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Javert gently kicked the sides of his horse, riding through the dirty streets of Paris.

It was late, the clock tower stroking midnight somewhere in the distance, the church bell giving off a single chime. Patrolling the streets for vermin and criminals was a regular pastime for the inspector, and he secretly grew tired of seeing poor citizens in squalor, teeth missing, torn clothing. Prostitutes littered the streets as he travelled.

The infamously ruthless police officer had a stern, strict expression on his masculine face. He was tired at this hour of the night, and was ordered to investigate a disturbance in the east part of Paris. Two of his men followed him, galloping behind him loyally.

The building was repulsive, Javert came to realize, as he and his men approached it. The architecture of it was beautiful, yes, but it was run-down. A cat screeched in an alleyway somewhere in the distance of the night. Javert scrunched his nose in disgust, looking around him. He got of his horse, his men doing the same. The cold December air in Paris made him frigid to the bone, chilling him up his spine.

Snow fell from the night sky in heavy bundles, Javert's boots making imprints in the snow as he approached the building. The wind sent a chill through him, and he wondered what awful things he would find inside the building. He'd been told that there was gunshots, and yelling. That was never positive report, and Javert would've rather been doing anything at the moment other than seeing bloodshed.

He walked up the front steps of the Paris apartment.

He knocked on the door with his leather gloved hand, but to his surprise, the wooden door easily opened with a creak for him. He pushed the door a bit farther and walked into the apartment.

The old, faded pink wallpaper in the room was peeling. Pictures on the wall had their glass broken or had fallen to the floor and shattered. The apartment was eerily silent, so quiet that for some reason, Javert was afraid to make any noise. As he looked around, he was repulsed.

There was blood in the front room of the apartment, smeared on the floor. Javert stepped in it, walking through the small room to the staircase, which was wooden and rickety. There, halfway up the stairs, he saw a haggard young woman, dead. She had pale blond hair and blood was smeared on her revealing, green inexpensive dress—Javert guessed she was a prostitute, but he wasn't sure—mainly on the abdomen.

A messy bullet wound resided there, flesh torn and ripped, blood smeared all over her, her eyes wide open.

Javert left his men to search the downstairs of the run-down apartment. He walked past the corpse on the stairs, going to the upstairs single room. The furniture was thrown and ransacked, tables and chairs flipped, the window on the far wall wide open, letting in freezing December air and heavy snow. The snow was beginning to coat the hardwood floors.

Javert went to the window. He saw the view of Notre Dame, and then looked out at the night, looking up at the stars.

He heard a noise behind him, a ruffling. Javert knit his eyebrows together in confusion, looking over his shoulder at the ransacked room. He saw nothing, but shut the window in front of him, shutting out the winter winds. His eyes scanned the room, and he noted that there was still furniture that hadn't been turned over. Nevertheless, the drawers were pulled all the way out and emptied.

The woman in the staircase had tried to stop the Parisian thieves that had robbed her home, and failed. It was a shame, really, that their was crime in Paris like this, Javert concluded. He'd sort out the report with the Court and move onto the next case, just as he always did.

This time it would not be so easy.

He turned to walk back down the staircase and out of the repulsive apartment, but was immediately stopped at the sound of the ruffling again. Javert turned around, looking at the single room again. There was no one there, not that he could see, at least. Nevertheless, he took a few steps back into the room, his boots clunking on the hardwood floors. He looked again, seeing nothing.

Until his eyes caught a sheet moving that was draped over a bassinet. Under the bassinet and the sheet, a face of a young girl poked out. She couldn't have been more than two and a half years old. She had ringlets of honey blonde hair and hazel eyes. She looked terrified, and stared at Javert in fear.

Javert gaped at her, staring at the little thing like he'd never seen a child before. He thought she looked freezing and in pure fear; she trembled and looked at him with wide eyes, like she was expecting him to strike her. They looked at each other for a little while longer, and he inhaled.

He slowly made his way to the other side of the room, to the bassinet by the window.

He took off his hat, bowed a little, and kneeled down to the little girl's eye level. She gripped the side of the sheet in fear and almost backed away from him, but looked into his gentle eyes and seemed to change her mind. Javert was no expert with children, but he thought he had an idea of how to treat one. He gave her a a small, gentle smile.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," He said, kissing her small hand.

"Bonjour, monsieur." She responded, trembling, her red-rimmed eyes filled with tears.

"What's your name, darling?" He asked gently, knitting his eyebrows together in pity.

"Jacqueline." She said, looking up into his gentle eyes.

"I'm Javert," He replied, and added softly, "Will you come out, Jacqueline? Please, darling?"

He reached his hand out for her, but doubted the little thing would accept it. To his surprise, she put her small hand in his much larger one. She looked at him with curiousity and what Javert thought was hope as she crawled out from the under the bassinet. Javert remained kneeling on her eye level, to maintain comfort and limit his intimidation, which he knew he was so good at. He didn't want to frighten her anymore.

She had lived through the apartment's robbery and her mother's murder.

He looked at her and suddenly realized how beautiful this little girl was. She was small and frail with a bruise under her right cheekbone, and a bit dirty, yes, but her hair and eyes made up for it. She looked at him with those frightened, wide hazel eyes, and Javert instantly felt saddened by this little orphan. She was extremely gentle and polite, and Javert was surprised she came out from under the bassinet so easily and without a fuss.

She put both of her hands on his knees as he crouched in front of her.

"Where's Mom?" She choked out, silent tears streaking down her cheeks. Javert looked at her with sadness, in his mind wondering how to tell this little thing that her mother was murdered in the same house as her while she hid. Javert reached up and brushed the tear away on her right cheek with his thumb. She looked at him, still trembling and clearly scared.

"Inspector—"

Two of Javert's soldiers stood at the top of the staircase, but stopped when they saw a little girl standing there with him. Javert didn't tear away from Jacqueline, his eyes not leaving hers. He held up a black, leather-clad palm to the two soldiers to dismiss them, who nodded and went back down the stairs, their boots clunking as they went, leaving Javert to deal with the situation.

"Your mother is with the Lord," Javert said softly. "I'm here to help you."

Jacqueline looked at the inspector. Javert knew she wouldn't really understand what had happened, she was far too young. She was still an infant in his eyes. He didn't expect to find this child, or any child for that matter, tonight. His eyes met hers, and he was surprised when she threw herself into him and hugged him. Her hot, wet tears hit his navy blue uniform as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. He didn't quite know what to do first, but after a moment he put his arms around her and caged her in his arms to comfort her.

"Merci beaucoup, Javert." She said, but her little voice was muffled in the crook of his neck.

Javert did not respond. He put his hand on the back of her head. He felt pity for this little girl, who knew nothing of what had happened. She was so innocent, so naive, so young. Beautiful. Her eyes had seen nothing of the crimes of the world. She was so fragile and quiet. So innocent. Javert quietly kept her in his arms and stood up. She kept her head in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around him. Javert held the little girl close to him, carefully carrying her.

He knew right in that moment, as he cradled the vulnerable little girl, that he was going to raise her.

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