Well, you asked for it. Or not. Maybe. I don't know. This isn't necessarily angst yet, but it's definitely not fluff. Flangst maybe? Apparently that's a thing out here on the Internet (I'm a bit of a noob).

Anyways, this chapter became very hard to write and is itself the reason for the T rating. I originally wrote the character of Stella to be like me, but I realized I am more like Javert (in case you couldn't tell from my screen name). The Weakness, as here described by Javert, is in fact an extremely rare mental illness known as conversion disorder. I have this illness, and it is not only annoying and destructive, but also terrifying. Thinking about Javert's attack caused me to have several myself. So a word of warning: you probably shouldn't read this chapter, or at least the first three paragraphs if you have a panic disorder. Also I don't really know what Stella's actual reaction would be, as I had to piece together her reaction from my feelings during my first attack as well as what few reactions I have gathered from my classmates over the years. Congratulations, now you know more about me than you ever wanted to. Anyways, enjoy this chapter and please review or message me! I really do enjoy feedback.

It always felt like dying. The Weakness. Every kind of weakness was like death to Javert, but this one never went away. Some days it would come without warning. The Weakness was almost always spawned of hatred, causing it to grow with every second of its cursed existence. "Of MY cursed existence." The uncontrollable trembling in his hands was the sign that he had gone too far. "Stella, look away and don't look again until I tell you to." He could not turn around to test her obedience; the tattered shreds of his remaining pride remained purely on faith at the moment. "My son, let go of your pride." Javert's knees began to buckle as the weight of the entire world dropped into him. "Stella." His voice was bare. One last effort, though it would take all his energy… "Stella!" His eyelids drifted closed from their own weight as the voice sunk in once again. "Thank you for trusting me, my son. Now you can begin to heal."

Stella rushed to Javert's side, clasping his hand and supporting his head. His eyes were half-shut, with hardly any expression coming from them. His chest barely heaved, as though it could not support its own weight. It looked like he was dying. Stella was lost in the twin floods of what she wanted to do and what she thought he must want her to do. His last cry had asked her for help, so she was helping him to the best of her ability. He would never want her to weep for him, though. Especially not today. She had shown him enough emotion already. When his eyes closed, she could no longer contain herself. Allowing a single tear to escape her eye, she dropped her head into his chest, which had long since stopped heaving. She breathed in sharply, to prepare herself for the word that was about to escape her lips, but it would not come out. So much as thinking the word would cause a flood of feeling she was not ready for yet. Stella simply resolved to hold his hand until its warmth left, clutching it tighter and tighter as the impending goodbye crept closer and closer.

The Weakness had been with Javert since 1815. He had been lying awake one night, replaying the words he had heard earlier in the day in a constant loop: "Jean Valjean has escaped." A familiar voice added its piece: "And you could have stopped him if you were doing your job." Javert had sat straight up and said out loud, "My job was not to watch him! He was on parole. The fact that he escaped is none of my concern!" His hands were shaking within his skin, and he found he could not control their movements at all. The voice returned so forcefully he could swear it was more than imagination. "Have you forgotten who you are? Worse yet, are you remembering what you were? You say Jean Valjean is none of your concern. Is absolutely upholding the law no longer your concern? I could possibly believe that you are better than him, Javert." The voice faded to an encouraging whisper. "But why don't you prove it to me?" His entire body was uncontrollably shaking, but then suddenly stopped. His instinct told him to stand up and look at the stars, but his legs would not move. "Am I dying?" He had wondered. The thought tortured him all through the night, imprisoning him with the weight of his own body.

Javert realized that Stella did not know what was happening to him. Her eyes were shut tightly to hide the emotion behind them. This amused Javert, for it reminded him greatly of himself. His chest puffed out in a futile attempt to laugh, which alerted Stella. Her head shot up from his chest and her eyes opened, allowing several large tears to drop onto his jacket. This gesture alone was enough to pull him out of the Weakness. A tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Stella, Mademoiselle," he regained the ability to move his mouth, "is it your intention to break my hand?"

Stella's reaction was more instinct than anything else. Before she could finish processing what had just happened, she had kissed him on the cheek and wrapped her arms around his neck. After a few seconds, Javert was able to lift his arms and embrace her as well. "You know she'll never love you if you shed your old self, Javert. Really, you're better off without her. Has she done anything so far that hasn't caused you to lose a part of who you are?" For the first time in his memory, Javert ignored the voice. He finally had a reason not to care. He had Stella.

Well, perhaps he hadn't really ignored the voice, per se. Its plea did not depress him as it usually did, but it did raise honest questions. Letting go of Stella, he stared at her, wanting her to reassure him that the demon voice was wrong. Instead he only saw how pale she was despite the unrelenting heat of the June sun. She was probably starving, but of course too stoic to tell him. Silently, he stood up and began walking away from the river. She followed close behind him. As if he had expected her to behave differently.

Javert never ceased to amaze Stella. Everything about him was hidden and cryptic. He was in many ways like a labyrinth – finding your way past one wall only shows you another one, and most people are too impatient to find the center so they get up and leave. Of course, this only made Stella love him even more. It takes strength to hide yourself from the world. However, it takes even more strength to reveal yourself to anyone after you've been hiding yourself from the world. Stella knew that just from her experiences with Javert. Although she doubted how much of himself he had really shown her, Stella decided to trust him and follow. She loved him.

Javert had always disliked broad daylight. The light of the sun was a special privilege for those who were inside the law. Javert was more above the law. Not that he didn't subject himself to it – heaven forbid he set aside even the least of the law's demands! The law was like a mighty thoroughbred, and Javert was its jockey, driving it to his whim and trampling those who disobeyed it.

Ducking quickly into a shadowed alleyway, Javert looked back at Stella. It was as if she had been following him her all her life. "Perhaps she has," thought the man. The demon voice echoed in the recesses of his mind. He contemplated asking her the question the demon had begged, but he realized that now was not the time. Suddenly, Javert realized he was exactly where he needed to be. He entered the apartment building, called Stella in behind him, and went into his old apartment.

The apartment was simple and almost completely bare. The living room doubled as a dining room, where a small table was accompanied by two mismatched chairs. The dining room also broke off into a kitchen. There were only two other rooms in the apartment, undoubtedly small and unadorned like the center. The apartment's simplicity alone told Stella that it must belong to Javert.

"Here. Sit down." His voice was gruff and awkward, and Stella found it amusing how hard he was trying to be a gentleman. He disappeared into the kitchen, from which he brought a large baguette. Stella's eyes widened. She did not often have a large part of one, but especially not just given to her. Not since her mother died had she had someone to look out for her, at least not so devotedly. Back at the Café Musain, some of the regulars had accepted her as a friend. Marius had even taught her how to read. "Oh Marius," she thought sadly, "If only you could have lived." Realizing that her expression was probably giving away her thoughts, she changed her visage and looked up at Javert. Too late. He had sensed it, and was now himself trying to hide his concern. Stella could not help but realize that they could hardly be more like family if they were connected by blood.

Throughout his life, very few people had looked directly into Javert's eyes and smiled at him. Stella's smile was enigmatic, and it unnerved him greatly. "Take it. It's yours," he finally had to say just to ease the growing tension. Stella finally looked away, but her smirk never faded. So strong was her will, he did the same as he took the other chair.