AU where Fantine lives and escapes with Valjean to the convent. Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting, nor do I have anything beyond the most rudimentary knowledge of nineteenth-century shaving techniques.

Fantine adored Jean Valjean. Not only was he wealthy, a saint and her personal savior, he was the only person she had ever met who truly understood what she had been through. True, he had been a convict laborer and not a whore, but one form of slavery to society was no different than another. Furthermore, he was the only person who was willing to talk about it. Under any other circumstances, they both would have suffered in silence. But now that they had each other, they could finally be honest with themselves. And she never loved him more than when he did something completely out of the blue- like carrying her over a brick wall in the dead of night with the police hot on their tails.

"Now do you regret marrying me?" he asked her three days later, as he came into the convent for the second time after spending the night in a casket.

"Never," said Fantine firmly, carressing her husband's cheek once they were safe inside their chamber. The stone walls were cold around them, but all they felt was warmth. "Jean, that was incredible. What you did was so brave. I don't think I could have been nearly as clever as you. And- " she whispered wickedly- "it was a little bit of a thrill, too."

"It's Ultime now," said Valjean, looking straight ahead out the frosty window. His eyes were both the calm and the storm, a dull muddy brown that seemed to reflect the trees and earth with the seasons. When Fantine looked into them, she felt as though she were looking directly into Nature's soul.

"Oh, Ultime is such an ugly name," Fantine moaned, huddling closer. "And now I am to pretend to be your daughter, and Cosette your granddaughter... But Jean, loving you like I do... How long can we keep up this lie?"

"Please, do not call me Jean," said Valjean confidentially, "even here in private. Fauchelevent might hear us."

"Fauchelevent would not care if your name was Lucifer and you had a tail and horns, he would keep you hidden here whatever it takes. As it is- " she rolled over, kitten-like, and stared up at him. The words were unspoken between them; he was nothing less than a fallen angel in her eyes. "I like Fauchelevent, Jean. I can't thank him enough for what he's done for our family. Yes, family; that's what we have now. I hardly dared to think it before, much less say it. He is like the father I never had. Such a sweet old man- I mean, so are you, but you're not that old, and I don't think about him that way- " she stopped, her face bright red with embarrassment, then abruptly sat up. "I'm just so glad you didn't smother to death in that horrid coffin. Fauchelevent told me how worried he was when he opened the lid and your face was pale and you weren't breathing and- oh, Jean, I'm just so glad you're alive. You're such a survivor, I'm sure you must have a guardian angel."

"I do," he said, stroking Fantine's golden hair. But he stole a glance up at the ceiling and acknowledged the presence of Bishop Myriel.

"Oh dear, Jean," said Fantine, examining his face.

"What's wrong, ma chérie?"

"You've grown a beard," she said, fingering the light flecks of stubble on his neck and chin. Even though the hair on the top of his head was white as snow, his beard seemed to have escaped this fate, as it was pale silver with even a few flecks of its former dark brown around the edges. It was as if only his beard had avoided the stress of Champmathieu's trial by the fortune that it had not been present. "You haven't had a chance to shave since we left Montfermeil. You're hairy as a - " she stopped herself before she said "convict."

"And what's the matter with my having a beard, if I may ask?" he said, half-jokingly. "Don't I have the right to make choices like that for myself?"

"It is not right for a man in a sanctuary to have a beard," said Fantine. "It is not the mark of a holy man."

"Our Savior had a beard," Valjean pointed out.

"Yes, but you are not- " she stopped herself for the third time. "I will shave it for you. Right here, right now. Are you ready? I shall go get some cream." She got off the bed.

Valjean shrugged. The only reason he was agreeing to this was that Cosette seemed to be on her mother's side. Yesterday, when he had kissed her forehead, she had winced and complained about "Papa's scratchy beard." He had not related this incident to Fantine, as she merely would have laughed it off. Also, Cosette seemed to associate facial hair with drunkenness and maliciousness, due to her days living underfoot the drunks at the Thénardier inn. Monsieur Thénardier himself had a very impressive mustache and goatee, and now, Cosette recoiled in fear at the sight of all men who were not completely clean-shaven. She barely seemed to recognize Valjean as the same man who had come for her at Montfermeil. Perhaps if he were to keep the beard she would just get used to it in time, but for now, it simply would not do for Cosette to be afraid of him. Personally, he liked the beard, if only because it kept his face and neck warm in the winter. True, it reminded him of his convict days, but at least he had some control over it, and well-trimmed it made him feel like a gentleman. But alas, in this battle it was two against one.

Fantine re-entered the room, carrying a shaving kit. "You're going to have to teach me," she said, sitting down next to him. "I've never shaved a man's face before. Really, you have no idea how hard it is to find a shaving kit in a convent. I asked Fauchelevent, but he just stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Finally I found one in the Monsigneur's office, where he apparently keeps an extra. I'll just use a little cream, I doubt he'll even notice."

Valjean smiled. Normally he would reprimand her for stealing, but he decided he'd just leave a note and a little money in the Monsigneur's office, enough to buy a bottle of shaving cream. Fauchelevent would vouch for him. "The trick is to stir it with the pestle until you get a good lather," he said. "Then, you slather it on with your bare hands- here, take this cloth- and hold the razor at a tight angle, like this."

He guided her hand as she moved her lithe wrist slowly around the rim of the bowl. "I can do it," she protested softly, her fingers gathering foam trails and, of their own will, performing a delicate dance that mesmerized her. The foam was so rich and pure, it looked like icing, and she had to resist the temptation to lick it off. Cake with icing was a luxury she had had on a few occasions, when she was in Paris the first time. After she lost her job at the factory, she thought she would never have it again.

She obeyed his instructions to dab the foam onto the cloth. She rubbed it first, to make sure it was smooth and even. Then she placed her hand gently just below his left temple and began to draw it lovingly down his cheek. He smiled as she swirled the foam artistically in great big circles, like a painter's apprentice set loose for the first time upon her canvas. It wasn't as if she had zero experience with shaving- as a prostitute, she had had to shave her legs and armpits every other day. It was difficult and time-consuming, and sometimes painful as well, like when she cut her armpit and had to bandage it up to avoid getting an infection, disguising the bandage as a corsage. But there was no beauty in that, no artistry. Now, Jean Valjean would be her blank slate, just as she would be his.

The lathering was done. The skin on his cheeks was moist and ready. It was time to begin the hard part- the actual shave.

Fantine unsheathed the blade and held it steady. She realized now that she didn't know the first thing about male hygiene. She had never seen Félix or any of his friends shave, though they always appreared before her miraculously clean-shaven. It had never occurred to her that baby-smooth cheeks were a thing to be maintained, not taken for granted. There were so many things about her ex-beau that she had never noticed. Don't think about Félix now, she ordered herself. You'll start crying and lose your focus and end up cutting Jean. Just keep your eyes close to his face and follow the path of the razor blade. Do not make Jean suffer because you were a fool in your past.

His face remained stoic as she traced his rugged jawline with the edge of her blade. She wondered if she was really doing a good job or if he was just doing what he did best- suffering silently for the sake of another's happiness. She suspected the latter but didn't dare to ask. She wished with all her heart that she could know for sure, that she could read his mind without being terrified of what she might see. She had to know what was in there so that she wouldn't hurt him. If she ever hurt him- even in a small way, even by accident- she would never forgive herself. She still hadn't forgiven herself for spitting in his face when he had been trying to help her. She knew that he hadn't forgiven himself for his mistake in allowing her to be dismissed, and that he would be harder on himself in the future than she ever could be. Maybe it was just the saintliness of this place, but she dared to believe that it was more; that it was the saintliness within him. Nobody goes looking for a saint, but when you find one, you don't pass it up for anything. Even though she was learning that being married to one could sometimes prove exhausting.

"I'm done," she told him, and held up a mirror. "Look at yourself."

He took the mirror from her and examined his face in the dim light. Flecks of pure white laced his jaw in spots that Fantine, in her inexperience, had missed. He picked up a dry cloth from the bedside table and discreetly wiped off the excess foam.

"You look very handsome," she told him.

"I look like Madeleine," he said tensely, recoiling a bit from his reflection. As a disguise, he now realized with a bit of horror, both options were now impractical. With a beard he would be recognized as Jean Valjean, and without he would be recognized as Madeleine, who was Jean Valjean no less. A pair of large mutton-chops might do the trick, but that would just look silly. His reading glasses, resting low on his nose, would suffice to make him look chaste, like he belonged- at least, as much as a man could belong in a nunnery.

"Don't worry about it," she said lightheartedly, stroking his tender, freshly shaven cheek. "Everyone thinks you're dead, remember? And even if they didn't, the last place anyone is going to come looking for you is a convent."

"At least if they do come, they won't be able to take Cosette away," he said stoically, as if to himself. "They can take me, but she has rights now. She has a legal identity, and most importantly, she has you."

"Don't say such things," said Fantine with concern. "You worry me when you talk that way. A child needs a mother and a father growing up. I should know, because I didn't have either one, and look how I almost turned out- but for God's grace and you. For my sake and Cosette's, you must promise to think sometimes of youself."

"All right, Fantine. I promise."

They held each other in the silence of the convent, the orphans, the boy raised by his sister and the girl named by a passing stranger, the convict, the grisette, the woman whose name meant "infantile" and the man whose name meant "Here's Jean", these two who had come from nowhere and nothing and would to thence return. But in between, a child had brought them together, a child that no one else wanted. And they each silently swore to the other that they would always be together, as long as I am living.

A/N: What do you think? Should I continue? Do you have any fluffy or angsty one-shot ideas for Valjean/Fantine? Tell me in the reviews!