Having gone through the second major change of appearance of a character, I posted a second picture for all of you who are interested. Once again, go to nureinname deviantart to see how Valjean and Javert look like at this point.

Other than that, just enjoy the next chapter.

Here we go.

Wounds so Deep they never Show

When the letter came in, the innkeeper was not all that surprised. He´d known something was up with these people. After so many years of overhearing conversations on his tables, he´d learned to stay quiet and not to interfere with anything. You lived saver if you remained invisible to the guests. The old advice to every servant in this world did not exist for nothing. After the servant entered the room, it should be a little more empty.

But that didn´t mean the servant wasn´t there. And neither was the innkeeper. He´d heard the young people talk, that morning when they´d left. He´d heard what they had spoken, about the convent not far from here. And since he was no one to interfere with anyone else´s business, he sent the messenger on his way, to deliver the letter to the person it belonged to.

Neither he nor the messenger himself had any idea, that another person was watching from the shadows, waiting patiently to finally find the destination of said letter. And just now, it seemed, this destination was only one more step away.

...

The house was easy to find. Javert knew the address by heart. He´d never been there, but the place was well known, in one of the better parts of the city. He only hoped that their disguise would not give them away there, instead of hiding them. But he had to learn that people as pitiful as they looked right now, were truly everywhere. Even right under the nose of the rich.

It wasn´t that he hadn´t known that. Only had he never looked that close, and with this perspective. Somehow he felt strange to be in this place. As if he was no longer up there, able to look down. But merely a part of what was down here. A grain of sand, as unimportant and unnoticed as all the other thousands. And in this universe that was so foreign to him, as sunlight was to a grub that never saw the light of day, it was Valjean who stood by his side, guiding him through this darkness of the unknown.

The only thing in fact, that was not unknown to Javert, was the big carriage parked in front of the house, harnessed to it two noble black horses, patiently waiting for their masters to demand from them to move on. And the uniforms of course, posted to guard the vehicle.

Javert felt a stitch of pain, at their sight. This had been him once. These young faces, stony and proud of their position, despite the pathetic pay they got for their duty. Had he looked like that too? Back in the days? When he´d been young like they were? Not knowing how many varieties of tripping hazards life would hold for him?

He noticed Valjean´s gaze on him, and turned his own face to stone. What are you looking at, con? Nothing to be seen here.

The front door of the house opened, and the two of them hid, in the shadow of their corner. There he was. Henry Bourguignon. Javert knew him instantly, even though he´d never met the man in person. But his uniform was unique among his men, and even if it hadn´t been for that, his presence just gave him away, as the man in charge. This was a man who knew he held the life of others in his hand. Literally and figuratively.

They watched him enter his carriage, and drive away at last, to whatever duty he had to attempt somewhere else. If he was honest Javert didn´t even care. It was not the man he´d come here for. It was his house.

Getting inside was easy, now that the general was gone. The door opened willingly, after only a few swift turns of his lock pick, and they were inside. Unseen by anyone.

The general´s office was upstairs. The first room to search, reasonably. If they shouldn´t find what they needed here, there would be at least seven or more rooms to go for. Javert hoped it wouldn´t come that far.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Valjean asked, gazing about. "If he sent orders to execute people, they wouldn´t be here but with the people who got them."

Javert rolled his eyes, at this unnecessary conclusion of the other man. "Orders like that are never written down." he informed him. "They´re only given verbally."

"Then what are we looking for?"

"Anything. Something that gives us a hint to who is pulling the strings behind all this. To who is giving the orders to Moreau and his men."

He went behind the big desk, going through the post and documents there, neatly stacked, ordered by importance and currency. He took care not to disarrange anything. If it was possible, no one should notice that someone had been here.

"Like this for example?" Valjean spoke, holding up a letter from the bureau that contained the same amount of stacks as the desk. He must have spotted it by pure chance. Javert frowned but took it.

"Dear Monsieur le Generale," he read it loud. "I know you´ve been pursued by Talbert and his affiliates, to execute some of your very special operations, and that they tried to make you believe that it was for the good of the country. But I hereby pursue you to step back from these orders, for it is a lie. Nothing good can come of these things, and a fair share of wealth can never pay off for the crimes that would be committed in their names. Not even Le …" he stopped, at the name that stood there. "Not even Lecomte could ensure such promises as these people have made." he went on. "It would be a minor win, at best, for it is shown by history that treats like this can never last long, and merely worsens things at best."

He didn´t read the rest. It contained only the usual formal greeting at the end of every letter a gentleman wrote to another. Meaningless. Nothing compared to what he´d read above. Javert felt his blood boiling at the ridiculousness of the words.

"What the hell is this guy talking about?" he burst out. "Lecomte? He´s supposed to be involved in this? That´s impossible."

"It … certainly seems so … according to this letter." Valjean seemed unsure, careful of Javert´s reaction. And wasn´t he right? This name in such a context. It was unthinkable. Almost as unthinkable as the idea of a highly respected inspector suddenly finding himself on the other side, hunted by his own men.

Javert looked at the letter again, at the address of the sender.

"Jacques Laffitte."

"The former financial secretary."

"I know who he is." Javert snapped, fuming, and Valjean was quiet. "And who´s this guy?" he pointed at the name. "Talbert?"
Something about Valjean´s reaction told him that the name rang a distant bell.

"I know his name somewhere." he affirmed, frowning deeply as he tried to remember. But he failed, shaking his head, as if that would loosen the stuck memory somehow. "I … I can´t place him."

"Think harder man." Javert knew it was useless to blame him for his stubborn memory, but he couldn´t help it.

"I´m trying!" Valjean replied, insulted, and Javert forced his mind to calm down. There was no sense in trying to pursue someone because of his memory. Valjean was not a young man anymore, and Javert could tell that he wouldn´t remember, not now at least.

"I can´t believe it." he spoke, more to himself than to Valjean. "Lecomte couldn´t have done that."

"I know, he was your friend but …"

"This has nothing to do with what he was to me." Javert would not let him turn this into a sentimental talk. "He wouldn´t have the authority to give such an order. Not to Bourguignon."

For a moment Valjean was silent. But there was something in his eyes. Something that spoke of more.

"Maybe he did." he then said. "If he had the right arguments."

Javert frowned. What?

"Do you remember what Moreau said, when you questioned him?" Valjean recalled. "He said he didn´t do all this, only for the money. He called himself a patriot."

Javert remembered. Of course he remembered. But no. "That´s ridiculous. How could someone justify greed like this, with patriotism? This is clearly about nothing more than money."

He shook the letter in his hand, as if the gesture could shake the decadence of this whole affair out of it. And beside him Valjean suddenly smiled at him, irritating the heck out of him. What the hell was the matter with this man?

"Moreau was right, wasn´t he?" he said, and Javert was close to skip back in irritation. "They would have never convinced you about this reasoning?"

Javert glared at him, getting more and more angry with each passing second. "You want to tell me that you see the reasoning in this?" he cried. "Then tell me, 601." He didn´t get an answer. "Once a thief always a thief." the former inspector growled. "Of course, you´d understand them."

"You were the one who could justify murder with the land´s best interest. Not me." Valjean gave back, as if this was nothing to him. "Is it that hard for you to imagine that someone else justifies greed the same way?`"

"Yes, Valjean." Javert spoke through his teeth. "It is. Taking out dangerous people is a precaution. And has nothing to do with greed."

"What could make someone so dangerous that it justifies killings like that?"

"Knowledge. Influence. And power to do things, wrong things, that would lead to even worse events, fatal events. Just as this revolt at the barricades. Wouldn´t you rather have one man killed, if it had resulted in these revolts never happening? Over six hundreds of lives saved, by taking out one man?"

Valjean stared at him, pale at the suggestion, and swallowed uncomfortable.

"You could never know …" he brought out. "If that would have stopped it. You couldn´t know. Ever."

"It would be worth the try."

After Javert had spoken this, they stood in silence for a while, each of them overshadowed by his own desperate uncertainty. Until Valjean spoke up again.

"What do you think makes you so dangerous for them now? What could you do, that´s so threatening for them that they have to take that chance?"

Javert eyed him, blindsided for a moment, by how close Valjean had hit to home with this question.

"I will take them to justice." he answered the question. "I´ll make them pay. … And Lecomte knows that."

He closed his eyes, finally accepting that indeed this was true. That the man he´d believed he must save … had been the one who wanted his death all along. The one who might have started this whole thing in the first place. The biggest criminal of them all. A murderer, by the act of a formal order, for he was probably too much of a coward to use his own hands.

"God, I´ve been so stupid." he exclaimed. "How could I not see it?"

And in this moment, something came back to him, from out of the blue, but exactly because of this, so much clearer now. His hand shot down, to his pocket, and brought out the drawing again. He needed to look for it, the scribbled words on the back suddenly seemed to avoid detection. But then he saw it. Just two words, meaningless back then. But oh so telling now. Devastatingly telling.

"It was him." he then knew, without any doubt. "Dear God."

"What?"

Javert looked up, into the face of the other man, and he felt as if all the blood had been drained from his stomach at this discovery.

"The second man." he spoke, hoarsely. "The one she never named. Gareaux said she knew something. Someone who was involved." he closed his eyes for a moment, against the dizziness this reveal had brought with it. "She drew the one she didn´t know." Valjean still didn´t understand, so Javert showed it to him. The truth he´d finally found in Marianne´s notes. "Le Officer." he read it for him. "Lecomte´s nickname, from many years ago, when he started as a police man." Javert once again closed his eyes. "She knew him. And she knew him well." His hand clutched the paper as if it had an own will, to express its master´s feelings.

How did a poor pharmacist know a high ranking officer like Lecomte? There was only one way for her to have known him.

"But …" Valjean visibly tried to make heads or tails of this. "If Lecomte was the one of importance, she could have told Gareaux about him right away."

Javert shook his head. "She wanted to. As soon as her sister was safe. Only she never got a chance anymore." He met Valjean´s gaze again, and nodded. "You´re right. She would have named him. But this man …" he smoothed the paper again, regarding the drawing this time. "He´s important too. He´s the one she couldn´t name for Gareaux. That´s why she drew this."

He looked down on this drawing, and what had been like the last message of a brave fallen angel before, now felt like the proof of a lie, carved in stone, to mock him for all eternity.

"Some spy, indeed."

"Javert." Valjean took a step closer, one hand reaching out, just barely touching his arm, to comfort somehow. And Javert needed all his self control to not hit this hand away and shout at the man to leave him alone. That this was none of his business. Who did he think he was, to pride himself on knowing what was going on in Javert´s heart? There was no heart, nothing that needed his comfort.

"You …" he started but further he didn´t come. There was suddenly a noise outside, the sound of hooves on the plaster and the heavy wheels of a big carriage. Of course it was Bourguignon and his men they saw, exiting the fiacre, to enter the house again. As if it was an unwritten rule by now that things just couldn´t go without trouble in this affair.

"He must have forgotten something." Valjean gasped, and Javert cursed, under his breath. There were already footsteps outside, coming up the stairs. No chance of getting out again, unseen.

"I don´t assume you can make us truly invisible?" he rasped and of course the answer was no.

"I´m afraid not." Valjean´s eyes were fixed on the door, while Javert could only see the window, behind them.

"God, how often do I have to climb out of windows before this is over?" He opened it, not even finished speaking, but Valjean was not as eager to follow him this time.

"I can´t climb out." he objected, as if the mere idea was crazy. "Not with my shoulder."

"You can." Javert pushed him towards the window. "And you will if you want to live." He went back to the door, shoving the bureau before it, to block the entrance, just when someone tried to open it. The wood of the door collided with the bureau, and from outside there was a startled exclaim.

"What the …?"

"Go!" Javert cried, and finally Valjean moved.

He climbed into the window, rather clumsily with his sling hindering him, and he would have fallen any moment, to break at least three or more bones on the street, had not Javert grabbed his hand. For a moment Valjean hung on him like a bag of bones, a cry of pain escaping him at the unexpected jerk in his good shoulder. But then he looked up, and Javert saw that he was ready. He let go, and Valjean dropped, landing on the street, not like an artist, but at least good enough to not get injured any further.

People in the street cried out, disturbed by this scene of two men who obviously tried to rob this house. Behind Javert the door got knocked against the bureau harder, making it topple over at last. And down in the street, the one guard that had been left behind to watch the fiacre, stood over Valjean, a gun in hand, ready to use it.

"Don´t move." he ordered, and Valjean tensed.

"No!" Javert cried out, startling the guard. He flinched, not quite sure what to do with this old man that lay before him, and Javert climbed out, ready to jump. The pistol went up, aiming at him now. And Javert jumped.

The shot missed it´s target, but Javert didn´t. His feet hit the man somewhere between his shoulder and his chest, and knocked him down. After that Javert´s recollection of the fall was blurred. He remembered hitting the ground, somehow landing on Valjean, and both of their grunts of pain. A second later he must have rolled off the other man, instinctively struggling back to his feet. And so did Valjean.

The men at the window above their heads, were shouting at them, to stop, that they were arrested, and should surrender. God, Javert thought incoherently. Had he too shouted something as ridiculous as this, ever? In this moment, he just couldn´t remember. All he knew was that they were running – stumbling – away, as fast as they could.

...

Marius was restless. They both were. Ever since they had been left behind, like an expendable burden. Cosette tried to cheer him up, did her best to distract them both, he knew, but he also knew that her mind was with her father a lot. And how much she was worried. As much as he was worried about his grandfather. It hadn´t even been a week yet, but this uncertainty, the lack of updates, was unnerving. They simply didn´t know anything.

How would they know if anything happened to any of them? Who would tell them? Would anyone even know that they were here? The friend of his grandfather maybe. But maybe his grandfather had decided not to mention them, to make sure they´d be safe. It was impossible to tell. They simply couldn´t know. And considering this, how long should they wait here, until they would know, just know, that none of them would ever return? Before they would have to decide how to move on from here? And where to?

Too many questions. Too few answers. An impossible situation. Marius was used to take action. Not to sit down and wait. This convent drove him crazy. Hadn´t it been for Cosette he´d gone mad by now. And probably the other way around as well.

When the messenger suddenly approached him, Marius tensed, but only until the man told him he had a letter for him. At this he gladly payed him, and opened the letter eagerly, to read the news of his grandfather.

Cosette was with him immediately, looking over his shoulder. The problem was just, that there was nothing inside the letter. Only a white paper.

"What …" Marius mumbled, totally irritated. "This can´t be." He checked the backside of the letter, and the handwriting of his grandfather was right there, naming the old inn as the letter´s destination. The innkeeper had probably told the messenger where to find them. But there had to be something inside the letter. Why should his grandfather send an empty letter?

He met Cosette´s gaze, and there was something so deeply afraid in her eyes, that it caught up to him. Before he could voice his fears, another man approached them.

"Monsieur." he asked, politely. "May I have a word."

Marius frowned. "Who are you?"

"My name is Moreau. I work for the man that sent you this letter. You might have guessed by now that it wasn´t your grandfather."

It needed another moment for Marius to finally understand, and Cosette´s hand on his back, clutching the cloth of his jacket, to accept this truth.

"Where is he?" he demanded to know. "What have you done to him?"

"I´d be glad to show you." Moreau told him. "My carriage is waiting outside. So if you´d be so kind to just follow me. The both of you, of course."

Marius stepped aside, instinctively shielding Cosette. But the man before him only looked at him, with this cruel kindness.

"I advise you to be reasonable. I don´t intent on hurting any of you. But believe me. If you don´t leave me a choice, I will." When Marius didn´t make a move to obey his orders, he added: "Please, also consider these poor women here. The sisters surely don´t know any violence at all. Let´s just keep it that way. I would regret causing any of them pain."

"You wouldn´t." Cosette burst out at this outrageous threat. But the gaze of this man was unmoved by her shock. Marius could tell, that whatever this man said, he would do.

"Just come with me, quietly." he said. "And I won´t have to."

...

Valjean was still in pain, crying out at last when they finally reached the house and his shoulder only graced the frame of the door. Even Javert flinched at the sound. But he was not the focus on Valjean´s mind.

"We can´t stay here long." the life long fugitive spoke, through the pain. "They might have recognized us. Might have followed us." He took a moment, to breath, his head leaning back against the wall, before he added: "I have another apartment in la Rue de l´Homme Armé."

Javert snorted at this. "Of course you have." And it wasn´t before that, that Valjean remembered that he had already given him this address once. In a night that seemed to be a lifetime ago.

He was still not done thinking this thought, when suddenly Javert was at him, hands grabbing his coat, peeling away his clothing, and for a moment Valjean was just too startled to know what to make of this. The former inspector jerked, once, too harsh, and Valjean cried out, while Javert exposed the injury on his shoulder.

"Let me see this."

"It´s nothing." Valjean claimed, irritated by the mere fact that Javert payed attention to it. "It started bleeding again. It´ll heal again."

"Sure it will." Javert agreed, after having examined it. He didn´t look up at Valjean. "Still it could need a new bandage."

And as if this had made the big difference Valjean relaxed a bit. "Thanks for aiding me." he said, in turn making Javert uncomfortable now.

"You really are a millstone around my neck." the ex police man grumbled, and Valjean laughed. Just a moment, until the straining made his wound hurt again.

Javert sat him down, and Valjean allowed it, instantly starting to take off his old bandage, while the other man left the room. The cloth stuck to the wound, thick with half dried blood, and Valjean hissed in pain as he had to practically skin it off his shoulder. Javert was right. It desperately needed to be changed.

Before he knew what had happened, there was a bowl of water beside him, a cloth in it, for him to clean his wound, and Javert was gone once again, probably to fetch the next necessary item for this treatment. It didn´t seem to give him any trouble to find everything he needed in Valjean´s household.

After Valjean was done cleaning his injury, the former inspector went to work, renewing the bandage, without a word. His efficiency was methodical, determined, almost mechanical. As if focusing on a task like this helped him to get over something else. Something that if he´d allowed his mind to circle around it, would have given him much more trouble than a simple flesh wound on the shoulder of his longest opponent.

Valjean watched his face, so stony and concentrated, while he wound the bandages around his shoulder. And somehow Valjean could not help himself. He needed to speak it out.

"This woman … Marianne." he began, and the little flinch in the other man´s face was so tiny, it was almost not there. Almost. "What was she to you?" he asked.

Javert didn´t look up. "Why do you ask?" he sounded annoyed.

"Your reaction." Valjean explained. "To this … discovery … that she was a spy."

"I knew she´d been a spy ever since Gareaux told me." Javert objected, but Valjean knew better.

"But not like this. This was personal."

When the blue eyes of the former inspector finally met his, they were defiant. "I knew her for only a day." Javert told him. "And then she was dead. There´s nothing personal here."

Valjean shook his head, sadly. "She saved your life."

"Who knows for what reasons." Javert washed his hands in the bowl of water, as if this talk was totally beside the point. "I knew nothing about her. She made me believe I did but … I didn´t. She was a liar just like all the others."

"All the others?"

"People, Valjean. Everyone. Raise your hand if you never told a lie."

Startled about this remark, Valjean saw the other man smirk, a mean gleam in his eyes. "Exactly. Everyone lies. I´ve never met a man or a woman, who was honest. I should have known she wouldn´t be different."

As the man stood up, finished at last with his work on Valjean´s wound, he looked as if he was in pain himself. Not physically maybe. But still.

"It must be really hard for you to trust anyone." Valjean remarked, and got a sharp glare for it.

"Look who´s talking." Javert rasped. "24601."

Valjean did not falter. "You´re right." he admitted, having no reason to deny it. "I could never trust anyone. Not even with my name. I´ve lived a life in shadows. In order to live at all. It´s been … in another life, as it seems to me, that I could be myself. The one I was born at." And as he spoke these things, he suddenly realized something, for the very first time. "I believe … you are the first and only one who ever called me by my real name in years."

Their gazes met, yet again.

"You are the only one who really knows who I am."

And somehow, while he was speaking, Valjean was hearing himself say those words, as if they came from someone else, revealing a truth to him, he wouldn´t have guessed in his wildest dreams. He lowered his gaze, thinking, understanding at last.

"In some way … you chasing me, kept Jean Valjean from being forgotten. From being left behind to die as the mere shadow of a memory." His breath was shaking, when he sighed, so deeply. "Dear God." he exclaimed. "I have died so many times by now. Was reborn just as often. I don´t know how much I still am the man I once was. A beggar in the street, a desperate thief, a prisoner … A fugitive until today."

He heard a sigh from Javert, but coming from deep within the other man´s throat. A sigh of annoyance, not of empathy.

"What do you want to hear, Valjean?" he asked, opening his eyes to him, scowling, and his voice wasn´t so even either. "You want my pity? All right, you can have it. Take it and leave me in peace. You´ve taken everything else from me, so why not this too?"

Valjean was dumbfounded. He didn´t understand. "I never took anything from you."

But the glare he received was so full of hate. "Don´t you dare to mock me now, Valjean. Don´t you dare."

Valjean got up, from his seat, holding his arm against the pain.

"Whatever you think I did to you, please, tell me." he asked the other man. "Just let me know how I can make it up to you. I never intended you to …"

Javert took a sudden step back, as if Valjean had threatened him with something, his gaze aware, haunted, and alone this was enough to make Valjean stop in his tracks.

"I said leave me." his voice was dangerously low.

Valjean was so startled that this time he took a step back, without even wanting it. "I´m sorry, Javert." he brought out. "I didn´t mean to …"

"Good. See that it doesn´t happen again." And with that he walked past him, out of the room. "We need to leave." he repeated before the door was closed. "For this other apartment of yours. So get ready."