This was written using the timed prompt game at I don't know anything about police station protocol in France in the 19th century, but I hope it can be enjoyed for the bit of fluff it is.
"I have no patience with this sort of thing." Javert leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at his eyes. He was more than a little surprised not to see droplets of blood on his hands when he pulled them away. He felt as though his eyelids would never close without sticking again, that maybe his eyeballs would try to escape his head while he slept just to repay him for the torture he'd inflicted on them this night.
The columns on the paper mocked him, the numbers entered and erased and re-entered over and over again still miles from adding up. He was half convinced they rearranged themselves whenever he turned his attention to something else.
And oh, how his focus had been shifting tonight. Not two moments of thought on the task before him and suddenly, a sound from outside, in the alley. Just a stray cat. Ignore it. But no, perhaps it's an inebriated citizen stumbling, lost. If they fell unconscious in the snow, they would freeze before morning and someone would have to find a way to thaw the corpse enough to budge it from the ground. Better to go and check than simply ignore the ruckus.
Inevitably, though, it would be the cat, and he would find himself back in his desk chair, staring at the cruel columns, unable to remember where exactly he'd left off.
It wasn't simple accounting. Oh, that it was! Math of that sort was the kind of thing Javert excelled at. If he'd been asked to audit the precinct's books he would have been warm in his bed hours ago. But this was something far more insidious. It required the kind of mental acrobatics he admired in other men, but was incapable of achieving himself.
He had been charged with creating the weekly schedule for his department. More accurately, he'd been left the task by Dautin, the man who usually took care of such things. His wife had inconveniently decided to give birth before he was able to finish his work. Being that it was Dautin's first child, he had naturally been needed at home to assume the duty of pacing up and down the floor and being a general nuisance instead of doing something helpful. Staying at his desk where he belonged and making a simple schedule to ensure that the streets of Paris remained safe for every man, woman and child walking them, for example.
Javert put his elbows on the desk and leaned his head on his hands. "I have no patience with anything, in general." He laughed morosely. Upon reflection he realized it was the laugh of a doomed man.
He glared at the ledger book. Oh, to have a wife in childbirth, if he could escape this interminable task!
A pen knife glittered temptingly on the desk beside him. A man with an accidentally amputated finger would be in no condition to...
Damn Dautin! He made it look so easy. And it should be easy, in theory. Two men patrolling one area, two men patrolling another. Four more to replace them after ten hours. Ah, but this man was recently injured, he will not be available. And that man detests this one, and any assignment given to them jointly will end in a brawl. This one does not work during daylight hours, but the only place to put him is in the morning. Some men had barely any time at work, others so much they would demand an increase in salary. And of course, there was the gaping hole where two men would be missing: Dautin in his grave and Javert in his, the latter executed for bludgeoning the former to death with the ledger book.
Accidental maiming by pen knife was beginning to look better and better. He slid the evil thing into a drawer and forced himself to put it out of his mind.
Behind him, another distraction forced him to throw his pencil down in frustration. Someone had— loudly— entered the shared work space, whistling and exuding a careless joy that pounded into Javert's brain like a rusty nail.
"You still here?" the intruder asked, then immediately resumed whistling.
From the stupidity of the question and the relentless cheer of the whistling, Javert knew without looking that the man who had disturbed him was Theriault, coming off his patrol for supper break. "No, I left hours ago."
If the man had noticed or cared about the sarcastic reply, he covered it well. "Working on the duties for the week? Usually Dautin does that."
"Usually, Dautin's wife doesn't have a small person emerging from her," Javert grumbled under his breath. And she had better not make a habit of this sort of thing. Nine months between having to put together a schedule was not long enough.
"You know," Theriault continued, as if his conversation was invited, "If I were you, I would assign that job to someone else."
Javert made a noncommittal noise. It had occurred to him, when he'd begun the heroic task, that perhaps he could push it off on someone else. But then the fear had set in. The fear that the job would be mangled by anyone's hands but his own, or worse, not attempted at all. It wasn't that he thought the men he worked with were incompetent, only that they had proved to be so several times in the past and could no longer be trusted.
No, it was easier if he simply finished it himself. And, if fortune was on his side, he would finish in time to sleep a little on his desk before he had to report for duty again.
"Well," Theriault sang out, his good mood seemingly intent on seeking out the most agitated parts of Javert's soul, "Try to find your bed sometime tonight, eh? I know I'm looking forward to mine."
Bed. What a distant dream that was. Javert scrubbed at his eyes again while the man behind him whistled happily at the thought of all the blessed rest he'd be getting when his shift was over.
On the page, the columns waited, expectant and utterly contemptuous. Bleary-eyed, Javert fished at his side for his watch. With fatigue numbed fingers he opened the cover, despairing at the unblinkingly honest answer it gave him.
"Theriault?" He picked up his pen and drew a thick line through one row, a hesitant smile ticking the corner of his mouth as he completed the task. Yes, some things were better left to men more capable, more cheerful, more awake.
"Something you need help with?" Theriault asked, picking up his tune right where he'd broken off to speak.
If Javert never heard whistling again, it would be too soon. And he wouldn't for some time, he realized, unable to resist a broad grin. "Yes, there is." He composed himself and turn to face the man, knowing that he looked for all the world a man still possessed of a down-trodden spirit. His heart leapt like a school boy's, despite his sour expression. "I'm off. It seems it is now after midnight, and I am not due back here until..." He paused to consult the ledger. "Ah. Three days from now. Ample time for you to finish this damnable schedule."
He collected his coat and hat, ignoring Theriault's sputtered protests. And as he walked through the wet, night air, towards his comfortable bed and near limitless time in which to sleep in it, he found the obnoxious underling's tune whistling from his own lips.