A/N: Hello everyone! It's been a while, hasn't it? I apologize for the over-a-year-long hiatus; I needed to sort my life out and overcome some problems I've been facing.

Anyways, I was suddenly struck with inspiration to write something for our lovely Inspector. I hope you enjoy!

I still have the same beta, who I would like to thank for putting up with my non-stop anxiety.

I do not own Les Mis. I still cannot comprehend why anyone would think that I, a neurotic shut-in who only knows a few words of French, would own Les Mis.

The sun sank behind quiet shops, their windows dark, casting long, grey shadows across the cobblestone streets. Streetlamps illuminated the occasional bystander, typically a woman of the town who would offer her services for "real cheap, M'sieur!". A crisp breeze would infrequently sweep the light dusting of snow across the ground, swirling and drifting in nonsensical patterns. The eerie silence, coupled with the untouched snow, would convince anyone who came upon the scene to believe that by some mysterious circumstance, most of Paris' population, save a few petty offenders of the law, had suddenly vanished without a trace.

The Inspector's breath turned silver and slowly dissipated into the air. Yes, he loved his job more than anything else in the world, and yes, he was determined to bring wrongdoers to justice, but even he was human and therefore subject to exhaustion. After such a long day of work, his feet ached and his head was throbbing - he wanted nothing more than to rest for a mere few hours, then continue with his duty. Still, he was expected to work for another three dreary, seemingly endless hours before he was free.

Javert observed everything and anything that came into his line of vision, emotionlessly scanning for any disturbances. Everything was the same as always; actually, it somehow seemed more ordinary than it usually did. The same lampposts stood on the same streets paved by the same cobblestones, the only difference being the thin layer of glimmering snow. It was, dare he think it, boring. Then again, his life was just a repetition of the same old tasks - wake up, work, sleep, repeat - and heaven knew he wasn't getting any younger.

His thin lips curled into a scowl. Two hours, fifty-five minutes left. He turned a corner, following his usual route, and began to march down the street, his large boots leaving a singular pair of imprints in the snow. The sky was navy velvet, the twinkling stars obscured by clouds that promised another snowfall. Sure enough, little crystalline flakes began to float down to earth, catching on the Inspector's hat and jacket. Two hours, fifty-three minutes. And, it was snowing.

The Inspector was never the sort to voice his complaints, and this rang true even then, though, had he been the sort, he would have surely sighed, or grumbled, or groaned, or cursed indignantly. Nothing had ever been stacked up in his favor, yet he still persevered. Nobody recognized the amount of effort he put into his achievements, and yet here was that criminal, Valjean. . .

Bloody Valjean.

Bloody Valjean, who broke the law whenever it was convenient, who always had some excuse for his wrongdoings, who could convince anyone that he was, as a matter of fact, the victim.

Damn him.

He was so caught up in his own feelings of irritation that he almost neglected to notice the whimpering bundle of filthy rags quivering in the alley beside him. Of course, this only furthered his irritation. He trudged over and raised a loose rag, hoping to see what interrupted his moping. Two bright eyes met his as the bundle of rags bluntly stated, "It's a cold night t'night, M'sieur. Why're ya out here? Y'know, ya could probably go inside or somethin'."

He glared at the small child, who seemed to be completely oblivious to his exasperation. The child blinked, watching him curiously.

"I have a duty to the law, to exact justice on those who mock her and make nuisances of themselves."

"So yer one of the bobbies?"

"I am not a bobby. I am an Inspector. Please, do properly address figures of authority."

"I don' need manners! I'm gonna be out 'ere my 'ole life."

Javert reluctantly pulled out a Napoléon and handed it to the child, who grabbed at it with their grubby hands.

"Wow, thank ya, Inspector!"

The child grinned widely, not that Javert saw it - as soon as the coin had been handed over, he began to plod away. Two hours, fifty minutes.

A/N: I think Javert pities the younger children on the streets and wanted to see them rise above poverty, seeing as he was in a similar situation. I feel like people often forget that he was a human being. He did some bad things in his life, of course, but he tried to do what was right - he just didn't know what was right. As you know, when he realized that there was more to living a moral life than following the law, he ended his life. I think Javert is a tragic character, and his personality has many layers. This was my first time writing Javert, and I hope I did justice to his character. -AshQueen