All the Effects of Intoxication

by Miroslav

Instead of committing suicide, Javert goes on a three-day bender. When Valjean finds him, Javert assumes he's a hallucination. Things proceed awkwardly from there.

4. The More Alternatives

"The more alternatives, the more difficult the choice."

- Abbe D'Allainval

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Javert woke suddenly. His head pounded as though he had unearthed and drunk one of Monsieur Bonnet's wine bottles rather than stayed up half the night jotting down further observations and suggestions. After a moment, he groggily realized it was not his head pounding, but someone knocking sharply at the door.

"Javert!"

The familiar voice was like being doused with ice-cold water. The drowsiness that clouded Javert's brain evaporated, and he almost fell off his bed as he jerked upright and stared wildly at the door. What the devil was Monsieur Chabouillet doing here?

"Javert!" Chabouillet said again, his voice muffled.

Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Chabouillet's name stuck in his throat, strangled him into silence as he ran his hands hurriedly through his hair in an attempt to smooth it into some semblance of order. He was abruptly, absurdly grateful that at least Valjean had goaded him into shaving yesterday so that he did not look quite so pathetic.

Then the door opened and Chabouillet stepped inside to frown at him. His round face was set in almost forbidding lines; concern turned his usual cheerful countenance harsh. "Javert," he said, striding quickly over to the end of Javert's bed and blinking owlishly at him. "Well," he said after a few seconds. His lips twisted as his gaze flicked towards the bandages and lingered there. "You do not seem to be at death's door. I confess the note had me thinking the worst."

"The note?" Javert said. The words came out low and scratchy. He caught sight of Madame Bonnet hovering in the doorway. When she noticed his gaze, she offered him a half-apologetic look and then stepped back, closing the door to give them some semblance of privacy. Javert cleared his throat. "I sent no note, Monsieur Chabouillet."

"That much was obvious," said Chabouillet a trifle dryly. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Javert.

Javert accepted it. It took him a few seconds to unfold the paper for his fingers were inclined to shake and it took a great effort to keep the paper from rattling before Chabouillet's intent gaze. The note had been written in an unfamiliar hand. It said, simply, that a concerned gentleman had discovered Inspector Javert wandering the streets of Paris, apparently overcome by injuries sustained during the recent insurgency. The inspector was now recuperating and could be found at his lodgings.

It was unsigned, but Javert had no doubt who had penned the missive. The note crumpled beneath his fingers as his hand curled into a fist. When he laughed, it rang oddly in his ears. Javert thought over the way Valjean's shoulders had slumped and then firmed, as though he'd come to a decision. Really, he should have known better than to trust Valjean's silence, he thought, though his anger was a strange, faraway thing.

"Javert," he thought Chabouillet said, but another burst of laughter drowned out anything else the other man said.

Javert shook his head to clear it, but that did nothing other than to make him dizzy. After a moment, he managed to get his laughter under control. "I see how you knew I was here. But why have you come?" Javert asked, as politely as he could manage. His voice sounded as distant as his anger.

Chabouillet watched him with a frown, an unreadable expression in his narrowed eyes. "I came to see how you were faring and learn when you might be able to return to your post," he said, though the words were said slowly and almost cautiously.

That wrenched Javert somewhat loose from the distant rage; he blinked, ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to think, though his mind moved sluggishly. "But surely you received my letter," he said after last.

Chabouillet's brow wrinkled and then cleared.

"Ah, are you worried about that letter you wrote about the prisons? Do not trouble yourself over that, Javert." Chabouillet flicked his hand, as though dismissing any further concerns. "Gisquet will be a trifle cool to you for a time, I'm afraid, for he was insulted by the letter. He took it at worst a condemnation of the prisons, at best a poor jest. But once I received the note today, I convinced him that it was just the ramblings of an ill man. The letter earned you no friends, but you have not been dismissed."

Chabouillet's attempts at reassurance took a moment to sink in, and then Javert managed a small shake of his head. "That is not- the letter was my resignation."

The harsh lines in Chabouillet's face were replaced by a look of amusement and incredulity. "Resignation? Ah yes, of course. I do not know how I could have missed something so obvious, despite your missive not including a single word about quitting." He tilted his head and studied Javert for a moment. His amusement left as quickly as it had come; his expression shifted to one Javert could not define, despite the years he had known the other man. A rueful smile turned up one corner of his mouth. "Javert, you are as likely to resign as I am. Even if you attempt it, you will find yourself half-mad from boredom within the month, if not the week."

If Javert had not been so dazed, he might have offered a rueful smile in return, for it was often remarked that Chabouillet was the immovable bedrock of the police. Most assumed that he would die at the age of ninety or so at his desk. Still, forcing Chabouillet to retire seemed ludicrous- not even prefects whose ire Chabouillet had invoked had ever suggested retirement.

"Monsieur," Javert began. His mouth was still dry. He wished for water, but the jug was empty and Madame Bonnet had not yet been in to re-fill it. He wetted his lips again, resisted the urge to fiddle with the bedcovers. "I do not deserve my post."

Chabouillet stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. "What are you on about, Javert? Is this because you were captured by the insurgents and held prisoner? Good God, man, there was no way to know someone in that group would recognize you! We had thought that particular barricade would be comprised of students. How could anyone have anticipated a gamin recognizing you?"

"No, that is not why I-" Javert began, and then stopped. Some of his stupor lifted. He shook his head again, and this time the gesture cleared his thoughts. Oh, Valjean had thought this through before he'd sent that note. He'd known Javert could not and would not turn him over to Chabouillet. But what other reason could Javert truthfully offer for Chabouillet so that his resignation would be accepted? Javert could not lie, but he could not tell the truth, either.

Javert passed a hand over his face, laughed again, though this one was low and mirthless. Valjean's trap was very neat indeed. "I do not know how I can convince you that I cannot continue as an inspector."

"Nonsense," said Chabouillet. He dismissed Javert's words with another wave of his hand. "Let me try and guess what has caused this self-doubt of yours. Do you consider yourself a failure for not talking the insurgents out of their stupidity? Pray do not let their deaths sour you so. You cannot reason with fools." He folded his arms against his chest, nodded seemingly to himself. "You need to rest a few more days. That is all." Another frown temporarily furrowed his brow. He hesitated. "Unless your injuries are worse than I was led to believe…."

"No, my injuries are as you see them," Javert was forced to admit. "But…."

He trailed off as Chabouillet moved over to the desk and began examining the case files. "Ah, good, you do have the Montmartre case file. I'd hoped you would," Chabouillet muttered under his breath. "And you've been working on it, I see," he added, a trifle dryly. "Pascal will be grateful."

"Pascal?" Javert asked. His fury at Valjean was briefly forgotten as he leaned forward. "Has there been another robbery then?"

Chabouillet's expression soured. "Last night. The de Varley family's house in Saint Germain. They had been out celebrating the daughter's birthday at Madame de Varley's father's home."

"And?" Javert pressed, for Chabouillet looked unhappier than usual at the gang's activities.

"Around midnight, Monsieur de Varley realized he'd left the child's present at home. He sent one of his father-in-law's servants to fetch it."

"Is the man dead?"

"Alive, but barely. He will be blind in one eye, and the doctors do not know if he will be able to use the one hand again," Chabouillet said grimly.

Javert hissed through his teeth. "I told you it was only a matter of time," he said, slapping the palm of his hand against the bedspread.

"So you did," Chabouillet agreed. "But the gang seems comprised of ghosts. No one sees them enter the houses, no one sees them leave. If the gift had not been forgotten, this robbery would have been the same as the others."

"Is the servant conscious? Has he been questioned yet? If he can describe even one of the gang, we can-" Javert faltered, recalled his resignation only when Chabouillet's lips twitched briefly with amusement.

"Half-mad by the end of the week, I think," he thought Chabouillet muttered, and then the older man cleared his throat. "The gang ensured we could not, at least not immediately. His jaw is broken, so he cannot speak, and they smashed both hands, so he cannot write. It will take time to get answers from him."

"Damn," Javert said feelingly. He forced himself to settle against his pillow, ignored the sudden restlessness that welled up within him. He folded his arms against his chest. Pascal was a good sort. Still, he was uncomfortable dealing with the aristocracy, being the son of a farmer and his wife. No, Pascal would not be grateful to have this case land in his lap. "Pascal must be at his wit's end."

"If he has not torn out the last of his hair in agitation by the end of the month, I will owe Girard five francs," Chabouillet said. "I suspect he will pore over the file and your notes and then come to beg you for assistance. This despite knowing you are ill." His eyes traveled slowly over Javert once more, and what little amusement that had crept into his face when remarking about his bet with Girard vanished.

Javert wondered what bothered him the most. Was it Javert's injuries? They doubtless reminded Chabouillet of the insurrection. Was it Javert's pallor? He must look almost a ghost from lack of sun. Or was it perhaps his hair? It was badly in want of a cut, something Chabouillet would find worryingly unlike him.

His head pounded. Resentment for Valjean rekindled in his chest, though he kept his expression calm, his tone even, as he corrected Chabouillet. "Even though I am ill and have retired, you mean."

Chabouillet pursed his lips. "Do you still persist in that nonsense? Javert, you have given me no reason you are unfit for your post."

Javert was not tempted to turn Valjean over to Chabouillet, though he found himself wishing he was. He racked his brain for a decent excuse, and then straightened a little as he found one. "The concerned gentleman lied to you, in the note. He did not find me wandering the streets overcome by my injuries," he said, stumbling over the words in his urgency. "He found me drunk and nearly passed out in the street."

"Drunk," Chabouillet echoed. When Javert looked at him, Chabouillet looked blank. Surely Chabouillet's empty expression meant displeasure.

Javert pressed on. "After I left the letter for Monsieur Gisquet, I drank my way through several wine-shops before F- before the gentleman brought me back here. You see? I disgraced my position. I am unfit for duty."

Chabouillet's response, when it came, was not what Javert expected. "And do you intend to resume drinking?"

Javert stared. His heart began to sink a little, for Chabouillet's tone was sarcastic. "What?"

Chabouillet waved a hand almost impatiently. "You do not smell of alcohol. I see no wine bottles littering the floor. Moreover, you have been strange today, but I do not think you are intoxicated. Will you become a drunkard?"

"No, but-"

"Then I do not see the problem. You were overcome by recent events. Little wonder," Chabouillet continued heatedly, "when you were captured and threatened by insurgents. You saw them and national guardsmen alike die by the dozen. If you were not upset, I would think you made of stone."

"But-"

"And then Monsieur Gisquet sends you to hunt down escaping insurgents. He does not even bother to have anyone tend to your injuries first!" Chabouillet growled through his teeth as Javert stared, shocked by the blatant criticism of the Prefect.

"Monsieur, you shouldn't blame Monsieur Gisquet for what happened," Javert began slowly, almost cautiously, for this was not like Chabouillet at all.

It was not that Chabouillet always agreed with the Prefects he had worked under. But when he found himself with a difference of opinion from his superior, Chabouillet tended to confine himself the occasional dry remark that skirted the edges of criticism and which Javert had always done his best to ignore. Earlier disagreements had certainly never evoked this strange fit of temper.

Javert continued before Chabouillet could berate an absent Gisquet further. "You said it yourself: there were far too many deaths. Every man was needed in the aftermath, to track down insurgents and ensure that would be no further trouble. Monsieur Gisquet could not afford to send any man home who was still on his feet."

"Even if he could not spare you, he might have given you an hour or two to tend to your injuries and allow you to rest. An hour would not have made a difference, surely," Chabouillet said, apparently still inclined to argue.

Javert thought of his pursuit of Thénardier alias Jondrette to the sewers, of his encounter with Valjean and his half-dead insurgent. Would Javert have been at that particular exit at that particular moment, if he had been delayed at the station-house by an order to rest and have his wounds tended? He did not know.

"I shall have to disagree with you there, I think," he muttered half under his breath, and chuckled, though there was no mirth in the sound. He shook his head. "It does not signify. I would have insisted on performing my duty. You must realize that."

Chabouillet let out an exasperated breath, some of his earlier anger ebbing and shifting to ruefulness. "Yes, I suppose that is true," he said. He rubbed at his chin, grimacing a little. "Well, perhaps I am being unkind to Monsieur Gisquet. Perhaps you downplayed your injuries, and he was too distracted to press you for the truth. That does seem to be a habit of yours."

Javert pursed his lips, feeling like a child being scolded for his foolishness. His fists tightened underneath his arms; he resisted the urge to fidget. "I do not believe it is a habit, since that would imply I do it often." But now he recognized Chabouillet's expression and snorted. "Monsieur, should I remind you that the Dupont incident was almost sixteen years ago? Surely you will not throw that in my face."

"The incident tends to linger in one's memory, considering you nearly died," Chabouillet remarked dryly.

"We were still in pursuit of a criminal! I did not want to distract anyone. Besides, I'd misjudged how deep the knife wound was, and how badly I was bleeding," Javert protested. It was an old, familiar argument, the well-worn phrases almost soothing in their repetition. He managed a faint smile, one that was not quite amused. "Besides, the Dupont incident did draw your attention to me, did it not?"

Chabouillet shook his head. "That is beside the point. Your zeal stood out, naturally, but it was your overall devotion to your duty that caught my attention. I thought, if you could keep yourself alive, you might make be a valuable asset to the force." His expression resumed its earlier brooding look. "And here we come to my problem with your resignation, Javert. Do you truly mean to tell me all my efforts have been a waste? You will quit with a strange letter to the Prefect and a pitiful excuse to me about drowning your sorrows for a few days in alcohol as reason for dismissal?"

Javert's mouth was dry again. "I-" He stopped, tried to formulate a sentence that would banish Chabouillet's reproachful look. "You have done much for me, monsieur. Without you, I would not have gained my position in Montreuil-sur-Mer or Paris. But I cannot…I cannot continue as I was. I could not be the same inspector you have known, if I remained, and I do not know what you would make of me, even if I was fit for my post."

"The gleam in your eye when we discussed the Montmartre case seemed like the Javert I know," Chabouillet remarked in a low mutter. Then, before Javert could argue, he added, "Would this new man you claim to have become disregard the tenants of supervision and vigilance?"

Javert wearied of this awkward fumble for words, of this struggle to remain honest without revealing Valjean's existence. "No, of course not, but that is not the problem," he said slowly. He knew Chabouillet would expect more, that Chabouillet deserved more, but he could not find the energy to continue with these half-truths.

Perhaps that reflected in his face, because Chabouillet sighed and rubbed at his chin again. "I don't suppose you care to elaborate on what the problem is," he said without much hope.

After a moment, Javert shook his head, though it felt like a betrayal somehow, that he could not tell Chabouillet the unvarnished truth. He owed the man a great deal. If Chabouillet had not taken him under his wing- well. Things would have been different, certainly, for a great many people. He wondered, suddenly, if Valjean would still be Madeleine had Chabouillet's patronage not sent Javert to Montreuil-sur-Mer.

"Javert," said Chabouillet.

He realized he'd unfolded his arms and that one of his hands now gripped his whiskers tightly, tugging at them until his head ached. He dropped his hand to his side, dragged his attention from pointless speculation. He focused instead on Chabouillet's expression, which was solemn. Javert cleared his throat. "Do you plan to take all the case files with you today? If so, you should send the Berger case to Costure. He will be able to make an arrest soon."

"I suppose I should," Chabouillet said, though he frowned as he began to gather up most of the files. "Though some of these will keep, surely," he muttered under his breath, hand hovering over what Javert suspected was the Dufour file.

Javert studied the way Chabouillet scowled at the file as though it had offended him personally somehow, and suspected he knew what Chabouillet was thinking. If he left a few case files behind, he could return the next day with a decent excuse.

"I think Monsieur Gisquet will protest at his secretary being out of the station two mornings in a row," Javert said.

Chabouillet made a sound that was not quite a laugh and did not look at him. His hand retreated from the case, his fingers drumming briefly on the edge of the desk. Only the Berger and Montmartre cases were tucked under his arm. "That's true," he said after a pause. Something that sounded like levity but wasn't touched his voice as he added, "Perhaps I will send one of your admirers tomorrow to collect the rest."

"Monsieur," Javert protested, barely repressing a groan of dismay. Several of the sergeants had been overawed by his actions during the Gorbeau affair and taken to following after him like over-eager and ill-trained puppies. He thought of Moreau and Comtois in particular, with their overly earnest questions about his injuries and if it was true that he was quitting the force, and grimaced. "That would be unfair of you."

"Unfair? No, I think that they will not believe your resignation if I tell them," Chabouillet said. "They need to hear it from you directly."

There was no rebuke lurking in the words, but Javert winced anyway, imagining Comtois and Moreau's expressions. "Chabouillet," he protested again, and this time Chabouillet shot him a sharp look.

"No, you will at least do them the kindness of telling them to their faces, Javert," he said.

"Kindness," Javert muttered, the word sour on his tongue. "Very well, send them tomorrow if you insist. I suspect they would come anyway, even if you did not send them."

Chabouillet raised an eyebrow. "They would know where to look? I did not realize they actually knew where you live."

Javert couldn't quite help his rueful chuckle at Chabouillet's half-incredulous look. "There is the book with our addresses," he pointed out. "But even without that, Baudin told Comtois during the Allard incident. You remember, when Pierre Allard held that woman hostage and would only speak to me, but I had finished my shift."

"Ah, yes," Chabouillet said, enlightened. He paused, opened his mouth as though to say something, and then reconsidered. He glanced down at the files under his arm. "Pascal will want this as soon as possible."

"Yes," Javert said, though Chabouillet did not move, only glanced up to study him again. The vise-like sensation of a headache made his head pound, but he endured both the discomfort and Chabouillet's searching look.

"I do not know if you will listen," Chabouillet said slowly, "but I will speak my piece anyway. Javert, will you at least listen? I have known you for fifteen years. I do not claim to know your innermost soul, but drawing upon my observations of you over the years, I can claim that I know you better than most. So believe me when I say that I think you are being too hard on yourself. Can you not accept that you are human, that witnessing so much pointless death would unnerve anyone?"

Chabouillet's expression darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "So you strove to banish your demons through drink. Well, that is far preferable to other, more permanent means. A national guardsman, a young man with a promising future I am told, killed himself just last night." He paused. "You might have met, briefly. His suicide note touched on what he witnessed at the Rue de la Chanvrerie barricade."

Javert kept himself very still, froze his expression so that it would not change and betray him. He did not permit his thoughts to stray to the parapet where he had stood and contemplated the Seine's tempting embrace. He did not think at all.

Luckily, Chabouillet seemed too intent on making his speech to notice Javert's reaction, or careful lack thereof. He gestured with his free hand, speaking urgently. "We have lost enough good men in the past week, Javert, to death and permanent injury. Will we be deprived of one more because of- because of-" He paused, pursed his lips as he presumably searched for the right phrasing.

Each word was like a weight dropped upon Javert's shoulders. He did not bow under the load, but it was a very near thing. "Enough, Chabouillet," he said through gritted teeth.

A spark of challenge lit Chabouillet's eyes. "I am not quite finished," he said. "Javert, you will regret your decision if you resign. That much I do not doubt. Even now, is there not a large part of you that wishes to throw off your covers and return with me to the station? Just say the word, and you may continue your work on the Montmartre case and help bring these wretches to justice. I know the Gorbeau affair still troubles you as well. Do you truly not desire to resume your hunt for the Patron-Minette and to see them arrested once more?"

"It does not matter what I desire," Javert said. The words hurt his throat, left his chest feeling empty as the breath left his lungs. "It only matters what I deserve."

"And I tell you that you do not deserve this punishment you have chosen," said Chabouillet, so close to Valjean's own words that it took everything within Javert not to flinch. Chabouillet searched Javert's face once more; whatever he found there turned his expression and tone bitter. "But it seems you do not trust my judgment, despite everything. Very well. I will send Comtois and Moreau tomorrow to collect the other files and your resignation letter."

Javert blinked. "My-"

"Your diatribe about the prisons does not count, Javert. We must have a resignation letter that actually says you are quitting your post. You may give it to Moreau. He'll see that it reaches my desk."

"I," Javert began again, his mouth dry. If he had thought Chabouillet's earlier words weighed heavily, that was nothing compared to these bitter remarks. "Mon-"

But Chabouillet had apparently said his piece and did not wish to remain another minute more. Without a word of farewell, Chabouillet strode towards the door and wrenched it open.

The slamming of the door echoed in Javert's ears like the gunshot that had reverberated through the alley after Valjean had released him. Javert sat there dumbly, his ears ringing.

Then the earlier wild restlessness drove him out of bed. He found himself opening the armoire and yanking out the first pair of trousers, shirt, and waistcoat his hand fell upon. He changed with sharp, jerky movements, hardly aware of what he was doing, his head still pounding too much to think clearly.

"Monsieur Javert?" Madame Bonnet called cautiously through the door. "Did you need anything?"

Javert's mouth opened on its own, informed himself and his landlady, "One of your husband's coats, madame. I am going out."

"Out, monsieur?"

"Out," he said, even as he ran an automatic hand down the front of his shirt to smooth away any wrinkles.

He took up the small mirror, surveyed himself. That strange, faraway feeling of anger had returned; every gesture he made felt unnatural. His face seemed like a stranger's. After a moment's consideration, he smoothed his hair away from his face, running his fingers through his hair until it lay mostly flat. The strands were in need of a wash, but even the thought of staying here a half-hour longer made his stomach twist.

When he emerged from his room, Madame Bonnet hovered by his door, one of her husband's coats clutched in her hands. She offered it to him uncertainly. "Inspector, do you intend to be gone for long? The doctor will be…." she began, but trailed off as he took the coat from her.

As he'd suspected, the coat was ill-fitting. The cuffs did not even come close to reaching his wrists, and the coat was far too tight upon his shoulders. He buttoned up the coat, and then twisted his body carefully, testing how much he could move without feeling strangled. He would have to walk and gesture with care if he did not want to tear the stitching and owe Monsieur Bonnet a new coat. He lowered his arms cautiously. "Thank you," he said. "I do not know how long I will be."

"And if the doctor arrives while you are gone?"

"Convey my apologies and tell him I will see him tomorrow," Javert said. He retreated briefly back into his room to snatch his old hat from its position atop the armoire. Its brim had frayed, but he supposed it was better than no hat at all.

"What about breakfast?" Madame Bonnet asked, following at his heels. "You should-"

"I am not hungry," he said, firmly enough that the woman's mouth snapped shut. He ignored her anxious look, tipped his hat to her. "Good morning, madame."

It was early enough in the day for the weather still to be cool, the summer breeze tickling the back of his neck as he walked. The sensation drew Javert slowly from that distant anger, the wind kindling a spark of fury in his chest until he could barely see in his rage.

He did not mutter to himself, for he was already attracting strange looks, but the words nearly strangled him. How dare Valjean send that note to Chabouillet! How dare Valjean interfere in his life as though he had any say in the matter!

Javert walked and brooded, growing angrier with each step. His mental map of Paris had remade itself, each street and shortcut distinct once more; his feet led him unerringly towards Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7.

When he knocked at the gate, a man who was presumably the porter came out to squint at him. Javert did not miss the judgmental twist to the man's mouth as his narrowed eyes moved slowly over Javert's too-small coat and fraying hat, how his gaze lingered on the bandages poorly hidden at his throat and wrists. The porter pursed his lips.

"I am here to see Monsieur Fauchelevent," Javert said before the man could mistake him for a beggar and send him on his way. Despite the rage that made his hands want to shake, the words came out matter-of-fact.

Something like comprehension flickered across the man's face, but he shook his head. "He's not here, monsieur. I'm afraid he's on an errand."

"Not-" Consternation choked him. Belatedly, he recalled Valjean saying something about visiting the insurgent's bedside every morning. He studied the porter's unfriendly expression and knew the man would not invite him inside. "When-"

"He might return in the next few minutes, or he might return in two hours time, monsieur. There's no way of knowing," said the porter, still with that unwelcoming politeness. "If you'd like to leave a message, I can give it to him once he's returned."

"No," Javert said. "No, I will wait."

The porter stared at him. "Wait?"

Javert gestured at a nearby stone post which would make for an uncomfortable but workable seat. "I will wait," he repeated.

The porter pursed his lips and looked doubtful. "If you insist, monsieur, but you might be waiting a while."

A low, mirthless chuckle escaped Javert then, one that hurt his throat. "I have nowhere else to be."

"Very well, monsieur." With one final, dubious glance, the porter retreated back into the house.

Javert wiped at the surface of the post, for it was wet with dew, and then settled his weight against it. He folded his arms against his chest and bowed his head in thought to brood once more.

"Monsieur?" The voice was soft, musical, and decidedly female.

Javert slowly raised his head.

A young woman smiled brightly at him. Unlike the porter's, her look contained no judgment, but merely a good-natured sort of curiosity as she studied him. "Forgive my forwardness, monsieur, but you are waiting to speak with Monsieur Fauchelevent, are you not?" she asked. She favored him with another dazzling smile when he nodded. "Good! I am his daughter."

"Daught-" Javert stared at her, dumbfounded. This was that woman's child? He found himself searching her features, looking for any resemblance between mother and daughter. He discerned only similar and yet dissimilar rosy cheeks, for the daughter's face was flushed with health and the heat as the mother's had been with illness and the chill. Otherwise they were as different as night and day.

Then again, perhaps this was how that woman would have appeared, had she not been dying when he knew her. His throat tightened at the thought, his stomach roiling uneasily. 'You have murdered that woman,' Madeleine's voice seemed to whisper in his ear, and Javert repressed a shudder. He dropped his gaze to the ground, looked away from that smiling countenance. It took him a few seconds to speak, and when he did, the words were strained. "I do not wish to impose, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. I can wait out-"

"Nonsense, monsieur!" This was said cheerfully but firmly. "I have already asked Toussaint to prepare some tea for us. We must not waste her efforts. And I must admit that I am terribly curious about you. We so rarely have visitors."

When Javert forced himself to look up, the girl's expression was still cheerful, but there was a certain stubborn slant to her mouth and her hands were upon her hips. She would not allow him to stand outside and wait for Valjean, he realized. If he tried to dig in his heels, doubtless she would stand here for the next few hours, cheerfully enduring the summer heat alongside him.

He cleared his throat, made one final, awkward attempt to persuade her into returning to her apartment and leaving him here with his thoughts. "Pardon me, mademoiselle, but you do not know me. We have not even been formally introduced. I do not think it's proper for-"

Amused laughter interrupted him this time, as though she thought he was joking rather than in earnest. "Toussaint will be there, monsieur. She can act as duenna until Father returns. Will that suit you? And we shall know each other much better once you've told me your name," she said, and looked expectant.

"I am Inspec-" Javert stopped. The title caught in his throat. He had known, objectively, that he would no longer be able to call himself an inspector, but it was one thing to know it and quite another thing to introduce himself without the title for the first time. His mouth went dry. With some effort, he took off his hat and inclined his head towards her. "I am Monsieur Javert," he said finally, and tried to ignore the way 'monsieur' seemed so strange on his tongue.

The girl had noticed the slip, for she fixed her curious gaze upon him and said nothing for a moment. Then she smiled again, this time almost cautiously. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Javert." She clasped her hands in front of her, her expression brightening. "But come, the tea should be ready by now. We shall get away from the heat, and have tea, and you can tell me how you know my father."

Javert imagined telling her the whole story, beginning with Toulon, and repressed a sarcastic laugh. "That is his story to tell, not mine, mademoiselle," he said. "You will have to ask him, if you are truly curious."

She wrinkled her nose at that. "Oh, but he will not tell me anything!" she muttered. "If you know him well, Monsieur Javert, you know how he will only get vague when you ask him anything about his past."

Javert did not answer, but she did not seem to notice. She explained how her father had gone to visit a home in the Marais, to deliver linen to a family friend who had been injured during the recent unpleasantness. Some of the color faded from her cheeks then, and worry clouded her blue eyes.

"He is very badly hurt," she concluded.

Javert shifted, disquieted and uncertain what to do about the distress in her voice. He was not one for comforting gestures or soothing words- in fact, for quite some time he had been forbidden to deliver death notifications to victims' families. He cleared his throat again. "I believe V- I believe your father said that the boy was feverish, but that there was hope he might survive."

She looked somewhat comforted, and then surprised. "Father spoke to you of Marius?"

Javert was certain his expression reflected his own puzzlement. "He seemed to think I should take an interest in the boy- in Marius's fate- since I helped your father deliver him to his grandfather's house."

"Helped-" Rather than allaying her confusion, Javert seemed to have added to it, for the girl stared at him as though he had suddenly spoken Greek. "Monsieur, I do not understand. You are saying that my father brought Marius to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire No. 6?"

For a moment, they stared at each other. Javert could not make sense of it. It sounded as though Valjean had concealed his actions at the barricade from the child, but that was nonsense, surely. Valjean had saved the boy she loved, what need was there for secrecy?

"Yes, mademoiselle," he said slowly. "How did your father explain…?"

He did not finish the question, for the girl turned and rushed away. She threw open a door and darted inside, crying out, "Toussaint! Toussaint, you must hear what the gentleman has to say about Father and Marius!" An instant later, her head and shoulder reappeared around the door and she gestured wildly at him. "Come in, monsieur! You must tell us everything!"

Javert hesitated, but when she gestured again, he entered the room. It was an antechamber; there was a table with a tea set, an arm-chair that must be Valjean's, and then two chairs that looked as though they had been hastily arranged in the antechamber for unexpected company. There was a bookshelf that spanned an entire wall, cluttered with books that seemed to run from philosophical texts to adventure novels.

The elderly servant looked curiously at Javert, but she too showed no judgment at his appearance. "Good morning, monsieur," she said. She reached for his hat, which he belatedly realized he still clutched in his hand. The woman spoke with a strong stammer, though Javert did not think it was nerves that caused the stuttering. "The tea is ready, mademoiselle."

"Sit, monsieur," commanded the girl. She took his arm, raised her face to smile at him. He froze, for he'd found yet another trace of her mother; it was in her imploring look and the entreating tone she used as she said, "You will tell us how you and Father saved Marius, will you not, monsieur? It seems quite the tale!"

Javert had not been moved by the mother's pleas, but he found he could not refuse the daughter. Still, he could not let her go on looking at him like that, as though she admired him. He stepped away, tugged his arm from her grasp. "I did not- you misunderstood me, mademoiselle. It was your father who rescued him and carried him away from the barricade. I merely provided the carriage."

"Ah, so you only aided Marius, you did not rescue him," she said with a bright laugh. "I see that is a very different matter, and yet I thank you for your assistance nonetheless. Now please, will you sit and tell us of how you came to provide the carriage?" She gestured at the arm-chair. "Please, sit, monsieur," she said again.

He stared at the arm-chair. His stomach roiled uneasily once more. He should not have come here, he realized. He should have remained in his own apartment. Instead, he'd placed himself in the lion's den, to sit in Valjean's chair and to be so addressed by Valjean's daughter.

"Mademoiselle," he began.

"Monsieur," she answered with a teasing laugh. "You look ready to flee. Am I so terrible a hostess? But I suppose I am, for I am pestering you with demands before I have even given you tea!" She made to do so, her motions quick but careful as she poured three cups. She pressed the first upon Javert, who accepted it automatically, and then the second upon Toussaint, positioned in one corner of the room. Finally she took up the last cup and seated herself with an artless grace in her chair.

Javert sat down in the arm-chair, feeling vaguely like he'd just stepped fully into a cage and locked himself inside. He raised his cup to his lips to hide his unease. The tea tasted of lemon and skirted the edge of being overly sweetened by one too many spoonfuls of sugar.

She waited until he had lowered the cup to lean forward, her blue eyes fixed upon his face. She didn't say anything, but her expectant look might as well have been another spoken plea.

Javert fiddled with the cup, turning it around in his hand and studying the painted roses. "Perhaps it would be best if you first told me what your father said. It might be a simple misunderstanding of his explanation," he said.

She wrinkled her nose, looking doubtful. "I do not think that I misunderstood him, monsieur. He explained how he had received a letter from a Monsieur Gillenormand- that is Marius's grandfather- informing him that Marius had been badly injured at one of the barricades and that one of the servants had been going through his clothes and found a letter in Marius's pocket explaining…." She paused, an embarrassed flush turning her cheeks still rosier. Then she squared her shoulders and looked almost defiant. "A letter explaining how Marius loves me. We plan to marry, you see."

"Ah," Javert said. Were congratulations in order, since the boy might not survive the week? He fiddled with his cup, wondering how to politely inform her that Valjean was a liar.

"So what is the truth, monsieur?"

"The truth," Javert repeated. The word curdled on his tongue, made him grimace. "The truth is that your father was at the barricade, mademoiselle. He rescued your Marius himself and dragged him through the sewers to escape the National Guard."

"You witnessed this? Were you with Marius at the barricades?"

"With-" Javert scowled at the insinuation, and then attempted to soften his expression when she shrank back. "I was not one of the insurgents, mademoiselle. I am- I was-" The words tangled together, the bandages around his throat too tight. He ran his fingers briefly under the bandages, loosening them a little so that he could breathe. "That is to say," he continued, "at the time I had been captured carrying out my duties as an inspector of the police. I was a prisoner of the insurgents when Monsieur- when Monsieur Fauchelevent came to the barricades to rescue your Marius. Later, when I was on patrol for further insurgent activity, I found your father and the boy emerging from the sewers near the Jena bridge-"

"Forgive me, monsieur, I am grateful that you are telling me this, truly I am, but I think you are only giving me half the story," the girl said. Her feet drummed a nervous beat on the floor. "You were a prisoner? However did you escape? Why did you assist Father if you were meant to arrest Marius?"

"I-" Javert stopped, not so much frustrated at the girl's questions as he was at himself. Had his skills at issuing a verbal report really atrophied so quickly? He had given one to the Prefect less than a week ago! He cleared his throat.

"Let me try again, mademoiselle. Monsieur Gisquet, that is, the Prefect of Police, had assigned me two tasks during the recent troubles. First, I was to go to the barricade being raised at the Rue de la Chanvrerie and study the insurgents' numbers and learn their plans if I could. Second, I was to patrol the right bank of the Seine and ensure that the insurgents were not creating further disturbances there." He paused and shrugged. "Unfortunately, I was recognized at the barricade and captured. Your father-" Had the bandages somehow tightened on their own? It was proving difficult to speak. He swallowed. "When your father arrived at the barricade to rescue your Marius, he realized my predicament. The insurgents planned to kill me right before the barricade fell."

He tugged again at the bandages. He remembered the way the martingale had dug into his skin, how Valjean had marched him out into the alleyway, the glint of the pistol, and then the glint of the knife. Quietly, he said, "Your father convinced the leader that he should be allowed to execute me, and then allowed me to escape."

If she had been surprised to learn that her father had rescued the boy, she was not, it seemed, surprised at hearing how her father had saved Javert from certain death when the opportunity had presented itself. She leaned forward, propping her chin in one hand, her expression eager and attentive. "And then?"

"And then I reported to Monsieur Gisquet what I'd observed. After that, I made my way to the bank of the Seine. There I recognized a criminal who'd recently escaped from prison, and I pursued him, but he disappeared into the sewers. While I was waiting to see if he would emerge, your father appeared instead, carrying the boy. He-"

Javert had been turning the cup around in his hands, studying the tea's ripples rather the girl's face as he'd continued speaking. Now his hands stilled, the words sticking in his throat. He finished the rest of his tea, but found that his mouth and throat were still dry. "He asked me a favor, that I would help him carry your Marius home. I…had a hackney-coach waiting."

"And so you agreed to the favor, when you should have arrested Marius," said the girl when he paused.

Javert winced at her admiring tone. "It was not as generous an act as you think, mademoiselle. I had not thought the boy would survive his injuries. And-" He was fiddling with the cup again. He discovered a small chip at the bottom of the handle. He ran his thumb over it, frowning. "And your father spared my life when he should have-" He paused, and then laughed noiselessly. "Well. When he-"

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reached his ears, and the rest of the sentences struggling for utterance fell promptly out of Javert's head. He set the cup on the table. He turned his face towards the door, and ignored the way his heart pounded like he was about to face a firing squad.

The girl turned towards the door as well, wearing a half-pleased, half-determined look. "I think my father is home, monsieur," she said. "I hope you don't mind if I demand some answers of him before you discuss whatever it is that you came to discuss."

Javert would have laughed again if his throat had not been so dry. "Not at all, mademoiselle," he forced out.

Then the door opened, though Valjean's voice filled the room before his body came into view, his words sharp with urgency and concern. "Cosette, Monsieur Royer says we have a guest-" Valjean froze in the doorway as his gaze fell upon Javert. His expression emptied itself of all emotion save astonishment.

For a few seconds, the room was silent. Then the girl leaped to her feet and marched towards Valjean. "Father! I am very vexed with you," she announced, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in a scolding frown. "Why did you lie? Inspector Javert has been telling us-"

Valjean's expression had drained of expression before; now it drained of color. "Javert has been telling you…?" His gaze flickered between the girl and Javert for a bewildered instant, and then the girl took a startled step backwards as Valjean's expression darkened with rage.

Javert, caught in the middle of rising to his feet, gripped the armrests and sank back down into the chair as Valjean advanced upon him. He had seen Valjean frustrated before, and even somewhat angry. He had not, he realized, seen Valjean truly furious and all that rage directed upon him until now.

"What have you said?" Valjean growled in a dangerous tone.

The girl looked bewildered by Valjean's transformation. She reached out to clutch at his elbow. "Father, do not be angry with him," she said, her eyes wide and her tone pleading. "I asked him how you two knew each other-"

Pain and something like grief contorted Valjean's face then, and in a flash of enlightenment, Javert understood. The girl did not know of Valjean's past, and Valjean thought Javert had-

"I told her about the barricade," Javert interjected. "How you saved me and that boy Marius."

"The barricade," Valjean said slowly, blinking.

"Yes, the barricade," the girl said. She laughed, though there was an edge to the sound. "What else would we have been discussing? I do not understand why you did not tell me that you saved Marius's life, why you made up some silly tale about a letter! Were you worried I would scold you for putting yourself in danger?"

A curious expression formed on Valjean's face as the girl spoke. The anger ebbed away, replaced by bewilderment. He seemed almost stupefied, like a man who has been given a reprieve seconds before his execution.

When he did not answer her, the girl looked anxious. She squeezed Valjean's arm and said, her gaze fixed upon Valjean's dazed expression, "Sit down. You are so pale! Was the ridiculous secret that important to you? I cannot imagine why! Come, take my chair. Toussaint, do we have another cup? Never mind, Father can use mine, for he needs some tea-"

"No," Valjean said, her nervous chatter seeming to shake him from his stupor. He even managed a faint smile as he patted her hand, though it was a weak, unsteady twist of his lips. "No, I am all right, my dear. I do not need any tea." He paused, an unreadable expression on his face. Softer, he added, "I promise I will explain about the barricade, but right now, Inspector Javert and I must talk."

"Very well," she said with a put-upon sigh, though she kept her hand on his arm, as though to reassure herself he was steady on his feet.

After a few seconds, Valjean added, "Alone."

There was a strange undercurrent to Valjean's tone; it took Javert a moment to recognize it as fondness. Even as he watched, Valjean patted the girl's hand again, an unfamiliar warmth in his expression.

"But," she began to protest, wrinkling her nose once more. Then she sighed and stepped back, her hands resettling on her hips. She pursed her lips at Valjean. "Very well, have your privacy. But you will tell me the whole truth of the barricade and how you came to rescue Marius." She smiled suddenly, a mischievous look. "If you do not, I suspect I can get it out of Monsieur Javert. He seems much more forthright."

Before either Valjean or Javert could react to this declaration, the girl turned and said in an imperious tone, "Come, Toussaint. I think we should go for a stroll while the weather is not so unbearably warm."

"Yes, mademoiselle," said the servant, her expression and tone reserved even as her gaze flickered towards Valjean. A minute later, both she and the girl were dressed for a morning walk.

Javert kept his silence, and Valjean, for his part, had retreated to stand beside the bookshelf, his arms folded against his chest and a pensive look on his face.

The girl paused at the door, and then abruptly turned and flung her arms around Valjean's neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Even as Javert dropped his gaze to the floor in embarrassment, he could not help but hear her affectionate words as they filled the air. "Promise me you will drink some tea, Father, or I shall worry the entire time Toussaint and I are having our walk. And do not frown so! You are forgiven, even though you lied to me."

This last sentence was offered in a magnanimous tone, and Javert was unsurprised when Valjean chuckled weakly. "I will have some tea," Valjean promised. "Enjoy your walk, my dear."

The tenderness in Valjean's voice pricked at Javert like salt being rubbed into his wounds; he grimaced and scowled down at the floor, wishing once more that he had remained in his own apartment and waited for Valjean to arrive that afternoon to confront him. It had been bad enough to know the man had transformed from a criminal into a saint; it was somehow equally terrible to find he had changed into a devoted father to that woman's child as well.

The door closed, and thick, suffocating silence fell upon the room. Javert took in a deep breath, then another, still staring at the floor and trying to gather his thoughts.

Then Valjean cleared his throat. "Why did you come here, Javert?"

Javert bristled though there had been no rebuke in the question. "Do not play the fool," he snapped. "It doesn't suit you. You know perfectly well why I came."

"No," Valjean said, his tone irritatingly mild. "I know why you are angry, but we could have just as easily had this conversation at your apartment rather than here. Did you walk the entire way, or did you borrow some money from Madame Bonnet for a coach?"

"What is your insistence on pointless questions?" The anger, banished for a time at the shock of seeing that woman's child grown into a young woman, was returning. Javert looked up, scowling.

Valjean wore a look which matched his mild tone, a patient expression that made Javert even angrier. Valjean had no right to look so composed, as though Javert was the one being foolish and overreacting. "I am trying to understand-" Valjean began. Then some of the calm slipped, a slight furrow creasing his forehead. He paused. The corners of his mouth turned downward. "I am trying to understand why you are here, and to learn what you told Cosette."

Javert laughed noiselessly. "Ah, yes. Your Cosette- but I suppose I should call her Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. That is the name she goes by, is it not? I think you scared Mademoiselle Fauchelevent with your furious look. It was almost," he continued, sarcasm thickening the syllables until he was almost choking on his own words, "as though you objected to the fact that I came to your apartment uninvited and spoke to someone you respect without your permission about things that are not my concern. Do you not believe that turn-about is fair play, then?"

A flush crept into Valjean's face. His frown deepened. "This is quite-"

"Different?" Javert laughed again, though this time the harsh, bitter sound escaped his lips. "I think not. Have I not simply returned the favor you bestowed upon me? Ah, but perhaps you object because we are still not even. It is only right that I should interfere with your life as much as you have with mine." He reached out a hand, snapped his fingers when Valjean stared in mute incomprehension. "Very well, I will concede to your wishes. Give up your pocket-book and your coat, and we shall call ourselves even."

"Javert," Valjean said. He half-laughed, half-made a face as though he could not believe Javert's words. "What-"

"Or you can return my money and my coats, if you prefer," Javert continued. He hauled himself upright, ran his gaze down Valjean's frame in a slow, mocking look that made Valjean flush. "That would probably be best. I think your coats would fit me little better than Monsieur Bonnet's." Besides the door that led into the hallway, there were three others in the antechamber. Earlier, the girl had gone into one room to don her walking clothes, the servant into another. Javert started towards the third room, which presumably belonged to Valjean. "I assume you did not actually send the coats to be cleaned as you told my landlady-"

"I did," Valjean said, and Javert stopped in dismay, his hand resting on the doorknob. He did not look at Valjean as the other man continued, "A washwoman took your summer coat yesterday. I expect it back tomorrow." When Javert turned and stared, Valjean looked unapologetic. "You spent some time sitting in the dirt, if you recall. The coat was in need of a cleaning."

"Is my winter coat here at least?"

"Yes," Valjean said after a moment's hesitation, as though he'd been tempted to lie.

Javert shrugged. "Well, that is better than nothing, I suppose."

"It is June. You cannot walk through Paris in your winter coat unless you want to die from the heat," Valjean objected, and then winced, presumably at his own phrasing.

"If I have my money, I can take a carriage," Javert said. He went into Valjean's room as Valjean made a noise suspiciously like an exasperated sigh. Much like Madeleine's office in Montreuil-sur-Mur, the room was Spartan. Javert's coat was laid upon Valjean's bed.

"Javert," Valjean said from the doorway.

Javert ignored him, and tried to take off his borrowed coat. His movements were too hurried and too frustrated; he managed to get himself tangled up in the sleeves and swore as he thrashed around like a ninny.

"Here," Valjean said, and Javert jumped. He had not heard Valjean's approach, but now Valjean was suddenly in his space, too close again. His breath tickled Javert's ear, raised the hair on the back of his neck as Valjean added, "Let me help."

"I can do this myself," Javert grumbled, that old, traitorous knot reforming in his stomach. He made to step away, and then twitched as Valjean took hold of his elbows. "Valjean-"

"Yes, yes, you do not need my help. But I think you would prefer my assistance to fumbling with the coat for another five minutes," Valjean said dryly. His grip was light upon Javert's arms, but firm; Javert did not doubt he would tighten his grasp if Javert tried to escape his reach.

Javert gritted his teeth, endured the touch. "Fine," he said. He waited, but Valjean made no move to actually untangle him from his borrowed coat.

Instead Valjean just stood there, his even breaths still grazing Javert's ear and making Javert fight back another shudder. Was the man lost in thought? Had he not heard Javert's acquiescence? Perhaps he was just stalling for the sake of driving Javert mad.

Javert did not quite dare to turn and glare directly at Valjean, not with Valjean already so close. He fixed his glower upon the far wall and snapped, "Well? Get on with it."

Valjean's hands tightened briefly. "It will be easier if you relax, I think," he murmured. Then, even as Javert drew in a deep breath and attempted to obey, Valjean ruined all his efforts by asking, "So Monsieur Chabouillet must have received my note. Did he come to see you?"

Javert rolled his eyes. Of course Valjean would be unable to resist the urge to pry. Javert did not know why he was surprised. "Can you not wait and ask me about Chabouillet until after I am free from this coat?" he complained. He'd tensed again at the mention of Chabouillet; he forced himself to relax.

"You are actually going to answer my question?" Valjean said, sounding a little surprised.

"No, but at least then I would be out of the coat," Javert said.

Valjean made a noise suspiciously like a chuckle, his breath hot against Javert's jaw as he shifted in place. His hands finally moved, his fingers working their way between the coat and Javert's shirt. "He must have either spoken to you directly or sent a letter of his own, or else you would not have come here to scold me," Valjean said, though his low tone was distracted, as though he were merely thinking aloud. "Surely he also objected to you quitting, though perhaps he was more persuasive when arguing against it."

Javert pursed his lips. Had that been Valjean's plan, send the missive and hope that Chabouillet would convince him not to resign? "It is none of your business what we spoke on," he said, memory of Chabouillet's bitter expression turning his voice almost to a growl. "Especially when you had no right to send that letter to Chabouillet." He snorted. "A concerned gentleman! What foolishness. Though I suppose I should be glad that you did not sign the letter Fauchelevent and lead a trail straight to your door."

Valjean said nothing for a few seconds. Then he said, "There is already a trail to Ultime Fauchelevent, of a sort. The uniform you saw me wearing at the barricade was mine. Fauchelevent is part of the National Guard."

"What!" Javert made the mistake of turning his head to stare and gauge Valjean's sincerity. He found Valjean smiling, a small, upward curl of his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling with sheepish amusement. It was a strange look on Valjean, for it lent a certain softness to his face. Javert resisted the urge to swallow, instead said a little thickly, "You are not serious."

"I am serious," Valjean said. His eyebrows rose briefly. "Where did you think I'd gotten the uniform? Surely you didn't believe I'd stolen it off a corpse."

"Honestly, how you came to wear that uniform was the farthest thing from my mind," Javert said dryly.

Valjean's smile faded a little. "Yes, I suppose it would have been," he said. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, the faint smile becoming almost fixed upon his face as he tugged Javert's coat sleeves back to almost his shoulders. "Straighten out your arms," he said.

Javert obeyed, gritting his teeth and forcing the tension out of his arms and shoulders. The tension moved to his stomach and his legs, muscles taut as though he would snatch up his coat, find his money, and flee as soon as he was free of Monsieur Bonnet's damn coat.

Valjean was too close again, the heat of his hands soaking through Javert's shirt to the skin. Standing like this, with his arms trapped behind him, Javert felt too much like a prisoner and Valjean too much like the man clapping irons on him. He closed his eyes against Valjean's intent expression and his pursed mouth, reddened by Valjean worrying at his lips.

"If you are done prattling," he found himself muttering, though Valjean had not spoken since his last instruction, "may we finish?"

As though to spite him, one of Valjean's hands dropped from Javert's arm.

"Valjean, will you just-" The rest of his exasperated demand caught in Javert's throat as Valjean's fingers pressed lightly against the back of his neck, just above the bandages. Javert repressed a full-bodied shudder of surprise and clenched his fists instead.

"Have you been tugging at your bandages? They seem a trifle loose." Valjean observed. "And they do not look clean." There was a frown in his voice. "Did the doctor not visit?"

"No," Javert said. "Madame Bonnet will tell him to return tomorrow if he visits while I am away." The admission was given grudgingly, for Javert did not doubt Valjean would scold him. He should have simply refused Valjean's assistance, he thought sourly; surely he would have untangled himself by now.

"Javert-"

"No," Javert said again, sharply. He bristled at Valjean's dismayed tone. He shook his head as a horse would shake off a fly, rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to work himself free of the coat, but neither Valjean's hand nor the coat moved. "You will not scold me like a fishwife while I am still trapped in this damn coat. Or do you think it is fair to scold me while I cannot escape?"

"It is not fair, but what does that matter? It is not as though you listen," Valjean pointed out.

Javert opened his eyes and turned his head a little so that he looked down into Valjean's face. Valjean's eyes were dark with frustration, his lips pressed tightly together in a frown. The momentary softness had vanished.

When their eyes met, Valjean's hand tensed against Javert's neck; his fingernails dug into the skin not quite hard enough to be painful. "Javert," Valjean said. He stopped, some emotion flickering across his face that Javert could not define. "I am only concern-"

Javert spoke over him, a trifle loudly. If he had to hear yet another word of Valjean's concern for his well-being, he would tear out the stitching of Monsieur Bonnet's coat and be done with it. "How many times do I have to tell you my life is not your concern before you accept it? We are not friends-" The words choked him. He said, quieter, "You are not obligated to ensure that I spend my remaining years contented, Valjean. In fact, I would be content if you stopped with your meddling and left me in peace."

Valjean's hand tensed against Javert's neck as Valjean frowned, though this time fingernails did not dig into skin. "But you would not be in peace, you would be unhappy, even if you will not admit it," Valjean said earnestly. Much as Chabouillet had, his eyes focused upon Javert's face as though he searched for something in Javert's expression. "I cannot stand by while you choose misery due to some misguided notion of-"

"Enough!" The word came out a low growl. "You cannot force my former position upon me-"

"And how is your decision to quit the police not partly my fault?" Valjean broke in. "You have said yourself that you could not return to your position because you allowed me to remain at liberty and betrayed your position. Do I not share some responsibility?" Valjean's tone was almost pleading.

If Javert's arms had not still been caught behind his back, he would have slapped Valjean's hand away from his neck and fled, his winter coat be damned. "That was not the only reason I cannot continue as an inspector," he said, grimacing. Then he laughed his strange soundless laugh. "Though I suppose the other reason has as much to do with you as the first."

"And what is the other reason?"

His speech came haltingly at first, unease twisting his stomach tighter with every syllable, and then faster, Javert almost astonished at how the words tumbled from his lips in their urgency to be spoken.

"Before you- before the barricade, I was certain. And perhaps you do not understand that, you with your half-dozen names and identities, but I knew what was right and what was wrong, I knew all the answers could be found in the law if only I looked hard enough. But then you destroyed all that, you with your mercy. How can I be a decent inspector if I am constantly doubting myself, if I hesitate over what is just in each situation, man's law or God's? I would be useless and indecisive. The police surely do not need a man like that."

Valjean fixed a troubled look upon him. "Have you not considered that is precisely the type of man the police might need?" he asked slowly.

Another laugh scraped Javert's throat. "I do not see how that is possible. Why would they need an inspector who hesitates and doubts himself?"

Valjean said nothing for a moment, his lips pressed tightly together once more, though he seemed more pensive than frustrated. "Better one who hesitates than one who accepts the law blindly and makes terrible mistakes," he said.

There was no obvious rebuke in Valjean's words and yet Javert flinched nonetheless. In his mind's eye, he saw the specter of that child's mother, her desperate face lifted towards his as she pleaded that her child would die if she went to jail. He saw Madeleine as well, his expression pained as he was stripped of his chains of office and re-fitted with manacles.

Still other faces appeared, those of men and women he had arrested who had offered Javert all manner of excuses and pleas over the decades. How many of them had been speaking honestly as the woman had or been striving towards piousness as Madeleine had? How many times had he mistaken man's law for justice when God's law would have told him otherwise?

Javert shook his head, banished the accusing faces until at last he focused upon Valjean's face. "I would dither like a fool," he said with a bitter twist of his lips, settling on a truth he could stomach to say aloud. "And those types of indecision can allow the criminal the opportunity to escape. What if I hesitate and mistake someone for another- for another Jean Valjean, when the wretch is as monstrous as one of the Patron-Minette or Montmartre gang?"

"I think you do yourself a grave disservice," Valjean argued. He paused, a curious flush on his cheeks, his eyes flickering away and then returning to meet Javert's gaze. "True, you misjudged my ability to change, saw only the convict and not the good man I was attempting to be. That is the truth, it cannot be avoided. But you also recognized that I was keeping a secret in Montreuil-sur-Mur when no one else questioned me, or- well, or at least was not convinced when everyone else was. You do not have perfect judgment, but it is not as terrible as you think it to be."

"I-"

Valjean ignored him, kept speaking in a low, unbearably earnest way. "And try to think of it in this manner, Javert. What if what you fear never comes to pass? What if this new way of considering the law means you might be able to help people who would have suffered otherwise? You can always resign later, if what you fear is true."

"If what I fear comes true, you mean," Javert said. "And then I would have blood on my hands, if that escaped criminal murders or harms someone." His hands clenched into fists, so tightly that his hands ached. Valjean's gaze lingered upon his fists as Javert said, "No, I cannot take that chance."

Valjean shook his head. His gaze returned to Javert's face. "But what of the cases you might solve if you remain an inspector? You cannot tell me your fellow inspectors will be able to solve all of the cases I saw on your desk without your assistance. Are the deaths of the future victims of those unsolved cases not blood upon your hands as well?"

Javert took the question like a blow; he could not quite help the way he rocked back on his feet, even though it meant Valjean could feel the recoil. He thought of the Montmartre case, of the servant who had nearly died. The next time the gang might kill rather than maim. Would that person's death be on his conscience as well?

"I-" There was a buzzing in his ears. "So I am damned either way," he said distantly. "You make it very clear- whether I remain as an inspector or quit my position, there still will be people hurt because of my decision-"

"No, that is not what I meant," Valjean snapped, his voice suddenly very close.

Javert blinked.

Valjean had closed what little distance there had remained to them, his face only a few inches from Javert's. His expression was strained. "That is not what I meant at all, Javert. I meant that you could do good work, help as well as protect people, if only you would allow yourself the opportunity," Valjean said.

Something twisted in Javert's chest. The buzzing died away, replaced by an unpleasant, too-familiar pressure in his head. A sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh escaped him. If his hands had been free, he would have passed them over his face, pressed his knuckles to his forehead and tried to rub away the impending headache.

Instead he shook his head, Valjean's palm still resting lightly against his neck. "You make it sound so simple," he said. The words came slowly now, and quietly, for Javert found it took some effort to gather enough breath to speak. "It cannot possibly be so. Good God, when I remember- was it less than a fortnight ago?- how straightforward everything seemed! I knew my place. My choices were superseded by one decision I had made long ago, and that was to follow the law without question. How could the future surprise me? I had only to look to the law to tell me what to do next and I would know what to expect. There was none of this fumbling around, groping for answers, deciding for myself what to do and then having to wait to see what comes next. It is…."

He paused. Weariness pressed upon him, and he felt for a moment like an Atlas with the weight of his past mistakes rather than the world upon his shoulders. He did not quite dare to close his eyes again for fear he would give into the mad impulse to lean into Valjean's grip. "It is exhausting," he concluded, frowning at the inadequacy of the words.

Ruefulness and sympathy briefly warred for control of Valjean's features before his expression settled into a soft combination of both emotions. When he spoke, it was in a murmur almost as quiet as Javert's speech. "That is life, Javert. It is wearying at times. I will not argue that it is not often overwhelming, but it offers a potential for-" Valjean hesitated, flushing again. "For happiness." There was a twist of his lips that suggested that he too found his choice of words wanting and imprecise.

The dissatisfied curve of Valjean's mouth was almost comforting, in a strange way. At least he was not arguing that Javert's path was a simple one or that if Javert decided to embrace this idea of mercy and God's law, he would instinctively understand and know his new place in the world.

He felt almost on steady ground, watching Valjean fumble for words. "Life and happiness," he said. He tested the words out, curled his tongue around their shape, and felt his own mouth curve in something that was not quite amusement. "So you will take away my certainty, my alcohol, my money, and of course my coats, and in exchange offer me life and happiness, is that it? I do not know what to make of that bargain. And I am not as certain of my future happiness as you seem to be."

"Most would argue it is a good bargain," Valjean said, "and some would also argue that everyone deserves happiness." He paused. There was something almost tentative in the way he looked at Javert, as though he had not thought Javert would listen at all and now worried that the first wrong word would make Javert lose his temper. It was not an unfounded fear, Javert admitted in the privacy of his own mind. "As to the last, well, from what I have observed, you were pleased when you performed your duty admirably. I believe if you work towards upholding God's law, towards advocating mercy, you will find you are a better inspector than before. Would that not be cause for happiness?"

"I see," Javert said. The pressure in his head was easing. It was growing almost easy to think, to counter Valjean's words with reason rather than ravings on doubt and duty. His mind turned towards something Valjean had said. He raised an eyebrow. "I find that curious."

Valjean looked puzzled. "Curious?"

"That you trust I will be a better inspector, when you do not trust-" 'That girl' caught in his throat. 'Mademoiselle Fauchelevent' seemed equally awkward. "That you trust I will be a better inspector, when you do not trust your own daughter."

If he had been puzzled before, Valjean was astonished now. His mouth fell open, his eyes widening to saucers. Then he frowned. There was a hint of temper in the way he almost growled, "I trust Cosette."

"Not with the truth of what you did at the barricade, apparently."

Though Javert was still pinioned by his borrowed coat, it was Valjean who looked trapped. His expression was the look of a man who wished to do anything but respond to Javert's remark. Valjean wetted his lips with his tongue, a sudden flash of pink.

Once more, Javert recalled how close they were to each other. Valjean's hands seemed to grow warmer against his neck and wrist at the realization, as though the blood running through Valjean's veins had turned to flame. Javert swallowed and resisted the urge to take a step away from Valjean; he would not be the one to retreat when it was Valjean who was ready to bolt. He gave a surreptitious roll of his shoulders, but he could still not free himself of the coat. He pursed his lips, watched the way Valjean's gaze avoided his.

When Valjean said nothing, apparently hoping Javert would change the subject if he remained silent, Javert snorted. He leveled his words at Valjean, uncertain if they were meant as an attack or merely a distraction from the warmth of Valjean's skin. "Perhaps I am missing something, but I cannot conceive why you might want to keep your actions a secret. Surely she would not be displeased by your rescue of her intended fiancé! Why make up some silly story about the grandfather and a letter? Surely-"

"We are not going to discuss Cosette," Valjean said quietly. His tone was dangerously even. Tautness hardened Valjean's jaw and tensed the hand resting upon Javert's neck.

Javert found that he had no particular interest in another argument, especially not while he was still tangled up in Monsieur Bonnet's damned coat. Still, he permitted himself an elaborate eye-roll at Valjean's evasion. "Very well, what do you deem an acceptable discussion?" When Valjean only frowned, he added, an exasperated bite creeping into his voice, "Or perhaps rather than prattle at each other we might actually remember why I came into your bedchamber in the first place and actually get this coat off me."

Valjean gave a little jump, and then blinked at Javert as though he had honestly forgotten that Javert was still ensnared by the coat. The corners of his mouth creased, some of the tension in his face replaced by apologetic amusement. "One moment."

Javert had not thought it necessary for Valjean to draw even closer to free him from the coat, but Valjean took another step nearer, close enough that when he bowed his head, a few stray curls of his white hair caressed Javert's throat. It was a little difficult to breathe, made more so by a scent which seemed to linger in Valjean's hair. The other man had not seemed the sort who wore perfume, but still the scent tickled at Javert's nose, curious but pleasant.

Traitorous heat pooled low in his belly; he shuddered before he could repress the reaction. He forced himself to stillness. Thankfully, Valjean didn't seem to have noticed, but Javert found he could no longer bear the silence. "I should have done this myself," he grumbled. "I would have done it faster and without-" His voice hoarsened, and he gritted his teeth.

"There," was all Valjean said, tone mild. He stepped back.

With a start, Javert realized he was free, that Valjean's nearness had driven him to such distraction that he had not noticed. He rolled his shoulders, grimaced as a joint popped loudly. He took Monsieur Bonnet's coat from Valjean's extended hand, folded the coat over one arm, and then turned towards the bed.

"Surely you are not putting on your coat right this instant," Valjean said, though Javert already had one arm through a sleeve and it was obvious that he was doing precisely that. Valjean sounded almost dismayed.

Javert paused. "Why would I not?"

Valjean frowned. One hand rose to rub at his jaw. "It is your winter coat. Surely you will get too warm."

"Only if I wear it overlong in the heat," Javert said. "I plan to take it off as soon as I return to my apartment-"

"You're leaving? But we are not done."

Javert, halfway into his winter coat, stared until Valjean flushed. Had Valjean thought they were going to sit down to more tea and conversation? The idea was unbearable. "Yes, we are. I have my coat, and you will tell me where you've hidden my money, and then I am going-"

"We are not done," Valjean said firmly. "You have not told me if you plan to return to your position as inspector."

"Good God, you are like a terrier with a rat," Javert muttered. Pressure began to mount once more in his head at the thought of yet another debate about his future and what he deserved. He grimaced, rubbed at his throbbing temple. "I will think upon it. That is all I can promise." He caught a certain, tentative hope creeping into Valjean's expression, and snapped, "I said think upon it, not that I will resume my duties, Valjean."

"Yes, I understand," Valjean said, but still looked damnably pleased. "Do think on it, but remember that you have been a right-"

Javert groaned in dismay. "Enough! If you say one more thing about my being a righteous man when we both know very well I am not, I will- I will-" For a moment, he could not think of a proper threat. Then he remembered the fury in Valjean's face when he had seen Javert sitting there with the girl. "I will tell your daughter all about the barricade."

Valjean had started to pale at the mention of the girl, but now, absurdly, he looked almost amused. "That is no threat," he said with a certain lopsided quality to his smile. "You have already told her what I did not want her to know, that I rescued Marius. The details themselves do not matter." Before Javert could try to think of a proper threat, something shifted in Valjean's expression. "And I will call you a good man if I so choose, because you-"

Javert resisted the urge to grind his teeth in frustration. He hissed out an exasperated breath, raised a hand to halt Valjean's speech. "Stop. Stop your foolish praises, Valjean. We both know you are exaggerating my integrity and conveniently ignoring my flaws." He remembered Valjean's dismay when Javert had described his proclivities. His lips twisted, a sudden bitter taste filling his mouth. "Why else would you, a saint, think and speak so highly of the likes of me, when you already know not only of my failure but also of my depravity?"

"Deprav-" The word seemed to catch in Valjean's throat, and he flushed. "I thought we agreed not to speak of that," he muttered.

"I do not recall making such a promise. I agreed to stop speaking of it then, but not for all time," Javert said. A thought occurred to him, and he laughed, noiselessly, and shook his head. "Oh, I am a ninny! Chabouillet asked me why I did not deserve my post, and I could not give him a proper answer, not without mentioning you. It did not occur to me to speak on my depravity! I wonder what Chabouillet might have said, if I had told him how I wished to-"

Pain bloomed in his face, sharp and sudden. He rocked back on his heels, one hand clapped over his throbbing nose as tears sprung to his eyes. He was stupefied by the pain, could not make sense of it. Had Valjean actually struck him? But that did not seem likely, for when Javert blinked the tears away and lowered his hand he found that Valjean was touching his own face, fingers gingerly running over the ridge of his nose.

Valjean's hand could not hide the rising color in his face. Even as Javert blinked at him, a chagrined smile curved Valjean's lips. "You made that seem somewhat easier," he said, almost reproachfully.

Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind chased itself in fruitless circles. He closed his mouth and stared at Valjean, well aware he probably looked like a brainless dolt. "What," was all he finally managed, and even that word seemed to stick in his throat. He licked his lips, tried again. "Valjean-"

The gentleness in Valjean's hands as they cupped Javert's face was something close to an answer to the question Javert had not managed to ask, though it was an answer Javert's mind balked at comprehending.

Javert had a moment to think, rather stupidly, that perhaps he had misunderstood Valjean yet again, and then Valjean kissed him and even that realization fled.

It was a closed-mouth kiss, soft and almost tentative, as though it was Valjean's turn to ask a question and Javert's turn to answer.

For a moment Javert could not think, much less react. Even the light pressure of Valjean's lips against his was overwhelming, the warmth in Valjean's hands banishing all sensible thought. Javert felt as though he'd been turned to stone, standing there mute and stupid. Then something welled in his chest and caught in his throat, strangling him until he had to release it or choke.

When he parted his lips, a short, incredulous laugh escaped, the sound half-muffled against Valjean's mouth.

Valjean drew back a little, his fingers fluttering against Javert's jaw as though Valjean thought to release him. Javert resisted the ridiculous urge to grab Valjean's wrists and hold him in place. It was only Valjean's expression, searching rather than angry, that stopped him from putting impulse to action. Valjean's face was flushed almost purple, and even as Javert stared at him, he worried his lower lip with his teeth once more and fidgeted.

"And what is so amusing?" Valjean finally asked, with a slight downward twist to his mouth.

Javert did not let the curve of Valjean's mouth distract him. "Oh, me, of course," he said. Another laugh escaped him at Valjean's puzzlement, this one strange and unfamiliar to the ear because it held honest amusement. His lips drew back into a self-deprecating smile before he attempted to explain. "It seems even now you continue to confound me. I did not think you wanted- I thought you wished me to be silent about my desires because you deplored-" He stopped, the rest of the sentence going unsaid, for at some point during Javert's stammering, Valjean's eyes had lowered to watch his mouth.

Javert thought he now recognized the look he had assumed was disapproval; the look had an entirely different cast to it at present. He wondered if he had missed the heat in Valjean's gaze the other times Valjean had stared at him so, or if it was only now that Valjean let his desire reach his eyes. Want heated Javert's belly, made him too warm. He could feel sweat beading on his brow, realized that he was still only halfway-wearing his coat. He let the coat drop to the floorboards, ignored the dull thud the winter coat made. "Valjean," he said. The name scratched at his throat, came out low and hoarse. "I do not- if this the only way you think to induce me to- to embrace happiness and rejoin the police-"

He stopped, frustrated at his lack of eloquence, hating the way unease now clawed at his belly and attempted to dispel the want. The idea of Valjean offering this out of pity was intolerable even to contemplate.

But now it was Valjean's turn to chuckle, though it was wry. "You called me a saint, before. I might try to do good, but I am not so much a saint that I would-" He hesitated, and Javert suspected it was only the fact that his face could not turn redder that Valjean did not blush more. His hands slipped away from Javert's face before Javert could react.

Valjean looked away, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and concluded awkwardly, "I would not offer you this if I...did not want it as well."

Javert swallowed and wished he hadn't, for the sound was as loud as a pistol report in his ears. Surely Valjean had heard- but no, Valjean was still studying the far wall, apparently unwilling to look at Javert and see the effect of his words. Javert ran his tongue over his lips, hesitated for a long moment. Valjean had lied in the past about a great many things, but he had not lied to Javert the night of the barricade, and Javert did not think he would lie now about this. He wondered, but did not quite dare to ask, his throat too tight for further speech, when Valjean had begun to want this.

Instead he reached out, pressed two fingers tentatively to a spot just under the point of Valjean's chin.

Valjean turned startled eyes towards him. His lips parted, and his throat pressed against Javert's fingers as he swallowed. "Javert," he said, and then the confusion in his face shifted to something almost like anticipation when Javert leaned forward and kissed him.

Javert had meant to kiss him lightly, to answer Valjean's tentative kiss with a careful one of his own.

But then Valjean made a sound when their lips met, a small, desperate noise in his throat that went through Javert like a lightning bolt and ignited the heat in his belly, stirred his prick between his legs. It was all he could do not to seize Valjean by the collar and drag him closer, press their bodies flush against each other and feel if Valjean truly wanted this as much as he did.

He kissed Valjean as though he could not bear to stop, kept kissing him until his lips felt swollen, until his lungs burned for air and he had to break off to gasp for breath like- His mind shied away for a second, but even as Javert drew back and took in a deep inhale, his mind completed the thought almost mockingly: like a drowning man needing air. Another laugh escaped him, quiet and caustic, and he dropped his hand from Valjean's chin.

He breathed deeply, until the desire that had seized hold of him had eased to something more manageable. He'd closed his eyes at some point during the kiss. Now he opened them. He found Valjean's eyes were still shut, though even as Javert watched, the other man's eyelashes fluttered.

Valjean's face was still flushed, his lips red and swollen, almost bruised-looking. There was a stunned softness to his face, which did not make him look young, they were both too old to look young, but nevertheless seemed to banish some of the more prominent lines in Valjean's face. The creases that remained left the impression of being carved there by smiles rather than frowns. Perhaps they had been formed by Madeleine's patient smiles or, more likely, genuine ones evoked by his daughter.

Javert was resisting the urge to do something foolish like touch the creases at the corner of Valjean's mouth when the other man finally opened his eyes. There was a half-startled warmth in his eyes that made Javert want to kiss him again, though he restrained himself.

For a moment, Valjean said nothing, his expression shifting to an opaque look. Javert did not dare to break the silence which seemed to thicken the air between them, only gazed back and wished that he better understood Valjean's expression. He wished, a little bitterly, that he better understood Valjean, who seemed just as unfathomable as before they had kissed.

"Your cravat's come undone," Valjean said, hoarsely.

Javert blinked. He must have misheard, he thought, even as he glanced down and realized that Valjean was right. But surely Valjean did not mean to focus on such an inconsequential thing when there was the matter of what had just transpired, what it meant-

But Valjean picked up the ends of the cravat and began to tie it with quick, nervous movements. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, his expression settling into a look of concentration that the tying of a cravat didn't warrant. After a moment the cravat was tied; still Valjean kept fiddling with it.

Some of the earlier heat was replaced by sheer exasperation. "Valjean," Javert said after another few seconds. As Valjean ran a finger under the cravat to make certain it was not too tight, his touch a mockery of a caress, an involuntary growl escaped Javert's throat. "Leave the damn thing alone."

When Valjean ignored him, he took hold of Valjean's wrists. It was only as Valjean's wrists flexed, as Valjean shuddered, that Javert realized his error. Before he could loosen his hold and fumble his way through an apology, however, Valjean attempted a smile, a lopsided thing. His wrists relaxed in Javert's grasp.

Javert tugged Valjean's hands down to his sides and immediately released him, unsurprised when Valjean shifted his weight, leaning away.

Javert cleared his throat; Valjean's shoulders tensed. "Valjean," he began, wondering at the way the name turned strange on his tongue. He cleared his throat again, said stupidly, "Well."

Valjean's face, which had been gradually returning to a normal shade, began to flush again. "I have lost track of the time," he said before Javert could actually manage a sensible sentence. Valjean looked towards the door to the antechamber, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Cosette said she would be back in an hour's time, did she not?"

"Yes, I seem to remember she did," Javert said slowly. He studied Valjean once more, searching for some hint of how to proceed, but Valjean was not looking at him, and there was still that damnable opaque look of his shielding his thoughts.

Javert resisted the urge to snarl in exasperated frustration, to rub a hand over his face and pace before Valjean like a half-mad fool, to demand of Valjean what he wished of him. Still, did Valjean truly intend to kiss him, announce that he desired Javert, and then change the subject to his daughter as though nothing had occurred between them?

He rubbed at his still-tingling lips, stared once more at Valjean's reserved expression in a futile effort to make sense of it. Another caustic laugh choked him, though he did not let it escape his throat. Perhaps he had pressed Valjean too quickly, asked too much of him. To admit desire was one thing; to have Javert throw himself at him like a starving man quite another.

"Valjean," he began, clearing his throat a third time, but Valjean spoke over him.

"I assured Cosette that I would have some tea before she returned." The words were said almost hurriedly, as though he expected his daughter to return at any moment when surely no more than a half-hour had passed since she and her servant had departed. "I should keep that promise-" Here Valjean paused, blinking rapidly, and finally glanced towards Javert. Something akin to sheepishness passed over his features, and he rubbed at his jaw. "Ah, did you want some tea?"

Javert did not immediately answer. Instead he imagined saying yes. They would sit down to tea, and Javert would watch Valjean's hands curl around a cup and Valjean's throat work as he sipped at his drink.

Ardor pooled in his belly at the thought, but it was tempered by the thought that Javert would only be able to watch and not touch, that Valjean would doubtless remind him of the girl's impending presence should he succumb to temptation. He drew back his lips in something not quite a smile. Even the shape of that half-grimace twisted further at the thought of enduring Valjean's attempts at pleasantries. Even worse would still being present when the girl returned; Javert would be forced to watch the tender way Valjean and the child interacted, to see shadows of her mother in her gestures and expression as she scolded Valjean for keeping Marius's rescue a secret.

He shook his head and banished the thought before he could brood too long upon it, for Valjean was waiting for a response. "I have had tea. Your daughter already played the hostess," he said. He plucked up his coat from the floor and put it on, brushed any hint of dirt from it. He fumbled with the buttons as he muttered, "Besides, I think it best if I leave before she returns."

"But-"

It was Javert's turn to interrupt, cutting through Valjean's slightly alarmed protest with a sarcastic snort. "I told you, I need to return to my apartment and think over our discussion. Besides, I think it best if your daughter and I do not see much of each other. What are we to tell her should she realize that you and I knew each other before the barricade?"

Valjean winced. Judging by the way his brow furrowed, he was picturing the ensuing conversation and not pleased by what he had imagined. "I had not considered that," he admitted. "And she will realize it, no matter how carefully I phrase things." A small smile formed upon his lips, sincere and almost absurdly sappy. "She is clever, Cosette. Perhaps you noticed-"

"Valjean, I am not remaining here to listen to you sing your daughter's praises," Javert said a little impatiently. The bedroom's window was shut; the room was almost stifling, and, with his winter coat, the heat was proving nearly unbearable. He finished buttoning his coat despite his desire to remove the layer and roll up his sleeves. He raised his hand to snap his fingers at Valjean, and then thought better of it. He extended his palm instead, twitched his fingers when Valjean looked puzzled. "Now just return my money and I will go."

Something flickered upon Valjean's face, the sentiment there and gone before Javert could name it. Still, there was no mistaking Valjean's hesitant tone as he said slowly, "Your money?"

"Yes, my money." When Valjean did not immediately move to fetch it, Javert pursed his lips and huffed in exasperation. "What is the matter now? Surely you do not expect me to rush out to the nearest wine-shop."

"No," Valjean said, but without, Javert thought darkly, much conviction.

"Well, I will not," Javert snapped, and did not add a testy 'however tempting the thought may be,' for that would only ensure that he would never see that money. He folded his arms against his chest, drummed his fingers against his arms when Valjean only frowned. "I have said I will think on your words, so I will return to my apartment and think."

"Very well," said Valjean, though still in that slow, uncertain tone. He turned and retrieved a small purse presumably holding Javert's money from behind one of the books on the nearest bookshelf. "Perhaps you should take a cab," he suggested quietly. "Wearing that coat in this weather will do your health no favors."

Javert, who was already beginning to perspire merely wearing the coat indoors, did not argue. He took the purse from Valjean. Despite his care, their fingers brushed during the exchange. Javert gritted his teeth and ignored the way his breath caught in his throat at the inadvertent touch. Yes, leaving now was best. He would be able to think more clearly at his apartment, away from Valjean.

"Will you….that is- your bandages still need changing, do they not? Should I visit tonight?"

Javert paused in the middle of tucking the purse into his pocket. He looked carefully at Valjean, but found only honest concern on Valjean's face. If Valjean had thought further upon what re-bandaging Javert's throat would entail- being close enough to kiss again, Valjean's hands once more upon Javert's throat in something too close to a caress- the idea did not return the embarrassed flush to his face.

"Tomorrow," Javert said, banishing such thoughts from his mind. "Surely you and your daughter will have much to discuss." When Valjean looked ready to protest, a now-familiar mulishness creeping into his expression, Javert added somewhat sharply, "Tomorrow."

"Very well," Valjean said, though the mulishness remained in his expression.

Javert tucked the purse into his pocket, making certain it was safely ensconced there before he looked at Valjean again. He was not entirely surprised to find Valjean still frowning, a furrow creasing his forehead.

"I will see you tomorrow," Javert said, though he had said the final word so often in the past few minutes that it seemed nearly meaningless now. He took up Monsieur Bonnet's coat, draped it over one arm, and then started towards the door.

This time Valjean did not protest or attempt to intercept him. He even took a step back so that he would not block the exit, a gesture for which Javert refused to feel grateful. When Javert passed him, Valjean drew in a breath as though to speak; Javert did not let his pace slow, did not let himself hesitate, and after another second, Valjean let out the breath, slowly.

Javert's hat was on a table where the servant had left it. He took it up as well, settled the hat carefully upon his head. He could feel Valjean's gaze against the back of his neck, but Valjean still said nothing. "Tomorrow, then," rose to Javert's lips, but he clenched his teeth against the words and refused to say anything so inane.

At least Valjean did not follow him down the stairs. Javert blinked against the summer sun, half-blinded by the light for a moment. Then he strode resolutely forward, heading towards a more-traveled street where he would better find a hackney cab.

He could no longer feel the weight of Valjean's gaze, did not know if the other man watched him through his window. He did not look back, kept his steps measured, an unruffled contrast to the way his stomach roiled uneasily and how his mouth refused to forget the way Valjean's mouth felt on his.

---

Javert discarded his winter coat as soon as he was in his room. Even taking a cab and escaping the direct sunlight had been misery; the coat's fabric was too thick to be comfortable even in the slightly cooler darkness of the cab.

He brushed away sweat from his forehead, looked sourly around his room. Everything displeased him, turned his mood darker. There were the cases Chabouillet had left behind, a reminder that doubtless Moreau and Comtois would be visiting tomorrow with their bewildered, accusing looks. There were fresh bandages in a neat pile, a reminder that tomorrow Valjean would be there once more to confuse him. There was a covered plate of food, a reminder that he had not yet eaten today and Madame Bonnet would scold him the next time she checked in on him.

His stomach pinched at him in rebuke, and he uncovered the plate, slowly began to pick away at the food. He could barely taste it, his thoughts consumed instead by his conversations with Valjean and Chabouillet.

Every time Javert forced Chabouillet's rueful, "Javert, you are as likely to resign as I am. Even if you attempt it, you will find yourself half-mad from boredom within the month, if not the week," from his mind, it was swiftly replaced by Valjean's unbearably earnest, "What if this new way of considering the law means you might be able to help people who would have suffered otherwise?"

Javert rubbed at his forehead, trying to drive off the men's words and the headache gathering once more inside his skull. He grimaced, ignored the way his full stomach remained unsettled. He needed to think of a suitable occupation to throw in Valjean's face tomorrow, and yet here his mind failed.

He attempted to imagine taking up another job, something he would excel at. He could think of nothing. Instead his mind taunted him with the details of the Montmartre case, with the knowledge that the criminals remained at large.

"Damn," he hissed through his teeth. He closed his eyes, but now his thoughts turned to the kiss, the way Valjean's face had looked afterwards, the scent of him, the feel of his hands and mouth. Javert swallowed, thickly. "Damn," he said again, louder, and fumbled blindly for his hat and his coat.

Anything would be better than thinking of how Valjean had immediately sought to pretend nothing unusual had occurred. Perhaps this was another act of cowardice, running away from his own thoughts, but Javert found himself not overly concerned.

The station was busy with its usual mid-day exchange of the guard, and more than a few men had their hands half-raised in automatic greeting before recognition colored their expressions.

"Inspector!" Moreau started over towards him, smiling. "I knew Monsieur Chabouillet was not being serious. Are you-" The young man's voice faltered as Javert strode past him.

It was irritating, the lack of surprise upon Chabouillet's face when Javert marched into his office. He merely raised an eyebrow, cast a quick look at Javert's winter coat, and said, "If you wish to be there for Pascal's attempt at an interview of the de Varley servant, he is at the hospital."

"Yes, sir," Javert said with a sharp nod, and then turned on heel and headed back out into the summer heat.