Summary: When Champmathieu is convicted and returned to Toulon, Madeleine remains the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer. Javert must face the fact that Madeleine is not Jean Valjean, a thief and convict—he is just a man, and no worse than any man.

Author's Note: This story was originally written for the Les Mis kink meme over on LiveJournal. However, it turned out incredibly un-kinky and developed a plot instead; somehow, all of the intended smut between Javert and Valjean blossomed into this elaborate AU. This was written as a (very) long one-shot, which is broken up here to make it easier to read.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

No Worse Than Any Man

Javert's Dismissal & the Mayor's Mission

Javert's knock was as formidable as the man himself. Three thuds came in quick succession, and the oak door rang handsomely.

"Come in. Ah, Javert."

At first, the mayor's voice was gentle, as though he spoke to a particularly shy child; as he caught sight of Javert, a chill crept into it. It was about the woman—Fantine—Javert knew. Six months in jail was no more than she deserved. Bad enough to be a creature of the night when there was honest work to be had, but he could not punish her for that. To assault a man was a different matter, and he seized the opportunity to arrest her like a wolf set on a wounded deer. Her appeals in the station had left him unmoved—it meant nothing to him that she owed money or had a sick child—but the mayor's heart was soft. Javert had seen enough of whores to know that tears were merely another way they used their body, but her pleas had awakened some strange sort of pity in the mayor.

But that was not what concerned him at present.

"Monsieur Mayor." The next words stuck in his throat. It was a great blow to his pride to admit being wrong, but even less so could he subvert the law. "I have failed in both my duty and station; I am no longer fit to serve on the police of Montreuil-sur-mer. I ask for my dismissal."

Rarely did any emotion disrupt the mayor's serene expression; surprise was strange on him.

"Your dismissal? Whatever for?"

"I have been insubordinate and underhanded. I would resign immediately, but that is not enough. I deserve to be punished. You must dismiss me."

"I do not understand. You have always done your duty most . . . effectively."

For a moment, the mayor was far away. Whatever memories danced in his head seemed unpleasant—in that second, his eyes were wild, almost brutish. But when Javert blinked, the mayor had returned to himself. That did not stop Javert's spine from tingling, the same itch he felt when apprehending a man in the street; the expression had been almost familiar. He stopped himself quickly—that sort of thinking had been the cause of this trouble in the first place. The expression couldn't be familiar . . . his next words were proof enough against that.

"Six weeks ago, I wrote to the Prefect of Police in Paris. I told him of my suspicions regarding a prominent figure of Montreuil-sur-mer; I said that I thought the mayor, Monsieur Madeleine, was not who he claimed. I named him an ex-convict from Toulon—a Jean Valjean."

"Jean Valjean? Who is Jean Valjean?"

"A convict I knew from Toulon years ago—a bread thief from Faverolles who robbed a bishop upon being released. You see, Monsieur Mayor, for some time I had suspected . . . there were certain similarities . . . your strength when you lifted the cart off of old Fauchelevent, your marksmanship, your right leg which drags a little, as if from the chain . . . but I see now that I was wrong."

"Go on." The mayor's voice was as impassive as his face. Both were stone.

"Several weeks later, I received a reply from the Prefect. I was out of my mind, he said; it was impossible that Jean Valjean had become the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer, for he had been apprehended that very week. It seems a man called Champmathieu was caught stealing apples and identified as Jean Valjean."

"Is that so?" For all of the mayor's apparent disinterest, he hung on Javert's every word.

"It was a messy business, monsieur. Stealing apples is no great crime, it is true, only a misdemeanor—but add in highway robbery and stealing from a bishop . . . it was not a difficult decision for the jury."

"And what has become of this Champmathieu—that is, Jean Valjean?"

"Oh, he has been tried and returned to Toulon; this time he will serve for life. He insisted until the end that he knew of no Jean Valjean, that he was only Champmathieu. But Valjean has always been sly—no doubt he thought feigning ignorance an effective ploy. But the jury was not fooled."

"Their verdict is final? There is no chance of him going free?"

"Rest assured, he is already behind bars. He will serve with no chance for parole—he will die there and his bones will rot in the prison. The Eternal Father himself could not reach him now."

Madeleine's face was so white it was almost indistinguishable from his shirt. The papers he had been stacking fell from his hands at Javert's words.

"The man denied it all, you say? But how could you be sure—how do you know there was no mistake?"

"I went to Arras and identified him myself, as did three other convicts he served with. He was the man—there was no mistaking it. Older, stupider, but I would have recognized him anywhere."

Underneath his shame, Javert could not suppress the smallest tinge of satisfaction. Valjean was back where he belonged—behind bars—thanks in part to Javert. He had acted disgracefully, certainly, but perhaps he had not been totally useless; his dismissal would mark the end of a successful, if shortened, career. But one small triumph did not excuse his gross misconduct.

"So you see, Monsieur Mayor, why I have come. I have denounced you—wrongfully, at that—and I must be punished."

"You wish to be relieved?"

"Dismissed. I have been no better than a spy, and it is you, Monsieur Mayor, who has been most wronged. I have abused my authority, and I must be stripped of it."

Madeleine looked at him with eyes that did not see. His imperturbable calm had shattered. Javert watched as he returned to shuffling papers and noticed that his hands shook slightly. His distress was understandable—had Champmathieu not been caught, perhaps Madeleine would have stood before the court, tried for crimes he did not commit. Until seeing Champmathieu, Javert had been convinced that Madeleine was Valjean. The jury might have been similarly tricked, for they had never even seen the convict. It would have been easy to send the wrong man back to prison; small wonder Madeleine trembled at how narrowly he had escaped that fate.

But when the mayor spoke, his voice was steadier than his hands.

"You exaggerate your crime, Javert. You have caused me no harm, and I hold you in high esteem. If you wish to resign, you may, but I will not dismiss you. There is no need. If anything, this is but another example of your outstanding honesty."

"But Monsieur Mayor—"

"That is all. Thank you for the information, but I am afraid it concerns me not. You may go."

Javert obeyed. His footsteps leaving were as measured as his knock on the door.

With the real Valjean behind bars, Javert saw less and less of him in the mayor. The similarities between the two were not so great after all. Madeleine's skill with a gun was unparalleled, but that was easily attributed to good eyes and a steady hand. A fall from a horse or some childhood accident could have injured his leg; it was not altogether uncommon to walk with a bit of a limp. As for his enormous strength—well, times of stress did strange things to a man.

They did look similar—that much Javert still saw—but it was their manner which contrasted most. Madeleine's wealth was not tempered by pride. He was kind to all, regardless of their station—Fantine was proof enough of that. His voice took on the same patient tone whether he spoke to the visiting Minister of State or the orphaned boy who swept the streets at night. No one knew where he came from; beneath his genteel clothing, he looked like a laborer with his tanned face and callused hands. But no laborer walked with the quiet dignity of Mayor Madeleine.

Valjean had been sullen and illiterate. He had rarely spoken, and yet there had been something disquieting about him all the same. He was never violent—apart from his four escape attempts, he never raised a finger against anyone, prisoner or guard—but the other convicts gave him a wide berth nonetheless. His stare had been disconcerting even to the fearsome Javert. Those eyes, sunken and yet bright with anger, were not the sad eyes of Mayor Madeleine.

Still, old habits remained, and he observed the mayor closely. The tumult he had taken on during Javert's visit had not faded. He walked like a man who saw nothing of his surroundings. People called to him in the street, but he did not answer—perhaps he did not hear them over his inner turmoil. His hair, which had been grey, had turned white.

Early each morning, Javert walked around the perimeter of the town and down the main street before heading to the station. After years spent at Toulon, he still woke with the dawn, and he liked to patrol the streets in the morning. Some days, he found vagrants curled in an alley or drunkards slumped on the tavern's doorstep. They always scampered like rats at Javert's shadow in the morning light. The main terror of the destitute was not hunger or sickness—it was Javert.

The mayor rose early as well; most mornings, Javert saw him on the way to city hall. The mayor would raise his hand in greeting and Javert would tip his hat respectfully before both went on their way. As of late, however, the mayor forsook his office in favor of the hospital. His devotion to the woman was completely unfathomable to Javert. She was the very dregs of society: dependent on the charity of others and a burden to all. But if it was pity she wanted, it was pity she found, for Madeleine visited her every morning.

The hospital was at the end of the square, closer to the police station than the mayor's office. As such, the two often crossed paths as of late. Their exchange was the same each day:

"Good morning, Javert," the mayor would say with that distracted look he had worn lately.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mayor," Javert would respond.

Javert addressed the mayor with a sort of awkward deference. Even three weeks later, his embarrassment regarding the Champmathieu affair burned as freshly as ever. The mayor never mentioned Javert's insubordinance, but it needed no reminder. All he had to do was look at Madeleine, the face that to him had once resembled Valjean's, to be overcome with shame.

Since he had received no official punishment, Javert imposed his own. He responded to disturbances with a ferocious quickness; gendarmes patrolling the area were often surprised to find Javert already at the scene. He wrote reports with a diligence that was almost obsessive. If he was not finished with his paperwork at the end of the day, he did not go home; if he was busy with an investigation at the hour given for lunch, he did not eat.

He was carefully polite to the wealthy and painstakingly restrained around the poor. This did not make him less intimidating; he was even more terrifying in his moody silence. Around the mayor, he was the most cautious of all.

He would have avoided him altogether, but the police station and the hospital were too close to permit it, short of Javert going far out of his way. Instead, he kept his greeting to "good morning." Thankfully, the mayor never tried to make conversation. They were both absorbed in their own thoughts, Javert drowning in self-reproach and the mayor in his mysterious agitation.

This morning, however, Madeleine seemed to be in good spirits. The fog surrounding him had lifted slightly. He carried a basket over one arm, which Javert saw was full of pears.

"Good morning, Javert," he said. Javert tipped his hat.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mayor."

"Farmer Deschamp was up before dawn to harvest these pears—he says they are better if picked when it's cool. He was kind enough to give me these. Would you care to try one? They are quite ripe, and yet not too sweet."

"No thank you, Monsieur Mayor." Javert was not fond of pears, nor any kind of fruit. They were too sweet for him—simple foods, bread and sometimes meat, had sustained him all of his life. Fruits were unheard of in Toulon, and they were a delicacy he had never grown accustomed to.

"I am bringing these to Fantine and the good sisters at the hospital. Pears are no substitute for a doctor, I realize, but perhaps their taste will lift her spirits. Are you sure you will not have one? There are plenty to spare."

He offered the basket. Contrition made Javert slowly reach out and pluck the topmost one. The fuzzy texture was foreign against his rough skin.

Madeleine looked pleased. "Good day," he said, and moved off toward the hospital.

The pear was heavy in Javert's hand, hidden in the sleeves of his great overcoat. He took a bite cautiously, but juice still ran down his chin.

It was too sweet, as he had known. He threw it away as he walked to the police station.

Javert's office was small, but that did not hinder him. His few possessions were organized precisely. On his desk, papers were stacked meticulously in two piles: processed and to be done.

He left late that evening, as he had for the past month; he stayed several hours after the other officers traipsed home to dinner with their wives and children. As Javert had no family, he lingered in his office until the light began to fade. When the church bells tolled eight, he straightened his desk, nodded at the desk sergeant on his way out, and walked through the town one last time before heading to his small apartment.

He took his customary route down the main way. The streets were deserted, but as he passed the city hall, he was surprised to see a light flickering in the mayor's office. Strange shadows darted from wall to wall.

It was far too late for the mayor to be at work. It could only be an intruder riffling through files, or perhaps ransacking the mayor's desk. There was no night watchman in the building—it was no more than a lucky chance that Javert was passing by.

The front door was unlocked—surprising, given the hour—as if the thief valued stealth and had picked the lock rather than force the door. Javert crept up the stairs, stopping just outside the mayor's door. He could hear the floorboards creaking, as though the thief flitted nervously from cabinet to cabinet.

Javert was through the door in an instant; this door, also unlocked, had given way easily, and he could not stop himself from flying into the room.

Madeleine looked as surprised as Javert.

"Javert!"

"Monsieur Mayor!"

Their voices overlapped. Madeleine was as agitated as Javert had ever seen him—his hair was disheveled, as though he'd been pulling at it, and his clothes were rumpled. He was a far cry from the man who had so casually offered a pear.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Mayor. I saw shadows on the wall, and I thought maybe an intruder . . ." It was the third time in three months Javert had been humiliated, and all three times in the presence of the mayor. He wished he had been dismissed.

"No matter," said Madeleine. "It was an honest mistake—you have done no more than your duty, as always. But what on earth are you doing about the streets at this hour?"

Javert wondered the same of the mayor. "I was just leaving the station."

"So late? What has happened?"

"Nothing. But there are always reports to be written and warrants to be filed."

"Surely the other officers are not so dedicated as to stay this far into the evening. Your diligence is to be commended."

"Thank you, Monsieur Mayor."

He had been dismissed, but Javert did not leave. Curiosity had cooled his embarrassment. Madeleine sighed and took a seat.

"Now that I know why you have come so late, I suppose you are wondering the same of me. We are both here, when reasonable men have long since gone home . . . perhaps neither of us are reasonable men.

"Fantine is now with God; she left us early this evening. The good sisters at the hospital could do nothing to ease her passing, but I take some solace in knowing that her suffering is now over."

The mayor looked troubled, but Javert hardly noticed. In three minutes, he had gone from humiliated to curious and back to uncomfortable. It was not the woman's death that bothered him; whores died all the time, and the town was better for it. No, it was the way the mayor continued to speak to about it, as though Javert should share his pity for the woman's fate.

"She leaves behind a child—a young girl in Montfermeil, where she sent money every month. When she was sacked from the factory, she found herself in debt."

Even months later, there was still shame in his voice as he mentioned the incident. Javert grew even more uncomfortable; the tension between them over her arrest had not fully dissipated.

"Before she died, I promised I would bring the child here. Now she is gone, and her dream unfulfilled."

The mayor's eyes roving eyes landed on Javert, as if seeking his opinion. Javert cleared his throat. "The woman is dead—surely your obligation died with her."

Madeleine inhaled sharply. "No, Javert. I failed her in life—I must not fail her in death."

"She has no family, no relatives here. Who will care for the child, now that she is gone? A child without a mother has no place." Javert himself was an example of that; born to a gypsy mother and a galley slave, he was forever on the outskirts of society. Entering the police force had been the only path open to him—that, or to become one of the men they hunted. "No, better that she stay with the innkeeper."

Madeleine rose, and retook up pacing the floor. In the candlelight, he looked almost savage. Javert recognized the same shadows he had seen from the window, and they danced over the mayor as he prowled the room like a caged animal.

"I must bring her here," he repeated. There was a finality in his voice when he spoke again. "The child will live with me. I have no children—I will raise her as my own. She is without a mother, but no longer without a father."

Javert's disbelief had no words. The mayor's guilt had driven him to care for the woman—that much he understood. But to saddle himself with her child . . . and a tramp's child! What was one more brat left to roam the streets?

"Forgive me," the mayor said, eyes raised to the ceiling. Javert knew he spoke not to him, but to the departed Fantine. "I have not forgotten my promise. I swear to you, I will not forsake my vow."

Madeleine turned back to Javert, as if noticing him for the first time. "I leave tomorrow." The wildness in him had faded, and he moved with deliberation to the closet to retrieve his coat. Javert, still reeling from the mayor's swift decision, followed him into the hallway like a dog at its master's heels.

They did not break the silence in the street. A remarkable change had overtaken the mayor. The tormented expression he had worn of late had vanished—he seemed resolute in his task. They parted ways at the end of the square; the mayor lived down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc while Javert kept two rooms on the very edge of the town.

"Good night, Javert," said Madeleine at the intersection.

"Good night, Monsieur Mayor."