Javert flew out of his bed at the sound of the scream.

He immediately reached for the dagger beside his bed, wondering if somehow the Tappapieds had found his house. He didn't even put on a dressing gown before flying out of his room and looking left and right in the dark corridor. He heard another scream from Éponine's closed bedroom, and he rushed down there. He threw the door open to find that her fire had gown out and it was mostly dark in the room.

"Éponine!" Javert barked, using her given name for a reason he still didn't know hours later. She sat bolt upright in bed, and he realised at once what had happened.

She'd been dreaming.

He sighed and walked over to her desk, turning up the wick on the kerosene lantern that was sitting there. More light came over the room, and Javert stared at Éponine in the flickering orange light.

"A nightmare?" he asked simply, and she looked terribly embarrassed as she nodded. She dragged her fingers over her braided hair and whispered,

"They were… taking me… against that wall."

"Well, they're not here," Javert assured her, leaning against the desk. "You are safe in this home. That's why you are here. You are here to ensure your safety… and so that you might use the opportunity to make a better life for yourself."

"I think you added that last bit yourself, Inspector," Éponine smiled, and Javert smirked a little at her. He shrugged.

"The Tappapieds will not harm you here. I promise you safety in this house."

"You'll keep me safe?" Éponine asked quietly, and it was then that Javert noticed the way her chest rose and fell quickly beneath her simple white nightgown. She was so small, he thought. So young and small and vulnerable. He nodded and whispered, "Yes. I'll keep you safe. Éponine."

"I am very sorry for waking you, Inspector Javert," Éponine mumbled, but he shook his head and lowered the wick on the lantern again. He walked over to her fire and poked at it, blowing a little until the flames kicked up a bit, and she seemed very grateful as he made his way toward the door. He realised how revealed he was standing there in nothing but his nightshirt, holding a dagger, but he just gave her a crisp nod and murmured,

"Get some good rest."

"Goodnight, Monsieur," said Éponine. "I wish I knew your given name."

Javert scowled at the door and paused. Did he tell her? He cleared his throat and shook his head, turning round to stare at where she sat upright in the bed. He said plainly,

"I've got no given name. You asked what I knew of poverty. Much. I know enough of poverty that I was given no name at my birth. Javert is my only name. There is no other."

"Oh." Éponine's lips parted, and she looked a little bit pretty then as she stared him up and down, almost appraising him. She seemed less innocent all of a sudden, as though the realisation that he came from just as rough a background as her had made her open up a little inside. She stared at him with eyes that burned like fire all of a sudden, and there was a strange moment of quiet. Javert swallowed and encountered a bizarre lump in his throat when he did.

"Éponine," he said softly, "I am sorry that you had the nightmare you did. Those attackers will not get you here."

"No," she whispered. "I am very safe here. I can tell it. Thank you, Inspector… Javert. From Toulon."

He turned to go then, feeling that it was wrong for him to stay even a moment longer, and he quickly shut her door and walked back toward his bedroom, the dagger in his hand.


"You went out on your own," Javert nodded, and Éponine noticed he did not sound happy about that fact.

"I wanted to have dinner ready for you, since you were sleeping during the day and working a night shift, Inspector," she told him, feeling a little confused. He glared at her as he finished buttoning up his uniform jacket.

"No. You're not to fetch food or supplies. It may feel like imprisonment, but the terms of your protective custody dictate that you leave this house only under my escort. I can not keep you safe if you leave this house alone."

"I'm sorry." Éponine realised he was right. Someone could see her and go tattling that she was here - at best - or physically attack her at worst. She sighed and gestured to the plates she'd set at the dinner table. "I won't go out again, Inspector. In the meantime, I got some roast chicken and potatoes for you for dinner."

"Where's your chicken?" he asked, and Éponine's mouth froze as she shook her head, standing near the wall.

"I ate some bread," she insisted. "It was expensive food; I didn't want to spend the money on two servings."

Javert scowled as he sat and cut into his roast chicken thigh. He paused with the bite halfway to his mouth. It smelled so good. Éponine tried to ignore the rumble in her stomach. She was fine with bread; she'd been fine with far less for a very long time.

"Go get a plate," Javert said firmly, and before Éponine could open her mouth to protest, he ordered her again, "Get a plate, Éponine."

She sighed and went into the tiny kitchen, fetching a small blue and white china plate and a fork. She walked over to Javert, who began cutting up some chicken and serving it onto her plate.

"That's more than enough!" she cried, after he'd put three or four bites' worth there. He rolled his eyes and put a few potatoes on her plate from his, and Éponine smiled down at him a little. He pulled out the chair beside him at the four-top table, and Éponine sank down into the chair. She gulped and stared at the food, and she told him,

"We ate like this, once upon a time. Well, not quite like this; my parents' inn served swill and cheap stew. But we ate real food, once upon a time."

"They owned an inn?" Javert asked, and Éponine nodded as she ate some of the chicken. It was warm and smooth in her mouth, and she struggled not to make noise. She told Javert,

"The inn went under, and we moved to Paris, but nothing came to shape. We were rat fodder before we knew it. I had pretty dresses when I was a little girl. Pretty dolls. I was pampered like a precious little creature."

"Interesting." Javert raised his eyebrows and popped a potato into his mouth. He informed her, "My own beginnings were… as humble as one's beginnings might be. I had to make my own way from a very young age. I have confidence, Éponine, that you will find a life that spares you your father's choices."

"You are very invested in my salvation, Inspector," Éponine noted, and he admitted quietly,

"I see a little of myself in you, perhaps. I do not wish for opportunities to slip through your fingers like sand, no. I am off to Saint-Michel on patrol tonight. If I see your parents, I shall assure them of your safety."

Éponine choked a scoff. "They won't care."

"Won't they?" Javert asked, but Éponine insisted,

"Not in the slightest. But if you pass by Gorbeau House, and he's there, will you tell a boy called Marius Pontmercy that I'm safe?"

"Marius Pontmercy," Javert repeated. "Who is he?"

"He is…" Éponine paused, staring down at the remains of her food for a very long moment. What was Marius to her? Everything, it had seemed once upon a time. But what had she been to him? Nothing. Ever. "He is…"

"I think I understand," Javert said awkwardly, but Éponine shook her head and whispered,

"He wouldn't care, either, actually."

Javert put down his fork and knife and rose, picking up his own plate and Éponine's empty one. Éponine gasped in protest and whirled up onto her feet as he approached the kitchen with the plates.

"That's my job, Inspector," she insisted, and he shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"Honestly. My old house-maid only came once a week to clean. I've been doing my own chores for years. And I have spent nearly my entire existence without domestic assistance. It actually makes me the slightest bit uncomfortable to have it in the first place, but it's part of the terms under which the government will allow you to stay here for your supervised protection, so…"

"Why do you care?" Éponine snarled all of a sudden, feeling very confused. Javert paused where he was scraping the food off the dishes, and he cleared his throat, looking mildly confused and embarrassed.

"I did not want you sent to a home for women of ill repute. It would be more difficult to start anew from there."

"Start anew," Éponine repeated. "Why do you care whether I am lost in shadow or start anew, Inspector Javert? Why?"

"Because you seem like a sufficiently powerful soul to actually make the decision to live properly!" Javert cried, slamming the dishes down into the wash basin. The water splashed onto his sleeve a little, but he didn't seem to mind. "Because you seem strong enough, Éponine, and not everyone is."

"You speak from experience," she nodded, her eyes burning, and he scoffed quietly and shrugged.

"I do speak from some experience in this matter, yes. I was born in a prison to a gypsy fortune-teller, the whore or wife - I'll never really know which - of a galley-slave. I was turned out onto the streets of Toulon with a few coins and a set of clothes when she died. I made my own way. I fought Napoleon's wars. I chose the law. I chose the light. I chose right, and I have climbed and climbed ever since, Éponine. You need not spend the rest of your existence as a rag-clothed criminal's daughter being attacked in alleyways."

She was crying now, really crying, but Javert just quickly moved over toward the doorway and put on his heavy coat, for it was frigid outside, and his top hat. He gave Éponine one more look and said tightly,

"You are to stay in this house for your own safety and because those are the terms of your protective custody as agreed to by the Paris Police. Do you understand, Mademoiselle Jondrette?"

"Thénardier," she corrected him, and he just stared at the door knob for a long moment. He finally murmured,

"I shall notify your parents of your safety, as well as Monsieur Pontmercy. Goodnight. Get some good rest."

He was gone before Éponine could answer him,

"Goodnight, Inspector."