So remember when I told y'all I don't write romances? Well, I was lying. Or at least I would be if I said it now. This story is the love child of the fact that I couldn't sleep last night and the other fact that I just got Les Mis on DVD on sale at Best Buy. YES. With a capital YES. For partial inspiration of this story, I would like to thank davidzombieblastergouck for his story Javert, Louise, and the Mother as well as ScienceExperiment5150 for the story Jennine ValJean. Seriously. Y'all are great. This may take a while for me to update. Also the first few chapters may be a little bit awkward, as I mentally started the story with Javert falling in love, which will probably not happen for a while. Ugh. Next time I should just take a sleeping pill.
Note: I've aged Javert down considerably because, well, I couldn't exactly see 40-year-old him falling in love. It's hard enough to imagine him falling in love at all.
Other note: Javert's first name here is Michael. That is not a reference to my first story; I just like the name Michael Javert. While we're at it, the Cosette mentioned in the third paragraph is of no relation to the play - it's just a common French name that I decided to use.
Michael Javert was ruthless. At twenty-three years old already in 1812, nothing could possibly stand in his way. Twenty-three. Twenty years ago today, he had sprung free from the terrifying prison in which he was born. Not that he would admit to being terrified. Michael Javert was ruthless. Heartless. Colder than a Toulon winter. More than that, he was proud of it.
It was June of 1813 when Javert spent a week in Paris with some fellow officers from Toulon. They were all young, but Javert had an advantage the other officers did not: he was quite unattractive. If anything amused him, he might have been amused by the fact that the police uniform attracted young women when worn by the other young officers, but terrified them when he wore his own. He liked it that way. The June sun beat down mercilessly on his back, clad in thick navy blue cotton. He smiled, for he enjoyed the sun's lack of mercy on him.
She was barely nineteen and had not lived in Paris long, but she already had a taste of the way Parisian women of her age acted and she did not respect it. "Look at them, Cosette. Isn't it disgusting, the way they follow the officers, prancing and giggling?"
Cosette snorted at her friend's words. "What, you don't envy them?"
"What, and you do? Cosette, they're like newborn fawns on absinthe." This caused Cosette to laugh loudly enough to draw attention from the officers and their uppity escorts. Behind the group, another officer walked by, and Cosette could not help but notice that her friend snorted as he walked by.
"Say something to him, why don't you? He looks lonely." Cosette pushed her friend forward, almost into the officer.
"May I help you, mademoiselle?" He was already annoyed, and this was not helped by Cosette's laughter. "And why, may I ask, is your friend laughing at you?"
The girl found the strength to stand up straighter. "She's not laughing at me, monsieur, but at you." Cosette covered her face, amazed at her friend's brazenness. The officer stepped back, horrified and quite offended.
"Why is this?" He asked, trying desperately to remain calm.
"You have awfully long hair for a man, monsieur. Your voice betrayed your identity, otherwise we would have carried on talking about how odd it is to see a woman in the king's service."
The officer brushed away the rebellious strands that had broken free from his raven-black ponytail. He did not like rebellion; he adored order and discipline above all things. "You have awfully short hair for a woman, mademoiselle. I would have commented on how a man your age should not be caught wearing a dress."
"If only you had a companion to share such comments with. I care nothing for the length of my own hair. It's not my fault the bourgeois need wigs."
The officer gave her one more look. She was young and strong, and the greatest of optimists might even say beautiful. He was none such optimist. However, he could admire her deep brownish-green eyes, even if they were poorly framed by her short, mousy curls. "You have a quick wit, mademoiselle. Learn to tame it or it will keep any respectable man from marrying you."
"Profound advice from a friend, but unacceptable from a stranger. May I learn your name so that I may accept your advice?"
For the second time that day, week, and month, the young man smiled as he extended his hand. "My name is Michael Javert."
She accepted it, hoping Javert would not see her blush. "And I'm Louise. Do not forget me, officer Javert."
After making sure Javert was out of hearing distance, Cosette began to applaud slowly. "Nice work, Louise. Now who's a fawn on absinthe?"
Louise only stared after him as he strolled away. "What was that?" She asked absentmindedly.
Cosette laughed just as she had wanted to since Javert walked by. "Sweet mercy, look who's in love with a police officer!"
