, and he couldn't think of a good reason to let anyone else do the job; besides, he had promised this Valjean a reward for driving off the snipers. Enjolras shrugged.
"Do what you have to do - this man belongs to you." Enjolras handed Valjean a pistol and turned back to the barricade.
Javert was seemingly asleep, and yet opened his eyes slowly when Valjean approached. The Inspector chuckled quietly to himself.
"That is appropriate," he murmured, and said no more.
Hours earlier, when Gavroche had revealed Javert's identity to the students, Enjolras had had him bound to a pillar in the tavern. Valjean now cut these cords with a small pocketknife, but left Javert's hands tied behind his back.
With Valjean motioning towards the rear of the tavern, Javert allowed himself to be compelled at gunpoint to walk out the back door. The men found themselves in a small, dingy yard, surrounded by a high stone wall. A narrow stair was cut into the stone, climbing up to the wall's top. Valjean indicated that Javert should continue up these stairs, and the Inspector did so with scarcely a sign of hesitation; his back was straight, and he walked proudly, a martyr going to an ignominious end.
At the top of the stair, the wall flattened out, so that several men could have stood abreast along it. A thin railing ran along the edge that looked down upon Paris. Javert turned and stared down his captor coolly.
"We meet again," Valjean said, calmly returning Javert's gaze.
"You've hungered for this all your life." Javert knew that it could not be otherwise - 19 years a tortured slave in the galleys, Valjean had more reason to hate him than indeed most of Paris. "Take your revenge. How right you should kill with a knife." For Valjean had not sheathed his pocket knife. It still glinted in the cold starlight.
Valjean raised the knife to Javert's neck, applying just enough pressure to see the would-be spy wince. Even Javert found it difficult to remain unaffected at the thought of the coming inevitability. Then Valjean dropped his hand and cut through the cord still holding Javert's hands bound.
"You talk too much," Valjean smirked ever so slightly in the gloom. "Your life is safe in my hands."
Javert was never someone easily startled, but this was a verbal punch to the gut. A convict - let him, Javert, go free? When Valjean could have killed him then and there, with no one to know but perhaps that traitor Enjolras?
"I don't... understand," the Inspector croaked.
"Clear out of here," came the curt reply.
"Valjean, take care - I'm warning you." A thought began to surface in Javert's mind, something that he could, perhaps, rationalize. Valjean hadn't changed. He was just as treacherous as he ever was. "Once a thief, forever a thief. What you want, you always steal." The idea coalesced into something tangible, and he smiled grimly. "You would trade your life for mine? Yes Valjean - you want a deal!" The Inspector drew himself to his full height; he dwarfed Valjean easily, and a fierce light shone in his eyes.
"Shoot me now for all I care! If you let me go, beware - you'll still answer to Javert!" His voice echoed across the wall, dying in the courtyard below. Eyes shut, he crossed his arms, waiting for the bullet that wouldn't come. A long minute later, Javert opened his eyes. Valjean was shaking his head sadly, and Javert felt his throat constrict.
"You are wrong," Valjean said, three small words that shook the foundation of Javert's world. "And always have been wrong," he continued. "I'm a man, no worse than any man. You are free, and there are no conditions. There's nothing that I blame you for. You've done your duty, and nothing more."
Javert clung to one last objection, and opened his mouth to speak, but Valjean beat him to it.
"If I come out of this alive, you'll find me at Number 55, Rue Plumet. No doubt our paths will cross again."
"Number 55, Rue Plumet," Javert repeated to himself.
"Go."
Dropping his dark eyes to the sidewalk, Javert pivoted and strode quickly down the wall to another stair at the other end.
Valjean fired the pistol in the air; the sound rolled like thunder to the silent barricade beyond the tavern. Enjolras heard it, and smiled. Valjean turned, and slipped into the darkness. Meanwhile, Javert made his way to the Commissaire to make his report.