AN: thanks for the feedback! you guys are awesome. sorry this is so short!

It was only after Michel had left that evening (at the nurse's insistence) that Valjean realised what he had promised. Before he had been too caught up in the boy's terror, in the rumble of anger in his chest and the sickening realisation of what Michel's broken arm had meant.

There was no way Valjean could take him in; they had barely enough for themselves as it was and to add another, particularly to add anothergrowing boy to their family. Besides, with his leg in this way and the black mark of a debt unpaid to his name, finding work would be nigh on impossible. He could see about getting the child in to the care of a parish somewhere but he knew even before he had been told by the boy's olive skin that he had gypsy blood in him. He would have to travel far to find someone willing to take him in without a pretty payment.

And then there was the problem of the uncle. Surely if the man didn't want him he could have just left him to the mercies of the street, lord knows it happened often enough. Valjean had no control over Michel, short of kidnapping him and fleeing the city (even if he doubted anyone would come after him) what could he do?

He sighed and rolled slightly to rest on his side. The ward was almost pitch black, the only light was that of the flickering candles out in the hallway and the soft silver light the poured through the window behind his bed. In the dark it was easy to imagine Michel's uncle as some sort of demon, tall and towering and dark. He wondered idly whether the uncle is Michel's mother's brother, whether he has the same dark skin and hard grey eyes. If he did it would be easy to imagine him terrifying a small child.

Maybe it had been an accident. The arm. Maybe his uncle had simply tugged him too hard to prevent him falling out of a window or something. Children muddled things, exaggerated them all the time, didn't they? His sister's children certainly did.

But not Michel. Michel was too bright to misinterpret something like that and he wouldn't out right lie about it. Lying it seemed was not Michel's strong suit, the few times he'd tried Valjean had been able to tell by the amount he wriggled.

He growled.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

"And after that?"

"Ninety-one," Michel said with a triumphant grin. They had sped through the alphabet and Michel had a good enough grasp on grammar and spelling to be getting on with (well in Valjean's highly uneducated opinion anyway) so he had moved on to counting.

The boy was sat on Valjean's bed as usual but he had his back to Valjean today and was busily scribbling away on a piece of scrap paper as Valjean tested him. Valjean had noticed a slightly pinkish spot where the neck line of Michel's shirt hung loose. If he leant forward he could see that the spot wasn't a spot at all. It was a long puckered scar that disappeared underneath the shirt.

The kind of scar Valjean had only ever seen on convicts and slaves.

Valjean swallowed the anger rising in his body. He needed to do something to get Michel away from his uncle.

Michel hummed as he drew, an odd tune Valjean had never heard.

"Michel?" He asked cautiously, "Do you know your father?"

Michel glanced over his shoulder at Valjean and shook his head. "I never met him. He was a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

Michel nodded, "Mama was in the prison too. She says she was only in there because of who she was but my uncle... He says she was a bad woman. He says she was a," he glanced around nervously as though afraid of being overheard but the only two other ward occupants were fast asleep. "A whore." He finished, sounding a little disgusted.

Valjean stiffened a little, he held no illusions about childhood anymore, he knew it was rough for most but still, there was this odd ache in his heart for this angry little boy. He put a comforting hand on Michel's shoulder, "Do you know what that word means Michel?"

Michel nodded stiffly.
Valjean sighed and for a moment there was silence then Michel poked at his bound up leg. "When will you be able to go home?" Michel asked.

"Hopefully soon, my sister and her kids could really use my help."

Michel turned to him, "Do you have a job?"

Ah. Valjean thought about lying, after all Michel seemed to have an understandable preoccupation with the law. He had had a job of a sorts before all this debtor business as a labourer but he'd been let go fairly quickly after his little mishap. "Not at the present time, no."

Michel frowned, his bright eyes narrowing. "So how do you make money?"

"Well I...I work odd jobs. Wherever I'm needed." He said carefully.

Michel sagged a little, as though in relief. "Oh, that's okay then. I can work too, when I get out and I don't have to go back with my uncle. He'd never let me. Or he'd take all the money for himself and spend it at the tavern." He reached up and rubbed at his nose inelegantly.

Valjean sighed.

"They said I could leave the day after tomorrow," Michel said, his voice shaking slightly. He waved his arm, it was still bandaged but the cast had been removed. He bit his lip and hesitantly met Valjean's eyes. The unspoken question hung heavily between them.

Valjean smiled as reassuringly as possible, "I'm working on it." He said.

Michel grinned.

The doctor sighed, "I am sorry Monsieur, but you must understand there is nothing I can do."

Valjean bristled, "The man broke his arm. He's eight."

"Allegedly," the doctor cut in coolly. "What would you have me do? Have this man arrested? There is no proof of what you say happened, the boy may have fallen. Or he may have been in a fight with another child, empirical evidence would suggest that is strong possibility. Besides, it is not against the law to discipline a child, especially one as boisterous as Michel."

"There is a difference between discipline and assault." Valjean growled.

"You may have noticed from the boy's dark features that he has some gypsy blood in him and their race does have a penchant for trickery, do they not? Perhaps he's simply lying because he doesn't get along well with his uncle. He was, after all only permitted to stay in this hospital because of his uncle's support."

"He's a child," Valjean repeated. "He deserves to be somewhere he isn't terrified every minute of every day,"

The doctor sat back a small smile playing across his face, "Monsieur, I admire your guile, I do, but that boy's uncle is a man of great standing in the merchant world and you are nothing but a common vagrant; You are free to do as you please but be advised you will find now support from me. Now if you'll excuse me I have sick people to attend to."

Valjean swore. The doctor had been his last idea. He knew if asked Jeanne to take Michel she would do but she would never be able to support him alongside her sons, they had been living on scraps and the food Valjean (and a few of the nurses) had been saving for them from his hospital meals. He stood unsteadily and snatched up the old crutches leant up against his chair to limp back to his ward.

He supposed he could always just take his chances, teach Michel to steal. He thought about the mark on Michel's back (in his mind there were a whole network of scars criss crossing and overlapping) and knew that in itself would be a challenge. Michel seemed to see him as some sort of role model could he really destroy that? But If he couldn't support him what happen? They would all starve. And there would come a time when Valjean would need to choose between Michel and his nephews and he didn't think he could make that choice. There was no one else to take him and even if there was Michel's uncle would still be a problem.

By now he had reached the ward and one of sister's rushed to help him struggle back into bed. Once they had managed it and the sister had left Valjean fisted a hand through his hair and growled in frustration.

There was this voice in his head, this dark little voice, the one that had always been there, that hissed that he should just leave Michel. Who was this boy to him truly? Just a gypsy boy with a broken arm. A means to an end (your only friend here, the only one who talks to you) Michel wasn't his family. Wasn't his responsibility. Wasn't anything to him.

If he brought Michel with him he was dooming the boy to a life of hunger on the streets, dooming his nephews to even less food. If he took Michel the boy's uncle might just take him back. Could he really offer Michel a better life? His uncle may be harsh but Michel had a home, protection from the stigma of his gypsy blood, food (even if judging by the boy's skinny frame the portions were meagre.)

There was nothing he could do, the voice said. And there was nothing he needed to do.

(Even if he knew his resolve would crumble as soon as he saw Michel the next day.)