AN: this will probably be a blend of musical/film and book canon (I'm rereading the brick atm so until then do point out any glaring flaws) Evidently this is rather au. Feedback would be awesome!

Inspired loosely by the film 'The Fall' go watch it. It's amazing.

If I owned Les Mis my laptop would not be held together by sellotape.

TW for child abuse.

The boy was small for his age, at least Valjean thought he was, thought he must be. He looked to be about seven but he spoke too well, far too well, to be seven. He stood at the foot of Valjean's bed, his arm in a cast and sling, with bruises on his face and a cut on his cheek, he looked like he'd been through a war. His skin was darker than most Frenchmen, his eyes were a soft grey colour and there was a spot of what looked like jam on his pale hospital shirt. But still, he stood, his free hand on his hip eyeing Valjean as though he were a criminal.

"You're not a child," he said accusatorially and Valjean noticed he had lost his two front teeth. "I thought this hospital was for children."

Valjean smiled at him, "It's not only for children." He gestured around the empty room, "This is the adults ward." Truthfully though, the hospital was mainly for children, it had only recently been given an adult's ward. Valjean had the pleasure of being the first adult patient.

The boy frowned, "You're the only one in here. Why?"

"Guess I'm the only adult silly enough to get hurt, huh?" Valjean said, wriggling his bandaged leg. "You're the first person I've spoken to that doesn't work here."

The boy eyed Valjean's leg scornfully, "What happened?" He asked, nudging it.

Valjean sighed. The boy may look mature but he doesn't need to know that there are people who will set their dogs on you if you don't pay your debt back quickly enough. "I fell." He said.

"That was silly of you," the boy said very seriously.

Valjean chuckled, "It was indeed. How did you hurt your arm?"

"I fell," He said, cheeks reddening. "But its okay for me to fall 'cause I'm still a kid."

"I see."

The boy studied him for a few minutes before glancing around the empty room. "Can I sit in here? My room is noisy, it's all little kids and there's a baby that won't stop crying."

"Don't you want to play with the other kids?"

"I'm not a kid," he said with such venom that Valjean couldn't help but laugh quietly.

"You look like a kid to me."

"No," the boy protested, "I am eight. Not a child!"

Valjean smiled, "My apologies."

The boy's mouth twisted and he looked down at his feet, "I don't like them much." Which Valjean took to mean they don't like me much. "Of course you may."

The boy gave him a weak smile and turned to scamper out of the ward, he heard him run along the corridor, presumably back to his own ward. A few moments later he returned, a book tucked under his good arm. He flashed Valjean a small smile and clambered on to the empty cot beside him, pulling the heavy book in to his lap. Valjean leant over; the book was a beautifully illustrated children's bible, he flicked through the pages, tracing some of the words with his fingers, his lips moving silently as he sounded out the words. He didn't look like a wealthy child, in fact his presence in this very hospital proofed that he was not, that meant he probably had a very patchy education.

"Can you read?" He asked the boy, as delicately as possible.

The boy glared at him and Valjean bit back a laugh, for such a tiny thing he made a good show of being ferocious. But them the boy's face crumpled and he sighed, "No, not really," he said mournfully. "My mama used to read it to me, I remember some of the stories from the pictures."

"You know," Valjean said, "I could read it to you."

The boy's face brightened momentarily but something flickered across his grey gaze and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You won't try and take it will you?"

Valjean smiled, "Why would I do that?"

"There was this one boy who tried. He was a whole five years older than me but I made him give it back." He said, throwing his chest out proudly. "He hit me though." He gestured to the cut on his cheek. "But I didn't cry."

"I bet you didn't," he held out a hand for the book.

"You promise you won't steal it?"

He laughed, "I promise."

Still the boy hesitated, "I'm not supposed to speak to strangers."

Ah. Valjean turned his outstretched hand to the side, "My name is Jean."

The boy took his hand and shook it vigorously, "Michel." He said with a tentative smile.

"Very nice to meet you, Michel," Valjean nodded, he picked up the book from where Michel had left it on the bed. "Where do you want me to start?" When Michel shrugged Valjean smiled, "How about we start from the start?"

It became a ritual for them, Michel would scamper into his room at around midday and Valjean would read to him (and teach him to read) and then Michel would leave at dinner time. It was a nice break from the loneliness, the Sisters and the doctor who, though friendly, were much too busy to spend more than a few minutes with him at a time. His sister came when she could which wasn't often. He'd gained a ward-mate, an older man named Tomas, but he wasn't much very good company, years on the street had made him bitter and irritable. Valjean understood, it was stressful enough living with his sister and her children in a one room flat, he couldn't imagine living on the streets. His leg meant he couldn't move around much either so Michel was a godsend.

It only took him a few days to read through the bible Michel had and since then he'd been teaching the boy to write. Michel was a bright boy which was lucky since Valjean didn't hold much stock in his teaching abilities. He'd been learning bits and pieces about his new friend too, Michel had even shown him the brightly coloured tarot cards his mother had given him.

"Are you a father, Jean?" Michel asked one day when they were working on grammar.

Valjean blinked and laughed, of all the questions to be asked! "No, I'm not old enough yet. Maybe one day though."

Michel poked at his stubbly beard with suspicion, "You look old enough."

"Why thank you," he chuckled. "No, I'm only eighteen, maybe that's in my future."

"Oh," Michel nodded. "So that lady who comes sometimes with the loud baby, she's not your wife?"

"You've seen her?" Valjean was faintly surprised, Michel had always been conspicuously absent when Jeanne visited. "She's my sister, why didn't you come say hi?"

Michel wriggled uncomfortably, "I hid," he admitted quietly. "I don't think she'd like me very much."

Valjean put a hand on the boy's shoulder to hold him still, "Why wouldn't she like you, Michel?"

Michel shrugged, steadfastly avoiding Valjean's eyes, "I don't know," he mumbled. "It doesn't matter." Valjean waited for a few moments until Michel sighed, clenching his tiny fists on the sheet, "The other kids don't like me and my uncle... He says I'm a bad kid."

Valjean's heart broke a little for him, he gripped Michel gently by the shoulder, turning the boy to face him. "You're not a bad kid, Michel. I like you. The sisters like you. Your mama likes you. Hm?"

Michel sniffed, "I guess."

"Michel," he said firmly. "There is nothing wrong with you, okay?"

A smile ghosted across Michel's lips, "Okay." He said quietly.

"Now lets get back to writing shall we?"

Michel watched him for a few more minutes, "I think," he said thoughtfully. "That you would be a good father."

Valjean grinned, "Thank you."

"Now here," he said, pushing the scrap of paper towards Michel. "What does that say?"

Michel glanced down at it briefly, "Don't know." He mumbled, pushing it back.

Valjean frowned, Michel had been on edge to day, distracted, almost clingy. "You do you know," he insisted, tapping the row of words. "What does that say?"

Michel fidgeted, "I don't care," he muttered, scrambling across to press himself into Valjean's side. "Tell me a story instead."

Valjean twisted slightly so that he could see the boy's face, "What's the matter with you today?" He asked, smoothing a few wayward dark locks from Michel's face. He didn't look ill, he hadn't acquired any new bumps or bruises nor had the sister's hadn't mentioned him being particularly naughty as of late.

"Monsieur Le Docteur," he said quietly. "He says I can go home soon."

"Oh, Michel, that's wonderful!" Valjean smiled but Michel shook his head vigorously.

"I like it better here! You'll be all alone if I leave..."

Valjean clucked sympathetically, "Do not worry about me." He said, smiling encouragingly. "I'll be fine, I'm a grown-up remember?"

Michel swallowed, "But..." He looked away again, burying his face in Valjean's side. He was trembling, Valjean realised with a jolt. He manoeuvred Michel gently so that they were sitting face to face, "Michel, what's wrong?"

Michel looked down, balling his fists in Valjean's shirt front, his jaw was clenched. "I do not wish to go home."

"Why ever not? Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman."

Michel had told him of how she sang to him, how she taught him the constellations and their stories. His grip had tightened almost painfully, "She was not a good woman," he hissed, grey eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Valjean took a steadying breath, he had never seen the young boy cry, not even when his arm had had to be rebroken because it had set wrong. "Michel," he said gently, "Michel, what aren't you telling me?"

Michel buried his face in Valjean's shirt, "My mama is dead. The bad men killed her." His little voice broke.

"Oh," Valjean said, tightening his hold on the boy. "Oh, oh. I am so sorry. Who do you live with then?" He asked, rubbing soothing circles into Michel's back. He had never mentioned a father, Valjean had assumed that like so many kids these days he didn't know his father.

"My uncle," Michel murmured. "He is not a good man either. I hate him." As soon as the words were out of his mouth Michel froze, pushing away and scrambling to sit up. "Don't tell him," he whispered, eyes wide with fear. "Please, don't tell him. He'd be so angry, so angry."

"Why would I...?" Valjean began but his eyes fell on the cast on Michel's arm and a sick idea clenched at his heart. "Michel," he began very softly. "Your uncle, did he... Did he do that?"

Michel leapt back as if stung, "N-no," he stammered. "I fell down. It was an accident. I'm a clumsy child...a clumsy child..."

Valjean's heart broke, his stomach lurched. It was not uncommon for a father to hit his child, it was far too common for Valjean's liking actually, but to break a child's arm? That should amount to violent assault at the least. "Michel, it's okay," he said softly, sitting up and reaching out to touch Michel's shoulder. He flinched as Valjean's fingers met his shoulder. "Michel, it's okay. I won't say anything to him, I won't let him hurt you."

Michel pulled away from his grip, "What can you do?" He spat. "You're just a cripple!"

"My leg will get better," Valjean protested, "I swear Michel, I will find a way to stop him hurting you."
Michel scrubbed at his eyes, looking up at Valjean through his fingers. "You promise?"

This time when Valjean reached out to him he didn't flinch away, he pulled the boy back onto the bed and held him close, "I promise." He murmured. "I promise."