Synopsis: After weeks of living in it, Javert still finds the world of Jean Valjean an entirely incomprehensible conundrum. And just when he thought it couldn't get anymore overwhelming… Angsty, but also fluffy. (This story can stand alone, but the backstory will be clearer if you've read "Wounded.")

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables, nor am I making any money with this.

Author's Note: I realize that in the book, Marius studied law. But then he never did anything with it and decided to work as a translator instead, so for story purposes it is, and always has been, medicine.

Healed

Javert was leaning on the balcony, watching the stars fade in the first light of morning. He had come out here to collect his thoughts. He had been living and working in the Hôpital de la Charité for weeks now; his wound was mostly healed, only an occasional twinge reminded him of his fight with the ruffians.

Well, an occasional twinge and the fact that his life had been turned completely upside down that day. He did not exactly regret his decision to stay and work after Marius had pronounced him recovered – after all, he had a debt to pay off, and it was a point of honor with him never to let a debt slide – but the world of Jean Valjean was still a puzzling, incomprehensible and at times truly aggravating mystery to him.

He had stayed to work off the debt incurred in the weeks Valjean, his daughter, and her husband had taken care of him. Well, since treatment was free in Marius's clinic, it was more a debt he felt he'd incurred than any real black-on-white number. But he was determined to pay them back nonetheless – he would owe nothing to anyone if he could help it. And if he was honest with himself, he also had to admit that he'd felt almost glad to stay, since he had nowhere else to go except the gutter. It was not the hardship of the streets he feared, it was the pointlessness, existing day after day without accomplishing anything. The work he did here was manifestly useful; it gave his life a purpose, though not the one he'd have chosen for himself. But that confounding family refused to treat him the way he wanted to be treated – as an employee who was there to work and was boarded and fed for simplicity's sake.

Take his new room, for instance. Javert would have refused it flat-out if their initial request for him to move out of the hospital room he no longer needed had not been so entirely reasonable. The hospital rooms were set up to be efficient and easy to keep in order, and were easily accessible both from Marius's office and the big ground floor kitchen where Cosette and Valjean spent most of their time. It made no sense for a healthy man who could easily manage to climb the stairs to the attic floor to take one up.

But his new room was entirely too nice. It was spacious, had a wide bateau lit with a nightstand, an iron stove, a roomy wardrobe, a well-filled bookshelf, an oak desk, a cast-iron washstand and a tall chest-of-drawers, as well as two extremely comfortable easy chairs and some other small pieces of furniture. There even were several paintings on the walls, and a soft blue rug on the floor which matched the curtains. None of the rooms he'd rented for himself during his police career had been anywhere near as nice, or even half as big. This wasn't how one housed an employee. In fact, his room was an almost exact mirror-image of Valjean's own, which was right across the hallway. The two rooms even shared this balcony. Marius and Cosette's room was on the other side of the house and slightly larger, but still no better in style or furnishings than his. It was inappropriate.

And it wasn't just the room. It was the entirely perplexing way he was treated by all three of them. They continually attempted to chat with him, tried to include him in their decision-making and – Heaven help – insisted that he took their "family meals" with them. It was almost like they regarded him as a long-lost uncle or cousin who finally had rejoined the family fold.

Good Lord, they probably did. None of them seemed to recall his history of hunting Valjean – and later also Cosette – all through France for years, or spying on Marius's friends during the riots. But they were only too quick to bring up his helping Valjean to get the boy home that night, or saving Cosette in the alley, or letting Valjean go when all it would have taken to arrest him was a word. Javert shook his head. Not for the first time, he wondered if they were crazy, or of it was him.

He became aware of a movement besides him and turned his head. Valjean was leaning in the doorway that connected the balcony to his own room. Javert wanted to snap "What is it?" but stopped himself and mumbled "Good morning," instead. God, he thought, living with them is starting to change me.

"Morning," Valjean replied with a smile. "Cosette asked me to get you. Breakfast's ready."

Javert straightened up, squaring his shoulders. "Of course." Suppressing a sigh, he followed Valjean downstairs. Wouldn't want to miss family breakfast.

xxxxx

Breakfast was the usual cheery affair. Cosette, though highly pregnant now – Marius estimated the birth a mere three weeks off – insisted on serving a variety of foods for everyone to choose from, and she, Marius and Valjean kept up a light conversation about things of no importance. Javert sat by quietly, listening and eating. A few times, he almost caught himself in a smile, which prompted him to take a large bite of bread and chew determinedly. He was here solely because he worked here. In no way was he enjoying the company.

As always, the others made several friendly attempts to draw him into the conversation, and as always, he responded politely, but as briefly as possible. They never pressed the point, but their actions made it abundantly clear that if he wanted to be a part of this, he would be more than welcome.

The meal finished, Cosette began collecting the dishes – she had made it very clear to the men that she was pregnant, not an invalid, and anyone trying to treat her like one would be sorry. Pregnancy had given the sweet, innocent girl an almost matronly air of command, and the mood swings she'd been having lately had taught the men that it was best not to argue with her.

Piling dirty dishes into the sink, Cosette addressed Valjean. "Papa, when you go to the market today, please make sure you get yellow apples, not red."

"The market? But, my dear, I told you... I have a meeting with Monsieur de Laglasse today, about the hospital. He's willing to make a substantial donation, but he wants to know exactly what we'd do with it. It'll probably take all day... I'm sorry, I can't go shopping for you today."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. Well, Marius, you remember to bring the yellow kind, then." Going to the market was one of the few duties that Cosette had willingly given up. Long walks tired her, and a fiacre was both a waste of money and too uncomfortable in her condition.

Marius paused. "My love... I'm going to La Force today." It had taken a lot of M. Gillenormand's influence to get Marius permission to visit the prisoners there once a month and see to their health. Normally, convicts were allowed a doctor only in life-threatening situations. "By the time I get back, the stalls will be closed."

Cosette looked from her husband to her father with a frown. "Well, what am I supposed to do? I have six in-house patients to feed, and the four of us on top of that. There's not enough food in the house."

Javert noted that none of them asked him, or even looked at him. Since he had first come to this house, he had been reluctant to leave it. He did not want to run into a policeman he knew and be recognized. Strangely, that had never concerned him in the months immediately following the riots – but he had hardly looked like himself then. Now, washed and shaved, his sideburns carefully clipped, and his clothes mended and washed, he looked more like the Javert of old than he had in the eight months when he'd wandered Paris without aim or purpose. Running into a former colleague would invariably lead to questions that Javert did not want to answer. Though he had never said anything, his reluctance had obviously been noted, and they did not want to push him. Well, Javert thought, they may all try to coddle me, but I will not coddle myself!

"I'll go," he stated firmly.

All eyes turned to him. "Javert, you don't have to…" Valjean started, but Javert cut him off.

"I'm here to work. There's work to be done, and none of you can do it. I will go." He could feel a little of the old edge in his voice. He saw the others exchanging glances and shrugs. He was satisfied that they would not fight him on this.

"That is so kind of you, Monsieur," Cosette smiled. She handed him a basket and a list, which he read through quickly.

"It's mostly just groceries, really, and some hospital supplies. Oh, and the apples need to be..."

"... yellow, not red. I understand." Javert put the list in the basket, went to the door, opened it, and stopped abruptly. He turned back slowly.

"Is... everything else clear?" Cosette asked. "My handwriting..."

"Your handwriting is beautiful, Madame." He felt three pairs of questioning eyes on him and sighed. Quietly, almost meekly, he said. "I have no money." The shame of the admission burned his cheeks. He had never asked anyone for money in all his life. The fact that this money was meant for doing their shopping for them didn't make it any better – after all, he would eat these groceries right along with the rest of them.

"Oh no, how silly of me!" Cosette blushed and hastened towards the drawer by the stove, which served the hospital as an all-purpose household kitty. But before she even reached it, Valjean had taken his own purse from a pocket and tossed it to Javert, who caught it easily. He briefly weighed the leather pouch in his hand.

"Aren't you going to count it, Valjean?" Javert had tried to keep the sneer out of his voice, but this whole situation was just so humiliating – he knew he'd sounded much sharper than was warranted by the circumstances.

Valjean looked at him searchingly for a second, then he laughed. "I will count it, Javert, if you can name one person in all of Paris, or even in all of France, who's less likely to steal from me than you are."

With a grunt, Javert pocketed the purse, turned, and left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

xxxxx

On his way back, Javert looked over the list once more to make sure he really hadn't forgotten anything. It would not do to fail in such a simple errand. Carrots, onions, apples – yellow, not red – a leg of mutton, beets, bandages, a packet of safety pins...

Suddenly, a shrill sound tore his attention away – it sounded like a screeching wail, a scream of distress, but not of human origin. Down a side street, he spotted some gamins tossing a bundle of rags back and forth – a bundle of rags that was screeching at the top of its lungs. Straightening up and throwing himself into his best inspector pose, he went closer to investigate.

"Hey, you, what have you got there?" he barked, in a commanding tone that had made hardened criminals quake in their boots.

The boys looked around at him and exchanged wary glances. "What's it to you?" the tallest and evidently oldest asked. Javert took a step closer.

Suddenly, a younger boy squealed "He's a copper! I know him, he put my old man in the slammer!" Javert glanced at him – he could not recall ever having seen the boy before, but to be fair, he had put a lot of people into prison, and he had not known all their children.

The oldest boy whistled shrilly, and all the boys turned and ran, disappearing in basements, over fences and down alleys. The bundle was left behind, lying forgotten in the dust.

Carefully, Javert prodded it with a toe; a whimpering sound and a slight wriggling were the result. Putting down his basket, he crouched next to the bundle and carefully peeled away some of the rags. A furry little head emerged and huge yellow eyes stared at him fearfully. A hiss.

Javert looked at the cat and shook his head. During his long years on duty in the streets of Paris, he'd seen many gamins grow up into thugs, thieves, drunkards, and occasionally even into honest working men. In his experience, those who displayed a taste for cruelty as boys carried it into adulthood and never became part of the last category. He had no fondness for animals himself – though he recognized the usefulness of a well-trained dog – but it would never occur to him to abuse them for sport, and he saw no point in letting this one suffer anymore than it already had.

"Let me get you out of this," he mumbled, as close to soothingly as he could manage, being entirely unused to employing that sort of tone. Carefully, he peeled back several layers of dirty rags that held the cat bound so tightly it could barely move a muscle. The cat just watched him quietly, its eyes no longer afraid.

When he was done, the cat sat up and began to groom itself. Javert looked it over. The cat – a female, he noted in passing – was a brown tabby with white paws, quite clean and not too scrawny for a street cat. There didn't seem to be any injuries – the gamins probably hadn't had their "toy" for long.

He stood, picked up the basket, and left.

xxxxx

Both Valjean and Marius returned late that evening, so Cosette and Javert had to handle the in-house patients' dinner by themselves. It was not one of Javert's favorite tasks, especially since old Mère Suzette, an eighty year old woman so weak that she needed to be spoon-fed, insisted on flirting with him the entire time. Her comments and pointed looks were so outrageous that she had actually managed to make him blush more than once, which made her cackle happily every time. Still, Javert stoically plowed on with his task. He had never shirked a duty just because of personal discomfort. Nevertheless, he was glad when he was done. He quickly collected all the dishes, returned to the kitchen, and piled them into the sink, preparing to wash them.

"Ah, Monsieur, that's all right, I'll do it," Cosette said with a smile.

"I don't mind."

"I know, but really, I'd much rather if you could split some firewood for us. I know it's getting dark, but we're almost out and..."

Javert simply nodded, lit a lantern and went to the shed. As he was crossing the courtyard, he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eyes. He looked around, but could not see much by the dull light of the lantern. For a second, though, he thought he saw something brown-and-white dashing under a bush.

When he reached the shed, he noticed the bloody and gory remains of two mostly-eaten rats lying near the door. With a disgusted scowl, he picked them up with a shovel and buried them in the compost heap.

xxxxx

Late that evening, when Valjean and Marius had finally returned, Cosette started preparing dinner for the family and Javert. Of course, they would dine together, as they did every night. At the beginning of his time here, Javert had tried to point out that it would be more appropriate for him to eat by himself, but they wouldn't hear of it. In fact, when he had tried to take matters into his own hands by taking his food to the old bench and table in the laundry room, they had simply followed him there, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Javert had felt mortally embarrassed, watching them all balancing precariously on the rickety furniture that was normally only used to sort laundry before washing it in the huge wooden tub, knowing fully well that they were doing this solely for his sake. He had not said anything, but from then on, he had taken his meals with them at the large kitchen table, or in the small dining room on Sundays, without complaint.

Valjean helped Cosette with dinner while Javert helped Marius to put away his supplies and transcribe his notes on the convicts' health. When they returned to the kitchen, Javert sat down in his customary place across from Valjean, while Marius walked over to his wife and swept her up in a hug.

Cosette laughed and gave him a quick kiss. "You're late, my love, you must be hungry."

"Starving. What's for dinner, my sweet?"

Cosette smiled and lifted a pot lid. "I made the mutton stew Monsieur Javert is so particularly fond of."

At the mention of his name, Javert looked up, surprised.

Cosette noticed his looked and asked worriedly "You do like it, don't you, Monsieur?"

"Well, yes... I just..." Javert cleared his throat, confused. "I wasn't aware that I had mentioned that, Madame."

"You didn't," Cosette said.

Javert looked at her questioningly, but she just smiled mysteriously and began filling their bowls.

Marius laughed. "She did this to me, too. We'd barely lived together a month when she knew all my likes and dislikes, including those I hadn't been previously aware of myself."

"Cosette reads people well," Valjean added by way of explanation. He was smiling proudly.

"Oh. I wonder whom she gets that from," Javert said, raising an eyebrow at Valjean.

Valjean tried to smile modestly, but then broke into a wide grin. "I may have rubbed off on her over the years, a little..."

Cosette laughed lightly and pressed a kiss on her father's cheek. "Whoever said blood was thicker than water didn't know what they were talking about." She set down his bowl and Javert's as Marius brought hers and his own.

Valjean said grace, and they began to eat. Javert had to admit that he enjoyed the savory stew very much. But nevertheless, he felt compelled to speak up against this newest instance of him being treated as more than an employee. "Madame really shouldn't have gone to the trouble on my account." He was not at all comfortable with the idea of these people knowing him well enough, and caring about him enough, to fix his favorite meal just to please him. At least he was trying not to be. But deep down there was a certain feeling of warmth at the thought that someone actually… No. He was appropriately grateful, that was all. It wasn't as if he wanted to be close to these people, or to anyone. He never had been, and he certainly saw no reason to start now.

Cosette shrugged it off. "Oh, it wasn't any trouble. It's quite an easy meal to fix, really. One of the first they taught us in the convent."

Javert looked up sharply. "Convent?"

Cosette nodded. "The convent of the Petit-Picpus. Where I grew up," she explained.

Javert looked at his bowl for a second, then fixed his eyes on Valjean. They had become the cold, calculating eyes of the hunter that Valjean had not seen on him since the barricades.

Valjean fought an urge to shrink away. He sent Javert a small, almost apologetic smile, and shrugged his shoulders.

Finally, Javert looked away. He shook his head slightly and stared at his hands, which were opening and closing in a convulsive motion. "I'm an idiot," he spat.

"Javert…" Valjean began hesitantly.

"I knew you could practically walk up walls! I knew you had stolen a rope from that lantern! And yet, I sent my men to look over garden walls in the Cul-de-Sac Genrot, and I never even spared a thought on the convent."

Cosette and Marius were exchanging worried glances, Cosette biting her lip, obviously feeling guilty about the tension she had inadvertently caused. To her, the nightly flight through Paris and the scaling of the wall were only vague specks of memory, no more real than dreams. She had not considered that to Javert and her father, this was a key episode of their shared history – their history as hunter and quarry.

Javert's gaze focused on Valjean again. "Then what?" His anger was carefully controlled, his voice the sharp, searching instrument of the skilled interrogator.

"We lived there until…" Valjean began.

"No. One does not simply walk into a convent. Particularly that one. There would have been an uproar if a man had just appeared in their midst." Javert's eyes were still searching and cold. "How did you do it?"

Valjean sighed. "You remember Fauchelevent?"

"With the cart? Yes."

Valjean nodded. "After that… incident, his leg remained stiff, so he couldn't work as a carter anymore. I found him a position…"

"… as a gardener in Paris. I remember. In a… convent. Are you saying you had actually planned this?"

"No," Valjean admitted immediately. "I had no idea what wall I was climbing. I just wanted to get away from…" He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. "And I was as surprised to see Fauchelevent as he was to see me. But he felt he owed me, so… he told the Mother Superior I was his brother, Ultime, and convinced her to hire me as a second gardener, and to take in Cosette as a student."

"But how did he explain your presence in the garden?"

"He didn't. I…" Valjean glanced at Marius and Cosette uncomfortably. Neither one of them had heard this story. But under Javert's sharp gaze, he felt compelled to speak on. "One of the nuns died that night. I forget her name."

"Mother Crucifixion," Javert said without hesitation. At Valjean's surprised look, he shrugged. "I made it my business to know everything that happened in that quarter for weeks after you disappeared. And I rarely forget a name."

Valjean nodded. "Well, anyway, her dying wish had been to be buried in the chapel, but it was against the law to do so…"

"With good reason." Javert was liking this story less and less.

Valjean looked down and continued. "Well… the Mother Superior had decided to grant her last request. But to do so, and not arouse suspicion, the coffin sent by the authorities would have to be returned, and buried at Père Lachaise… and there would have to be something in it. Fauchelevent told her he'd fill it with earth and stones, but…"

Javert's eyes gleamed with sudden understanding. "I remember that funeral procession. I took off my hat to that funeral possession." His voice was brittle with bitterness.

Cosette reached for Marius's hand, blanching at the story of her father's ordeal. She was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Glancing at her, Valjean decided to skip over the most gruesome details of that day. "When we reached the cemetery, Fauchelevent tricked the grave digger into leaving and got me out. We then returned to the convent with Cosette, whom he'd carried out in a basket the day before." He looked back at Javert, who still seemed tense, poised for attack like a panther. Valjean's eyes were imploring, pleading for he knew not what – forgiveness? Understanding? At the time, he had done what he felt he had to to protect Cosette, and yet he was keenly aware that in doing that one big right, he had committed many small wrongs, not least on the man before him. He wanted to say he regretted them, but he knew that in the same situation, he would do it all again in heartbeat.

Javert's gaze was still locked on his. He was listening, absorbing every detail, going over the events of those days hour by hour, yes, even minute by minute. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "I see," he said, and resumed eating, staring into his bowl.

"'I see?' Is that all?" Valjean's voice was more shocked than relieved.

Javert looked up at him again. "What more would you have me say? I should have seen it, I didn't, I'm a fool, you won. Congratulations."

"No, I… I meant to say… I'm sorry, Javert."

"Sorry? What on Earth for? You did what you had to. You ran, you hid, you deceived. That's the fugitive's job. It's the policeman's job to see through those plans, preempt them, foil them. We both knew how the game is played. You played it better." The admission burned like a red-hot iron, but Javert had always been too honest not to stand by his failures. He could not change what had happened that night, but he would not add insult to injury by trying to make excuses for himself.

Valjean was looking back at him, his eyes liquid puddles of guilt and regret. Javert wanted to laugh at him, to tell him he was being silly, that after all it had not been personal. But he would not lie about this, either. After Montreuil, it had always been personal.

"I wonder," Cosette spoke up quietly, staring at her hands which were folded over the very visible proof of her pregnancy in a protective gesture, "I wonder, Monsieur, if, looking back at it today, you still regret so very much that you weren't successful that night." She looked up at Javert, her eyes imploring.

Javert held her gaze briefly, then he looked down. "Madame, less than a year ago, I was very certain about a lot of things that I have since come to learn were wrong. And I'd be a hypocrite to now say I wish that your father had been taken from you and returned to the galleys, and that you had been brought up in a state orphanage. I do not wish that." He sighed. "But I do wish I had not failed so badly in my duty yet again." His voice was a mere whisper when he added, "You see, it's the one thing I was ever good at."

"It was the one thing you ever let yourself try, Monsieur." Cosette looked at him, and her lips slowly curled into a warm smile. "I think we're all learning that there are many things you could be good at if you'd allow yourself to be."

Javert looked away. He felt his ears burn and knew his face was turning dark red. God, these people. They had a talent to make him feel so vulnerable, so open to attack, so… naked.

Once he had composed himself somewhat, he looked up again, and saw Cosette and Marius eating contently, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and Valjean smiling at him with warm support and without a hint of reproach or ridicule.

He sighed. Sometimes, he wished that once they had him at his most vulnerable, they'd just pounce and destroy him with the attack he was left wide open to. But whenever he was at his weakest, they lavished warmth and support on him and made him feel…. God, he could not admit this. But neither could he lie to himself.

Safe. They made him feel safe.

Paradoxically, this simple fact scared him beyond all reason.

xxxxx

As soon a dinner was over, Javert went outside. Normally, he helped Cosette clean up after meals, but today he needed to be alone. The others accepted this without question, and Javert had to admit to himself that sometimes, he was glad not to be treated like an employee after all.

He sat on the bench by the back door and sighed, hiding his face in his hands. What was happening to him? How could he make it stop? Did he want it to stop?

Suddenly, he felt something pushing against his shins. Looking down, he saw a brown-and-white tabby cat rubbing against his legs, her tail straight in the air. She looked up at him, and he recognized her as the cat the gamins had been mistreating in the alley.

"So you followed me home, huh?" Home? Was he admitting that this was his home? To a cat?

The cat purred and jumped up next to him, now pushing her head against his shoulder. Javert figured it had to be some sign of affection. Carefully, he lifted a hand and reached to pat the cat's head.

With a scream, the cat shot off the bank and disappeared in the bushes.

"Hey – I wasn't going to hurt you…" For a second, Javert felt disappointed, then that feeling gave way to anger at himself for even caring what a street cat thought of him. He, who for decades had carefully cultivated a demeanor that made grown man tremble under his gaze, now felt disappointed that an animal feared him.

He heard the door open and looked around. Valjean, of course.

"Is everything all right? I heard something."

"Yes, I was just…" Unable to admit that he had been talking to a cat, Javert made a vague gesture and turned away.

Valjean hesitated. "Do you need… anything?"

Javert shook his head.

"Good night, then. I'll see you in the morning…"

Javert nodded. After a moment, he realized that Valjean was not leaving. He turned to him again. "What?"

Valjean's eyes spoke volumes. The man was worried about him. Worried that he might be shaken enough to do something stupid… again.

Javert sighed. "I will still be here in the morning, Valjean."

Valjean looked at him searchingly for a minute, then he simply nodded and left.

What bothered Javert the most was knowing that had he asked him to, Valjean would have been glad to sit with him and talk.

No. What bothered Javert the most was that he almost had asked.

xxxxx

Not long after Valjean, Cosette and Marius came outside to bid him good-night before going to bed. Marius offered to bring him a lantern, but he declined. Javert continued to sit outside, staring into the darkness, trying to order his thoughts.

He had been sitting there for almost an hour when the cat reappeared – apparently out of thin air – and stared at him. Javert looked at her, but made no movement. The cat jumped up on the bench and sat next to him again. Javert watched her impassively. After a short while, the cat suddenly tensed, straightening up as if she'd heard something Javert hadn't. A jump, a pounce and a sharp squeak later, she was standing in front of him, dropping a freshly-killed mouse onto his boot.

Javert stared at it in disgust. But then he raised his eyes slightly and looked at the cat again. She was making no move to eat her prey. "Is this… do you mean to make me a present?"

The cat said nothing, as those of her species normally do, and started cleaning herself meticulously.

Javert looked from the freshly killed rodent to the huntress, who was ignoring both him and her prey. He sighed. "You too, huh? Everyone's falling all over themselves to be good to me, help me, make me feel like a part of the family…" He shivered, though the summer night was mild. The cat looked at him attentively, purring quietly. Javert shook his head. "I'm really not that likable, you know? Ask anyone." The cat jumped up next to him again and headbutted his shoulder. He sighed once more. "Anyone who doesn't live in this house, that is." The cat paid him no mind, instead curling up tightly on the bench, her back pressed against his thigh.

"You know," Javert kept talking, because at least the cat wouldn't interrupt him with reassurances or apologies, "Sometimes I wonder… They were right about so many things I was wrong about. Maybe if I could just give in, let them change me, maybe I could be whatever it is they seem to see in me." The cat's tail flicked slightly, but she made no other comment. Javert shook his head. "But I can't. I'm not that flexible. I… I tried to kill myself once rather than letting go of my cherished set of beliefs. Which was foolish, of course, but… God, sometimes I still wish… it would have been so much easier." Ever since he had come to live in this house, every day he had felt confused, unsettled, and thoroughly overwhelmed. He, who for over 50 years had never entertained a single doubt, now found himself doubting everything, every day. Even himself. Especially himself. Sometimes he thought the strain would tear him apart.

The cat got up, slowly stretched out and jumped off the bench. With a final headbutt to his shins and a small purr, she strolled off into the bushes.

Javert shook his head at himself. Now what am I doing, he thought, sitting out in the dark talking to a cat? I am going crazy. I have to stop being such a ninny and remember what I really am. With a derisive snort, he got up, kicked the dead mouse into the bushes, and entered the house. After quickly checking that all the doors and windows were shut up properly, and looking in on the patients to make sure they were all sleeping peacefully, he went to bed.

xxxxx