The weeks in Montreuil sur Mer have a symmetry that is both pleasing, and tortuous. Pleasing, in that the predictability of the routine suits his character, tempering the variety of the actual work; torturous, in that he can predict, to the day, to the hour, the effect the time spent in the mayor's presence will have on him.

Monday is the best day of the week. On Sundays, he sees Madeleine only at church in the morning, and spends the remaining half-day in blessed freedom. It allows him time to regain equilibrium, time he spends preparing his uniform for the work week ahead. He polishes his boots. He has his shirts cleaned and starched. He oils the leather of his belt, and makes sure his sword is sharp. On Monday morning, he arrives at the police building with an ordered head, full of nothing but what the criminals of the town may have in store. In the evening, he meets Madeleine at his factory, and reports on the day's activities. He tries to avoid looking at him too closely, and receives the same treatment in return. It is only at the end of the brief conference that the problem begins anew; Madeleine, who spends more time with his eyes angled towards the desk than at his face, watches his back as he leaves. He knows it, because he feels it, and because he is an honest man who refuses to attempt a lie even towards himself, he cannot pretend he does not.

By Wednesday evening, the weight of Madeleine's gaze makes his neck hot as he leaves the office. He finds himself wondering if the man has walked to the window to prolong his study, but cannot bring himself to look up to check.

By Friday, he walks down the stairs with his eyes closed, fingers clutching the hilt of his sword as if to draw strength from it. It helps to feel the solid mass of steel under his gloves, as though holding on to something real will take away the ambiguity of those eyes aimed at his back. By the time he has crossed the factory floor to the door at the side, he is no longer breathing. It is always the same.

And on Saturday, it is unbearable. It is the longest meeting of the week, reviewing the six days past, and looking to the week ahead. Madeleine will sometimes interject with points raised from his own work during the last days. Conferences with other gentlemen of the town, plans to extend the hospital, and give more aid to the poor. The man looks at him then, at least for a time, until the brown eyes slip to the side, or down. When Javert responds with what are usually objections, or points Madeleine must surely have missed in his plans, the mayor listens without apparent focus. Javert cannot tell if his thoughts are welcome, or expected, or objectionable, because Madeleine will not show his whole face. And by the time they are concluded, there is a week's worth of covert attention built up under the layers of his skin. Glances in the street when they pass, the occasional walk side by side if they are moving in the same direction, a skirmish here and there over the correct sentencing of a criminal. And the nightly reports, where Madeleine will not meet his eye, but roams over him as he leaves. It is a trespass, because what sort of man watches under cover of a man's turned back? But he cannot claim he dislikes it. He has tried to. He attempted to get angry at the man when he first realised his own suspicious gaze had a twin. Now, he does not know what to think. He only knows that Saturday nights are torture. He reads, as he always does, and learns not to hate it so much – at least on the nights it keeps his mind occupied, and his hands unsullied.

Javert attends Mass on Sunday mornings, and finds his mind wandering from the Father's voice, to Madeleine's lips, always moving in prayer. Madeleine's voice, raised in song. Madeleine's smile, breaking the heart of every single woman in the city, warm as it is with everyone but him. Javert walks home on Sundays, always slow, deep in thought. The man is a fount of everything fine, but there is something behind those eyes. He feels it in his blood. His traitorous blood, that has started to react as those women do. The conscientious preparation of his uniform used to be simply because it was necessary, and because he takes quiet pride in being immaculate. Now it is a prayer in a new form, silent busywork to keep his hands engaged, and away from himself.

He wrestles with the question of how to deal with it. He could ignore it, but the prospect of living with this unspoken…whatever it is, is ridiculous. There does not seem to be any explanation forthcoming from the mayor, and he cannot live in hope that one will suddenly be voiced. Asking the man seems to be the only option. And why should he not? It is not as though Madeleine will have any idea of the effect of his silent scrutiny – and besides, the explanation may be perfectly simple. Javert has suspicions, and has had since he arrived. If they are correct, a conversation might uncover some truth.

Good sense or not, he cannot deny the nerves in his gut on the next Saturday evening. Madeleine sits straight-backed as he reports, and listens with intent at the beginning, until the brown gaze slips again. Javert continues until he is finished, and then stops. The man does look at him then, smile primed, and ready to dismiss.

'Monsieur le Maire, I would ask a question.'

The deviation from the script seems as much a surprise to Madeleine as it was to himself, when he realised it had to come. 'Then do, Inspector, by all means.'

It is Javert's turn to avert his eyes, and he addresses the wall behind the man's left shoulder. 'Do you find my work lacking, monsieur?'

A brief pause, and then a huffed laugh of surprise. And, perhaps, relief, which makes him wonder what the man thought he might have asked. 'Lacking? Javert, why ever would you ask that?'

The words are more difficult to say than he thought. 'Your attention, monsieur. I feel it wanders. Whether this is some reflection of my work, or a personal enmity, I cannot say. If it is the former, I would prefer you tell me in which ways I am failing, so that I can rectify them.'

It is true, because he always speaks true. But Javert has considered whether there was more he should feel obliged to say. If he could find words to frame his thoughts further, he would try. It is impossible; how can he say, I feel you watch when I turn my back, and I cannot contain what it makes me want to do. Madeleine's eyes are wide now, and surprise makes his smile genuine. 'Why would you believe I have a personal enmity against you?'

'I did not say you did, monsieur. Merely enquired as to whether it was the case.'

'And if it were?'

It takes a moment to understand the question. 'Then...I would ask what I had done to displease you, and offer an apology.'

Madeleine's eyebrows raise, and he sits back in his chair. 'You are sure you would apologise, even without knowing what it might be?'

Again, it takes a moment. It seems safest, in the end, to try and return the question to something he had meant to say anyway. 'My job is to serve you, monsieur. It does not require personal approval on your part. But if there is some way I have wronged you, or made you uncomfortable, I see no reason why it should make these meetings unpleasant for you. Speak, and I will put the problem to rights.'

There is silence. Madeleine looks to his desk, his fingers fiddling with a pen. Javert feels the air become heavy, but can gain no satisfaction in the proof that he is not alone in this. Whatever this is. 'Javert...there is no enmity. And I certainly don't find your work lacking. It is nothing but perfectly thorough, and correct.' He leans forward a little, his forearms resting on the chipped wooden surface. 'But I am curious as to what prompted this.'

Javert cannot tell an untruth. He cannot even wish he could. Still, he wrestles with the words before they insist on being aired. 'You watch me, Monsieur le Maire. You look away when I stand before you, and you watch me when I leave.'

His gaze is above the man's head, now. But when there is no reply, he risks a glance. The pen is frozen in Madeleine's fingers, caught in mid-twist, and the brown eyes are fixed on a point on the desk.

'Oh.'

Javert looks away. And then back. Madeleine is looking at him; as their eyes lock, he feels it again. That silent weight, that builds all week. Only now it comes on top of six days of it, and Javert feels his blood start to rise, thrumming low and strong in his ears.

'Well. That is not enmity.'

His collar feels tight. There is heat at his neck. He swallows hard, and bows abruptly, anything to break eye contact. 'Then I shall take my leave of you, sir. I wish you good evening.'

'Javert-'

But he is walking away, praying his legs won't bow under the pressure of that gaze. His feet take him quickly now. There is no chance of outrunning the sinful thoughts that build as the days pass, but he can try. By the time he reaches the safety of his closed door, he is breathing hard, and feels the prick of sweat in the whiskers by his ears. 'Control,' he says, out loud, but his back has to rest against the door and hold him when he feels his legs may fail.

Saturday is the worst day of the week. Always.

###

Javert has been a spy his whole life. It comes as naturally to him as lying does to a thief, and it is an asset he has long since learned to appreciate. It began when he was a boy, when he would observe his world as an outsider must. It was a secret that was his alone; he could not trust his rags to hide it, so it crept under his skin and curled behind his eyes, a silent shield against the daily horrors of existence. At every injustice, it spoke to him. You will not always be this boy, it said. You will rise above this. And when things were at their worst, when he was beaten, or starved, or the clouds hid the stars from the grating in that cell, he would close his eyes and hear it whisper in his ear; watch.

There were the guards in his mother's - in his – prison, trading her favour for extra food, and free passage for him. The other boys of the street, and the way they talked and moved, the things they stole, the girls they saw. Watching was necessary, to avoid becoming like them. The words in books, spelled out in pieces under the grubby finger of Monsieur Guerin, so he could learn to read and not spend his life in the damned bliss of ignorance. And then later, the slaves of Toulon, their work, and aches, and anger. To be effective, a guard cannot simply react to trouble, but must anticipate it, and be ready to move at the slightest hint of heightened blood and clenched fists.

Now, Montreuil sur Mer, and Javert watches. The people; yes. The streets, and the docks; yes. And the mayor; yes. Javert watches his eyes, and the way they move, because there is something about the corners of them that tugs at his memory. And because the man watches in return, and damns him to actions he has striven his whole life to reach beyond.

Another Saturday night, and the ache is killing him slowly. It is November, and cold, yet his skin is flushed with the pain of torment, the want of touch. He wakes in the dark, from a dream of light; Madeleine's smile, framed by the soft glow of candles, and the gentle brush of fingertips down his thighs. Javert groans, and turns his face into the pillow, his hands clenched into fists. No, he will not. He cannot. To give in is to reduce himself to the animal, to debase himself as he has promised he will not. 'God give me strength,' he mutters, and twists his eyes against the fever of the dream, against the tight throb of his cock, and swollen balls. A hand twitches, instinct telling him he should grab, and tug, and stroke it away; he fists the sheets and tries to breathe. He has seen men do this. He has watched them standing over his mother, shameless and exposed. He has seen her laugh and put her hand on them, had to watch as she lay back and spread her knees. Closing his eyes never worked then. He would hear them, those men, grunting in the dark, while the air grew sweet with the smell of their sin. Sometimes the light of the moon reflected off a naked backside, thrusting in abandon; sometimes God was forgiving, and obscured everything but the noise, and the smell. But it was worse, almost, those animal cries rising from the depths of their depravity. He would put his hands over his ears, and turn away, but never managed to make it disappear.

He thought he would be free when she died. No more rutting in the straw like pigs, no more noise. He would have peace, and tell himself it never happened – or at least, consign it to a past he would never acknowledge. But then came Toulon, and not three days into his new life, the sound rose again. Animals in the dark, joined by the frantic clanking of chains. Sometimes the grunts became screams of pain, sometimes accompanied by jeers and encouragement of the other creatures. And sometimes, there came a noise they probably thought was pleasure, a hollow approximation of joy. The guards were told not to interfere. He stood with the rest, ignoring the lewd comments of men who should know better, and refusing to enter their game of bets on who was getting it tonight. Never, he told himself, listening to the voice behind his eyes. In order to rise, a man had to set himself apart. So. Never.

He tells himself that now. Reminds himself that he is beyond the primal urge that lesser men cannot resist. There were days in his youth where he would wake up panting, coated in sweat and the seed of what he would not let become his downfall – but surely, he reasoned, he could not be held to blame for the inherent sin of his mind. All men are born with it. The measure of a person is whether they allow themselves to fall victim to their pleasures. And he will not. He will not.

Impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints. He mouths the words into the sweat-soaked wrinkles of his pillow, unable to move in case the brush of linen against his erection proves too much. Everyone who is sexually immoral or impure, or who is covetous, has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God. 'Forgive me,' he says, but it is Madeleine who smiles behind his eyes. He chokes, and twists; the flush of arousal runs down his body and earths in his groin with the blunt force of fist into muscle, and for a second, the mayor rises above him, gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. Javert moans, helpless, and grips the sheets but it is too late. His shame pulses out of him in waves, ecstasy that has nothing to do with pleasure. It leaves him shaking and limp, and worse, unsatisfied.

'Forgive me,' he says again, to himself, to no one. His body answers with a slow lick of derision, making him curl under his blanket. Maybe now it is over. But, no. The throb is lessened, but removed from its point it simply spreads through his skin, and urges him to stretch out, and relax. He cannot. He must fight it. So he stays curled, feels his manhood shrink slowly in the dark, covered in the cloying odour of his own debasement.