Disclaimer: don't own the chars.

Timeline: Javert jumps into the Seine. Then this happens.

April 2, 2008: long-overdue edits to this story are happening today.

Javert awoke to a strong smell. He blinked, made a painful attempt to look around, and discovered that he was lying across some sort of bench in a kitchen. There was a man bending over the stove. Not just any man. "Valjean!" The inarticulate mumble alerted Valjean to his guest's awakening and he whirled around, a terrified expression crossing his face for an instant.

Javert found it faintly gratifying that in such a state he could still inspire fear in the hearts of convicts. On the other hand, the fact that Valjean was here with him at all, having neither murdered nor restrained him… that spoke of a level of trust Javert didn't want to contemplate just yet.

He licked his lips. "Where am I?" he rasped. Lightning flashed across his vision when he spoke, and only got worse as he struggled into a sitting position.

They didn't say good morning to each other. In Javert's opinion this was just as well, since he had no idea whether or not it was actually morning and besides, no matter what time of day it was, it was hardly good for either of them. He – Javert – was half dead and Valjean looked no better. The wealthy gentleman of the day before had given place to a dishevled, bloody creature who looked exhausted enough to keel over at any moment.

"In my home," Valjean answered. He was holding himself very still and watching Javert warily.

"Why? What…"

When enough time had passed to establish that Javert posed no immediate threat, Valjean turned back to the stove and busied himself with what was simmering there. "You said you would wait for me. If I had known you were waiting at the bottom of the Seine, I would have hurried. You could have caught cold."

The bottom of the Seine? Javert wondered. He thought for a few moments. Ah. The Seine. He'd committed suicide last night. But then how was he still alive? "You pulled me out?"

"I did."

Javert's lip curled. "The Angel of Mercy strikes again," he sneered. Valjean threw him a sharp glance and he felt forced to look away, but continued belligerently, "Why? Did you think I threw myself in by accident?"

"It was a possibility." Valjean's reply was low and even. His whole demeanor was so subdued that Javert felt if he were to brandish shackles and corner him right here and now, Valjean wouldn't even put up a fight. Tempting. "But I think you jumped in on purpose…because of me. Am I wrong?"

Javert bit back an impatient retort and just shook his head. "Why did you pull me out?"

"I did not want you to kill yourself because of me."

"Apparently not. And you wouldn't shoot me when you had the chance, either. One would almost think you want me to take you back to the galleys."

"Of course not."

"Then why did you do it?" Javert snarled, feeling more and more like a policeman questioning a difficult witness.

"I've already told you."

"But you don't make sense! What did you think I'd do when I awoke?"

"Have every intention of returning me to the galleys."

Javert hissed and slapped his hand on his thigh. "All right. Where are my boots?"

"I had to remove them. They were wet and made swimming with you very difficult."

For some reason, the self-control Javert usually took so for granted seemed to have deserted him, and he wanted to scream at the convict's irritatingly forthright and logical answers. "You jumped in the river after me?"

"I dove."

"But why…never mind. What are you doing now?"

"Making tea. You sound like you're trying to catch me in a lie."

"I am disoriented and I'm trying to make sense out of this," Javert said, gesturing to the room at large.

"Don't bother – there's no sense to be made beyond what is immediately obvious: I pulled you from the river, and you are wet." Valjean took the pot off the stove. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you," Javert said gruffly, before he thought about it. Damn good manners! That he should even talk to this man was beyond belief, but that he should thank him for anything…

"Why did you jump?"

"To kill myself. Why else?"

Valjean sat down opposite him at the table. "Must you be difficult? You know what I meant – why did you want to kill yourself?"

"I don't know." Javert, beginning to return to himself, unconsciously straightened his shoulders.

Valjean took a sip of his tea. "You look terrible - you're probably going to be ill. Milk for that?"

"No thank you."

"Are you cold?"

"A little…will you stop it!"

Valjean looked perplexed. "Stop what?"

Trying to maintain civility, Javert ground out only, "I am not in the habit of being interrogated by convicts."

Some time passed before Valjean ventured another question. "Do you still want to take me to the police?"

"I am the police."

"Damn it, Javert, are you going to send me back to the galleys or not? I have to know!"

For some reason, Javert felt better once his rescuer's apparent calm had shattered. "You shouldn't have pulled me out," he said finally. "Then it would not even be a possibility."

Valjean ignored him. "Do you want to turn me in?"

Javert sighed and tried to run a hand through his hair, only to discover it was matted to his head with river muck. "If I knew the answer to that," he said, wiping his hands disgustedly on his wet clothes, "I wouldn't have jumped."

Valjean watched the fastidious inspector realize just how filthy he was. The grimace of disgust made Javert seem more human than Valjean could ever remember him. It was a start.

"I have a tub upstairs. Do you want to…" he gestured vaguely, then sighed. "I won't run off while you're up there. Do you want me to swear it in blood?"

"No," Javert said, "Your word is good enough for me."

Valjean stared at him in amazement. Javert was never exactly lighthearted, but Valjean had never before seen him miss so much as a ghost of a joke, and now… he seemed detached, pensive, almost lost. While it had never been pleasant to be intimidated, Valjean felt he might almost prefer Javert's usual domineering manner to this disconcerting passivity. The inspector rose when he did and followed him slowly from the room, but was forced to take his arm as they made their way slowly to the house's second level.

After leading his guest to the bathroom, Valjean went and fetched him fresh clothes. "Yesterday morning I was packing, to run away again," he said. He laid the suit over a chair and regarded Javert thoughtfully. "You know, Inspector, I've thought a lot about you over the years. I've thought of everything from killing you to being killed by you. But never, in all my imaginings, did I come across a situation like this."

"Surely I don't have to tell you that I never did either," Javert muttered. With a final glare at Valjean's retreating back, he started on the impossible task of peeling his ruined clothes bit by bit from his body.

Twenty minutes later, he had discovered the striking similarity between Seine-water and industrial adhesive. Early on he'd given up the idea of disrobing in a normal fashion. The fastenings on his shirt and trousers were impossibly fused together, and he had consequently settled for a more violent approach.

So far, he'd torn both sleeves from his shirt and had ripped the waistband of his pants half off. And now he lacked the strength to finish the job.

Cloth – especially a thick heavy policeman's uniform and especially wet - is difficult to tear. He was exhausted, and every muscle ached as if he'd racked himself. Which, he supposed, in a way he had. The tussle with the current had been exhausting.

And then awakening in Valjean's lair, and speaking to him, and climbing the stairs…draining in the extreme.

One last tug showed him the total futility of trying to tear any further. He glanced down at the remains of his trousers and decided that if they were to be permanently attached, they would at least be clean. He trudged over to the tub and sank into the water with his clothes still on.

Unlike his last submersion, this one was warm and peaceful. Javert gratefully shut his mind down and just relaxed in the water, ignoring the dirt that had brought him here in the first place. His hair billowed around him, dancing over the surface of the bath and fanning out to tie itself in knots he couldn't bring himself to care about at the moment.

He was disturbed half an hour later by a knock at the door. "Inspector? Are you still in there?"

Javert sighed and looked down at himself. "Do you have a knife?"

The door cracked open immediately and one skittered across the floor to him. "Of course you do," he acknowledged with a grim smile. He thought he heard Valjean sigh from the other side of the door, and began methodically slicing his clothing from his body.

When he descended the staircase again, slowly and painfully, he looked much better. His shoulders were set achingly straight, his hair was combed and corralled into a ponytail at the back of his neck, and his clothes were dry. Not his usual style, perhaps, but clean and warm at least.

And they fit, too. Javert always had a devil of a time finding a jacket wide enough to suit his broad shoulders, but Valjean's fit to a nicety. The whole outfit was calm, sober black. On the whole, Javert looked like himself – if a little the worse for wear – as he made his way back to Valjean's kitchen.

The convict was standing shirtless by the window, using it as a looking-glass as he poked ineffectually at a bloody wound in his shoulder.

Javert cleared his throat. "Ah. So you are a doctor, Monsieur le Maire, in addition to all your other talents?"

Struggling to extract a bullet with his left hand, Valjean growled but didn't bother to answer.

Javert took a step closer. "You carried that boy through the sewers all night…on an injured shoulder?"

"It took a measure of will-power," he admitted, without taking his eyes off the glass.

"No," Javert murmured, awed despite himself, "It was an act of God."

"If you prefer."

Somehow, without quite realizing how it had come about, Javert had approached and rolled up his sleeve. "Do you want me to do that?"

Valjean hid his surprise well, and only remarked, "You are no more a doctor than I am."

Javert hissed and snatched the bloody tool from him. "That hardly matters – I've seen what you convicts think is medicine – take anything hot, anything sharp, and mutilate the victim until he stops protesting."

About to argue, Valjean suddenly remembered the time he'd tried to melt a serious cut closed with a piece of red-hot scrap metal. Javert saw that he'd won the point, took over the operation looking a little smug.

Valjean bit down and his breathing was ragged, but he held perfectly still as the bullet hole was examined.

It didn't take long. The inspector found the ball efficiently and withdrew the pincers, hands perfectly steady, careful not to do any further damage. He turned away to dispose of the bullet and Valjean said, "You've done that before."

"I have – once or twice. In great emergencies only, I assure you. Medicine is not my calling."

"No," Valjean agreed regretfully. He stood and began cleaning himself off. Finally, facing the window, he summoned the courage to speak. "Javert."

"Yes?" From the tone of his voice, the inspector knew what was coming and dreaded it.

Valjean took a breath and decided to proceed with logic. Emotional pleas would get him nowhere, and neither would threats when he was so weak. Not that he'd saved Javert just to kill him in a fistfight, but still…it would have been nice to have had the option… "Remember how you once told me that you stood for order?"

Javert gave a bark of laughter, surprising them both.

"You've told me that thousands of times, I know. I meant the day we argued, the day you criticized me for disorganizing society…"

At the reminder of his insubordination – convict or not, Valjean was mayor at that time and should not have been disrespected – Javert colored a little. "I remember. It was after you spared that prostitute and I tried to denounce you…"

"Yes, then." Valjean felt compelled to add, "You were right about me, obviously, and will you believe I hated to hear you scold yourself for the suspicion. You truly are a great detective, Inspector. Working with you was…illuminating."

"Well?" he snapped.

"I only think…I think you should consider that goal: order. How is order better served by turning me in? You see now, with your own eyes, the life I have led since I was released."

"Since you ran away, you mean."

Knowing that temper was not a luxury he could affort at present, Valjean kept his tone under control as he replied, "Ran away, then. As you wish. But the point is…I became an upstanding citizen, a mayor. We may have had our differences a few times, but you must admit I did a good job. We learned to work with one another…to respect one another. I kept the city in order."

"I always feared your liberality would lead to chaos…but it never did," Javert conceded. "You were a good mayor, even if I disagreed with you."

"Then…then can we not call it quits, Javert? Can I never be redeemed in your eyes? Look at me. You must know I'll die if you turn me in. I am a convict and this bullet-wound brands me as a rebel as well. I'll be sentenced to the galleys and I'll die there."

"A rebel…" Javert mused, as though he hadn't thought of it before.

"I was only there to protect Cosette's love," Valjean explained quickly. "I have no political ambitions. I promise you, I pose no threat. Don't you hesitate even a little at the idea of my blood on your hands?"

One step and Javert was beside him, reaching for the towel he was using to mop up his torso. "It washes off," he said with perfect equanimity, and wiped his hands.

Valjean turned to face him head-on, and held his gaze for a long time. Finally the inspector looked away and snarled, "Oh, for God's sake, Valjean! I will not turn you in. I cannot. There – is that what you wanted to hear?"

Valjean bowed his head and Javert stared incredulously. Was the old man crying?

"Finally over," he murmured. "Oh, merciful God." He looked up at last, eyes still moist, and whispered hoarsely, "Javert, I will never give you cause to regret this, I swear it."

Overwhelmed by the emotion, excitement, and blood loss of the night, Valjean collapsed in a dead faint.

When he awoke, he was alone. He remembered the events of the previous evening and for one terrible moment feared it had all been a dream…

But when he touched his shoulder, it ached. He looked down. There was a clean bandage over the wound. How did that happen? he wondered. Ah – probably the same way he had ended up on a sofa instead of the floor. He teetered to his feet and saw a note resting on the table in the corner. A candle burned over it, sputtering low by now, and he forced his eyes to focus.

By the unsteady light of the dying candle, he made out the Inspector's smooth, even handwriting.

Valjean –

I have not, in case you wondered, returned to the Seine. I have gone away for a time, perhaps forever, and I wish never to see you again. I will keep my word – I will not hunt you and I will not tell anyone you are alive. Let Jean Valjean remain dead to the world; if he is resurrected, questions will be asked of me that I do not wish to answer, even to myself. I trust a man of your singular talents and experience will know how to go about hiding evidence.

Inspector Javert

Valjean read the note twice and then burnt it to ashes. The flame flickered out, leaving him in darkness… but for the first time in almost half a century, it was peaceful…the shadows didn't grab at his imagination. He was safe.

The End.

So, I neatly side-stepped Javert's inner turmoil by having him sneak out while Valjean went nite-nite. Well, we all cop out sometimes, right?

Anyway, drop me a review and tell me what you think!

4/2/08: I have new Javert stuff in the works, and sometime soon I will post it. Yippee.