Summary: What if Javert had not gone to spy on Les Amis? How would his story have still unfolded to a similar conclusion in the Seine?

Disclaimer: Much as I love him (and I really, really love him), Javert and his impressive whiskers are not mine. In fact, nothing vaguely recognisable as belonging to Victor Hugo is mine. I've created a couple of characters but that would be all.

Note: I've had this idea for yonks but it took a third viewing of the show to get the words flowing. Thanks to Earl Carpenter, whose voice inspired me to dig out my battered paperback and put pen to paper!

Note2: Concerning Javert's first name. Both Eponine-Javert and I thought up this name independently and we think it suits him very well. We are in fact starting a campaign for Names for the First Nameless, see her profile for more details. These characters have brought joy and FanFiction ideas to so many for so long, and yet they don't even get the satisfaction of having more than one name. It is time that changed! Join the campaign to provide names for the first nameless!

Heroes and Fools

Gisquet looked very old, very tired, and very worried, and Javert knew that his constant pacing wasn't helping the prefect's nerves. The barricades were going up and the city was in a state of quiet panic.

"The National Guard has requested that the prefecture sends an insider into the rebel camp," Gisquet began, looking at his dogged inspector with pleading eyes. Javert sighed inwardly and stopped his pacing. All the man had to do was ask, and he would be there like a musket shot. The inspector was, after all, as anxious to stop this uprising in its tracks as the next man.

"And I thought, that since this part of the city is your and Renoit's beat, one of you could…"

"Of course, sir," said Javert, glad that the prefect had finally stopped beating about the bush like he had been doing for the past half-hour, but before he could continue, Renoit spoke up. Javert had almost forgotten his sergeant's presence, standing calmly by the door of the prefect's small office.

"I'll do it," he said.

Javert turned and looked at his sergeant. Renoit was a young man, well, younger than the inspector, and despite his merry demeanour and seemingly relaxed attitude, he was a thoroughly capable policeman, which coming from Javert was high praise indeed.

"Renoit," he began, but the sergeant continued.

"No offence intended, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, but I am closer to the typical age of a student revolutionary. Besides, you've made quite a name for yourself amongst the underclasses in our watch. It wouldn't do for someone undesirable to let slip your identity."

Javert was too taken aback by this sudden and horribly correct logic to speak, and Gisquet took advantage of his silence, presuming it to be acquiescence.

"Then it is settled," he said. "Renoit will become informer for the Guard."

Renoit nodded his respect to his superiors.

"Monsieur le Prefect, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. I shall begin forthwith."

"Bonne chance, Renoit," said Gisquet. Javert said nothing, watching as his sergeant left the room. He raised an arm towards the door.

"Javert," muttered Gisquet, his voice carrying a warning tone.

"But…"

"Javert! This is final!"

Gisquet went back to his paperwork. Javert took a few seconds to consider the situation before coming back to the same inevitable conclusion and slamming his fist down on the prefect's desk, causing his superior's neatly ordered papers to jump half an inch to the left.

"Monsieur le Prefect, you know this is wrong," he said through gritted teeth. Gisquet put his pen down and pinched the bridge of his nose. Javert knew that they were both thinking the same thing.

It was not the slight at his age that had angered Javert, it was the unnecessary risk that Gisquet and Renoit were taking. It was well known amongst the force that Javert lived for his work. Should this precarious mission end, God forbid, in death, it would not matter to Javert for he would have perished in the line of duty. It was not so for Renoit. The sergeant had a life outside of the prefecture; a wife and young child who counted on him for their wellbeing. Should he be compromised, it was not one life at stake but three. Gisquet knew this, and yet he had still allowed Renoit to leave with barely a word.

"Javert," he began, rubbing the back of his skull as if he was getting the beginnings of a particularly painful headache. "You know that you and Renoit are the only officers that I would trust with this assignment. You also know that what Renoit said is true; he is far less conspicuous than you are." The prefect paused and finally met his inspector's intense glare."Renoit will be fine," he continued. "He has learned a lot from you."

This was not what Javert had wanted to hear. He broke the gaze and stared down at the desk, all his career failures running through his mind, culminating in the one who got away, the ultimate insult – Valjean.

"Renoit knows the dangers," Gisquet pressed. "I would not have allowed him to go if he did not."

Javert nodded begrudgingly. He was still dissatisfied with this outcome of events. It was not that he wanted any form of heroism, he simply wanted Renoit to see sense and go home to his family. None of the boys on the barricade would spare a thought for those left behind if they fell that night, indeed they had no-one to leave behind, only each other.

"Javert," said Gisquet gently, breaking the inspector's train of thought, "go home. There's nothing more you can do here."

XXX

In Javert's defence, he had gone home when Gisquet had told him to; who was he to disobey a direct order from a superior? But when the fighting had started and the noise and smoke had begun to drift over the city, Javert could stay indoors in his bleak rooms no longer. He had returned to the prefecture, and Gisquet had not been at all surprised to see him. For the past half-hour, Javert had resumed his previous occupation of pacing up and down the prefect's office.

"Javert." Gisquet sighed. "If you continue to move in such a fashion, you will wear a hole in the floor, and to replace it will cost money that the prefecture does not have. Therefore, it will come from your wages."

Javert obediently ceased his pacing. Gisquet signed once more and returned to his ledger, which was making less and less sense as the evening progressed. Javert spent a moment in contemplation before leaving the room. The prefect was grateful for this; the inspector's frame, with greatcoat billowing behind him, seemed to fill the little office. Gisquet looked out of his window, staring out over the source of the night's disturbance. He could not see the barricade, but he knew where it was. There was no noise at that moment, a ceasefire, but it was only a matter of time. He wondered where Renoit was, whether the sergeant was safe. Before he could ponder any more, the door burst open, Javert's fearsome silhouette filling the frame.

"Renoit," he said simply, and Gisquet's blood ran cold.

XXX

The body had been delivered via a local cab, the driver of which was shaking in a corner as he was questioned and given brandy by the desk sergeant. Renoit had been roughly wrapped in a sack, with a note pinned to the hessian. It was this note that Javert held tightly as he stared down at his dead sergeant, crushing it in his anger against the words now indelibly imprinted behind his eyes.

Never underestimate the little people.

Out of the corner of his eye, Javert saw Gisquet shake his head and cross himself, looking up and down the body. From the marks on his wrists, Renoit had been bound and managed to free himself. He had been shot twice; once in the leg, as he had tried to escape no doubt, and then in the back to finish the job. Javert felt nauseous with mingled ire and guilt.

"It should have been me," he growled under his breath. "Oh Renoit, you damned fool. It should have been me."

Somewhere in the vicinity, Javert was vaguely aware of Gisquet sending a messenger to Madame Renoit; of his quietly taking control of the situation.

"Javert? Javert?"

Finally, it registered in the inspector's mind that Gisquet was talking to him. He looked up to see that the prefect was staring down at the note in his clenched fist. Reluctantly, he relinquished it, noting the grim red crescents that stained the paper where his nails and dug into his palm. Javert looked down at Renoit's drained face, looking so peaceful in contrast to the inspector's raging inner turmoil. He had to get out. Ignoring his superior, or perhaps not even hearing him, Javert turned on his heel and stormed out of the prefecture.

XXX

He had known that he was being followed for a long time, but Javert did not stop until he had reached the Pont-Notre-Dame, leaning on the railings and staring down at the angry waters below. He let Soucher, the old desk sergeant, catch his breath beside him before speaking.

"Gisquet sent you."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Indeed."

"Making sure I'm not doing anything rash, no doubt."

Soucher snorted indeterminately. The two men stood in silence for a while, easy company for each other, before Soucher spoke again.

"I can tell why the criminal classes are scared of you," he said. "Javert – Antoine – I've never seen you so angry."

"Not angry, Pierre. Guilty."Javert continued to look out over the river. "It should have been me behind the lines, and Gisquet knew it."

The silence returned, and when Soucher broke it once more, their single unguarded moment of first-name-term friendship had come to a close, the intimacy only a fleeting comfort.

"Javert, you cannot blame yourself for his death. Renoit knew what he was doing."

"I should have stopped him."

"He knew the risks."

"Tell that to his widow."

Soucher sighed and leant back against a pillar, regarding the man he thought of as a sort-of friend out of the corner of his eye. Soucher had not really known Renoit, certainly not as well as the inspector who shared his beat had. But he liked to think that he knew the inspector, and that he knew what the inspector was feeling at that point in time.

"Javert," he began again, placing a hand on his shoulder. The inspector made no move to shake off his touch, indeed the warmth was comforting. He crossed his arms and leant forward on the railing, watching a young mother and her child making their way along the towpath, another man slightly in front of them, his manner nervous and halting. His face seemed familiar to Javert, but the inspector was in no mood to try and place him.

The next events occurred so quickly that no witness would be able to state in a court exactly what had happened. One moment, the little girl was walking next to her mother, the next she had stumbled on the slimy rocks beside the path and slid out of her guardian's grasp into the foaming, angry river. Everyone froze, including Javert, but the mother's hysterical cries would have reached halfway across the city.

"ANGÉLIQUE! ANGÉLIQUE!"

Javert's blood turned to ice in his veins. He knew why the man had seemed familiar, and as the mother knelt by the water's edge, reaching out for her struggling daughter, he saw her face fully and his fears were confirmed.

"Merde," he cursed under his breath.

"What is it?" asked Soucher, horribly entranced by the terrible sight that was unfolding in front of him.

"Madame Renoit," Javert breathed. He stood still for a split second before springing into life, tossing his hat up onto the parapet of the bridge and wrestling himself out of his greatcoat before thrusting it at Soucher's chest.

"No, Javert, you can't," Soucher pleaded, knowing what the inspector was about to do. "Not here, you know what the river's like! It's suicide!"

"Well no-one else is doing anything," Javert growled, hoisting himself over the railings. Soucher could only watch, helpless, as his colleague plunged feet first into the freezing, fetid Seine.

XXX

The first thing that hit Javert was the cold. Even though it was the middle of summer, the temperature of the water still managed to take his breath away as he hit it. The second thing he noticed was the currents, whirling and eddying and requiring every last ounce of strength to move against them. Soucher was right: the river was more dangerous under the Pont-Notre-Dame. There were more suicides from this bridge than from any other, their bodies washing miles downstream from where they met their end.

Ferociously fighting to keep himself in one position, Javert took stock of the situation. His initial thought was not to waste energy swimming against the tide and to let the currents bring the girl to him so that he could swim them both to the bank. This plan would have worked had it not been for the blessed weeds that grew in the congested river and were swirled around by the strength of the water. The girl was caught by a rogue frond, held in place as the waters rushed around her. Javert knew that he had very little time, and he was already tiring from the effort of simply treading water. He took as deep a breath as he could without inhaling a lungful of the Seine, and he set off towards Angélique, swimming against the current with powerful strokes. He finally reached the little girl, sobbing and choking with fear and chill, and he tried to tug her away from her bonds but they simply tightened around her legs. Javert cursed. He would have to untangle her by hand and he was battling the current as it was, without having to go down and fight it head on.

"Don't try to move," he panted over the roar of the river. "That'll only make it worse." He took a breath and ducked under the surface into the murky depths, seeing the fronds through the gloom. The knotted weeds were too tangled to try and work loose, as a couple of attempts to do so proved admirably. He would have to try and break her bonds, but his lungs were burning. Javert forced his way back to the surface and gasped for air. At least the weeds had anchored Angélique so that her head was above the water, although the currents continued to wash over her intermittently. He dived once more and wasted no time in trying to break the slippery reeds, tougher than they looked. Just as he thought he was going to have to give up, they broke and he swam up gratefully. Unfortunately, now Angélique was free, she would be caught up in the current. There was no respite; Javert was already exhausted and he still had to get her to the bank. He grabbed the little girl round her waist and made to transfer her to his back, all the while kicking against the unforgiving tide.

"Hold on," he panted, moments later feeling Angélique clasp her little hands tightly round his neck. All he had to do was get her to the bank, or rather get her to the bank without collapsing, something far easier said than done. The inspector began to swim, only vaguely able to make out the shapes of Madame Renoit and Soucher. He was focussing on the steel grey of the ban k and on not getting a mouthful of water every time he choked for breath. His limbs and chest felt as if they were on fire, and the bank was not getting any closer…

His fingers hit solid rock, albeit wet and slimy solid rock, and he grasped it with one shaking hand whilst the other detached Angélique's chokehold on him. Strong hands lifted her dead weight off his back and Javert was thankful. He could hear Madame Renoit, thanking Monsieur l'Inspecteur a thousand times over. He looked up to see Soucher offering a hand and the young constable messenger whom he had recognised earlier nowhere to be found. Soucher was still holding his coat, one of the sleeves dragging in the water.

"Give it to Madame," he panted. "Made'selle has more need of it."

Soucher eyed the inspector as if he had gone mad before acquiescing and draping the heavy coat around the shivering girl. His momentary absence gave Javert time to recover his breath and what little composure he could glean. It also allowed him time to lose what little purchase on the wet rock he had.

At this point, Javert was not quite ready to die, but also completely unable to save himself. Physically and mentally exhausted, he was about to resign himself to his fate when a hand caught his and he latched on by instinct. He looked up to see Soucher lying on the bank, his face a mask of grim determination. The desk sergeant was not a young man, and such physical pursuits were out of his usual jurisdiction. The sheer effort of keeping Javert's not-insubstantial weight from being carried further down the river prevented him from further exertion.

"Javert," Soucher growled through gritted teeth, "don't you dare let go."

Javert wished he could promise not to, but his fingers were numb with cold and he did not know how much more punishment from the relentless waters he could withstand.

"Manette has gone to the prefecture," Soucher was saying, but Javert was too tired to listen. "You'll be out in no time. Just hold on."

It was all words, just words in his ears. Different voices, different names.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur…"

"Javert…"

He saw a cab pull up and Gisquet himself alight from it; new faces, new voices.

"Javert…"

"Antoine…"

The last voice was that of his mother, of his ancestors who roamed free across the lands. Perhaps it was time to join them. He was so tired, so very, very tired, and the current seemed so welcoming. It was washing away his guilt at Renoit's death, knowing that he had managed to save one life if not both.

He took one last look up at Soucher's sorrowful, pleading eyes, and the other officers rushing to assist him.

"DON'T YOU DARE!"

Javert let go.

FIN

Note3: My original idea, which walked into my head fully formed, ended here. However, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to try it with a conclusive, happy ending. That and Valjean was whining because he didn't have a part.

But I know that happy endings aren't everyone's cup of tea, so I am posting what is in effect the second chapter of this fic separately, under the title Heroes and Fools: Part Two. I would love it if you went over and read it, but even if you do not, please let me know what you thought of this one.