Javert's eyes fixed down into the shadowy depths of the Seine, his fingers curling around the parapet. He glanced left, then right, then down again, just staring. The water churned, black and angry, mirroring the chaos of Javert's own mind. He huffed a heavy breath, his lungs pushing out the air with a quiver. Gazing down into the void, he considered his options.
He could go to Jean Valjean's residence and arrest him. But the man was… what was he? A saint or a demon? He had spared Javert's life, when that was a completely unreasonable and unnecessary act. More than sparing Javert, he had actively stepped in to save him. Valjean had 'volunteered' to execute Javert just so he could let him go. And then, when Javert had intercepted Valjean bringing the boy out of the sewers, it was obvious that Valjean was using his brute strength to salvage yet another life.
An angel? Could it be? A messenger of a god, sent to do good works among…
No. He was a thief, Javert chided himself. Valjean had stolen, and had been imprisoned, had attempted escape, had broken parole. He had lived for years under false identities. He was a criminal. The things he did - some of them, at least - were not only wrong but illegal. But, then, could it be that the law was not always entirely wholesome? Javert could not begin to fathom such a notion - the impossible idea that to act illegally may be to act morally…
It went against every grain of Javert's conscience to contemplate that that which is not legal may also be right. It violated him, thinking that sometimes the law was unjust. It made him shake and tear up to think of it all, of Valjean's illegal deeds and his righteous actions. Was Valjean a good man? Surely he could not be one, not after Toulon and Montreuil and these years in Paris. But he had saved lives on more than one occasion. The little girl. The man with the cart. The boy from the barricade. And Javert himself. Was he not merciful? Was he not kind and just and selfless? And yet, he was a convict. How to reconcile these opposing ideas?
There could be no reconciliation, Javert thought. His hands tightened on the parapet, and he swallowed past the thick knot in his throat. It was time. There was only one option, one choice. If he were a pious man, he would fear damnation for what he was about to do. But Javert was convinced that nothing but darkness and quiet would come after he died, and so his only fear was staying alive.
It would be uncomfortable, he thought. Drowning. He could not swim well at all, and his boots would drag him down. His heavy coat would drag him further. He would go swirling into the depths, filling his lungs with water in one painful draw after another. It would burn and freeze, stinging his soul with the hue and cry of impending death. It would not be pleasant at all, he knew. But it was better than this conflicted existence.
He had gone to the station-house to exchange his revolutionary disguise for his great coat and hat. He had neatly tied his hair back into its queue and had done up his shirts and coats as elegantly as possible. For some reason, it mattered just now that he die with grace. He was not a graceful man, and no one would see his plunge. But it mattered, somehow, that he did not die a mess.
One foot heaved itself up onto the parapet. Javert grunted with age and exhaustion as he wrenched himself up to stand. He tipped forward a little and stumbled, his feet finding purchase on the bridge again as his heart accelerated in his chest. This was the moment; there could be no hesitation. He had to jump, and he had to do so right now.
"Inspector Javert?"
Javert's eyes shut slowly. He wobbled where he stood and whispered the name that had driven him to madness, to death.
"Valjean."
"Please, inspector, won't you step down from up there?"
The voice was kind and warm. Patronising. Javert shook his head and whispered softly,
"Get out of here. My death is my own."
The voice was nearer now as Valjean said, "Inspector, I think you are meant to take me to the station-house at once. I think you are derelict of duty, standing on a bridge instead of -"
"Can't you see?" Javert hissed, his eyes still shut. "Can't you see that your goodness has put me on this bridge, Valjean? Can't you see that a convict playing the saint is a thing my soul can not abide?"
"There has been trickery, I admit it," Valjean said quietly. "I tore up my papers. I lived as M. Madeleine. I was the mayor of a town. Me! A convict. It is true; I have sinned greatly. And for all of it, I have asked pardon of my God. But I am still a deeply flawed man, and I have broken the law. I beg you, Inspector Javert, to do as your position commands and to take me to be imprisoned again. It is what I have earned."
"You have earned…" Javert murmured, gulping, "salvation. Is it not so?"
He turned his head and faced the man he had hunted for years and years. Valjean was staring at him with crinkled, concerned eyes. He shook his head and pursed his full lips.
"None of us knows who has earned salvation. What I do know, Inspector Javert, is that you must get down from that bridge."
"Why?" Javert spat. "So that I can become a villain by arresting a good man? So that I can defy the law by letting a convict go free? I come down from here and then what, Monsieur le Maire? Hmm? What am I to do?"
"You could eat. I'm sure you are hungry," Valjean said softly, and Javert shrugged.
"Hungry," he repeated. Valjean nodded.
"It is nearly morning. You were held captive, then changed your clothes. Wouldn't you like a bath, and something to eat?"
"I would like to die, if you would kindly oblige me and go away!" Javert snarled. He gazed down into the water again and slid his foot to the right, his boot scraping. He felt like he would be sick all of a sudden, and he lifted one foot into the air.
"Javert!" Suddenly there were footsteps dashing towards him, and then he felt arms wrap around his thighs and yank him back. He tumbled to the ground, his head smacking against the pavement. Beneath him, Valjean cried out in pain, and Javert realised Valjean had pulled him off the bridge and fallen beneath him. Javert scrambled to get off of Valjean, and when he heaved himself to his feet, he staggered backwards and stared at where Valjean lay on the ground.
He still smelled of shit, Javert thought with disdain. He had obviously washed before wandering out here, but he still smelled of horse and human shit. The sewers lingered on him. The deed of having escaped the barricade with a nearly-dead revolutionary boy floated upon his being. Why that thought was so prevalent in Javert's mind, he did not know. He stared, and Valjean rolled a little onto his side, groaning in pain.
Before he knew what was happening, Javert was helping Valjean to his feet. The two men stood facing one another, and as rain began to descend from the heavens, Javert demanded of Valjean,
"What are you doing here, anyway?"
"You did not come to my home to arrest me, so I came looking for you," Valjean puffed. He winced as he held a rib and squeezed his eyes shut. He was in pain.
"You are injured," Javert noted. Valjean shook his head and insisted,
"I am in perfect condition to be escorted to the station-house. I have written a letter to my daughter Cosette, saying goodbye. She will read it when she wakes. If the boy heals, then the two of them will marry. I am sure of it. She will be well. You may take me now, Inspector."
He held out his hand, his fist balled, and Javert's eyes seared as he choked out, "I am not going to arrest you."
"I am not going to permit your suicide," Valjean said tightly. Javert narrowed his eyes and said,
"We are at an impasse, it seems."
"Bread and a bath," Valjean said softly. "Admit it, Inspector. You could do with a warm bed and a hot meal."
"I…" Javert shut his eyes. "I am not coming to your home."
"I simply can not leave you alone. Not when you had one foot off the bridge," Valjean said stiffly. "Please, come and eat and sleep. Be safe for a time. And when you have found your senses again, you can take me to the station-house."
"I am not going to arrest you," Javert repeated, and Valjean just nodded and whispered,
"All right, then."
Somehow, Javert found himself following Valjean through winding streets. He paid no heed to where they were going. At last they reached an elegant street lined with luxurious homes and lush gardens. It was here that Valjean opened a gate and led Javert through a snarled, overgrown garden. Up to the door they went, and Valjean pulled a key out of his pocket. He pushed the door open, and it was then Javert realised his great coat and the rest of his uniform were soaked through from the rain.
It all rushed back to him as he crossed the threshold into the home Jean Valjean had made for himself. Playing the spy, being called out by a child, being bound and threatened with knives and worse. He was sore and tired now, thinking back over his captivity. But that was nothing compared with the way he felt about being inside the home of Jean Valjean himself. As the door shut behind him, Javert whispered to himself,
"The world is upside-down."
"Come," Valjean said, softly, as though trying not to wake someone. "You need food and rest."
When Cosette blinked her eyes open, the daylight was blinding. She'd slept late, she thought. The night before, she'd stayed up very late worrying ferociously, for there had been fighting in the streets. Marius - would he have survived? Cosette had paced her bedroom like a rat in a cage the night before, fretting over Marius and wondering what would become of him. She'd had four glasses of red wine, which her father would have never normally allowed, but Cosette had needed something to dull the concern. She'd finally fallen asleep, and now it was morning.
"Toussaint!" she shouted, hauling herself out of bed. "Toussaint, please come help me dress!"
Toussaint appeared a few moments later, opening Cosette's door and shutting it softly behind her. The maid's dark face was stoic, and Cosette scowled.
"What is it?" Cosette demanded, and Toussaint said softly,
"Your Papa is here, my darling, and he has a guest. A police inspector."
"A police inspector?" Cosette repeated shrilly. "Here, in our house?"
"Indeed," Toussaint muttered. She took a pale green dress out of Cosette's wardrobe, and within a few minutes, Cosette was in her undergarments with her stays tied up, slipping the green gown over her head. She sat at her boudoir and let Toussaint take out the ties for her curls, arranging the ringlets and piling Cosette's blonde hair atop her head.
"Golden, flaxen. Just like your mother's hair. That is what your Papa says," Toussaint whispered, and Cosette's stomach fluttered.
I need to find Marius, she thought. I need to know if he's all right.
But instead she had to follow Toussaint out of the bedroom and down the corridor and stairs, through the foyer and into the blue dining room. She gasped a little when she saw that her father was seated on one side of the table and a great, hulking man in a police uniform was seated on the other side. Their chairs scraped on the floor as they both rose, and the policeman dabbed his lips with his napkin as he bowed his head.
"Mademoiselle," he said tightly.
"Inspector Javert and I have known one another for a very long time," said Cosette's father, and he gave the policeman a pointed look. "We have known one another for so long I can hardly remember a time when we did not. Inspector, this is my daughter, Cosette Fauchelevent."
Inspector Javert just nodded, but Cosette dipped into a polite curtsy. She studied the inspector's face and found him… interesting. He was old, as old as her father, and his auburn hair was streaked with grey. His face looked solemn, like he had experienced some significant sorrow. His brows were thick and his nose prominent, his cheekbones high and his skin of somewhat dark complexion. He looked like an angry wolf about to strike at its prey. Somehow, the entire picture was alluring to Cosette, who found herself staring in awe.
"Cosette," her father somewhat snapped, and she turned to him and blinked.
"Papa," she acknowledged. He raised his eyebrows and said,
"Sit and have breakfast, Cosette. Won't you?"
Inspector Javert looked uncomfortable as Cosette took a place beside him at the table. He sat slowly and kept his eyes down as Cosette ladled herself some roast potatoes and took a boiled egg. She peeled it with deft fingers and asked,
"What brings you to our home, Inspector Javert?"
"I… it was the fighting last night," the inspector said brusquely. Cosette felt her cheeks go hot as she wondered again after Marius. Suddenly the inspector said in a gruff voice, "I'm sure you're relieved to know your father went to such extremes to protect and then rescue that boy of yours."
Cosette's face snapped up to her father's. Her Papa's eyes went round and his cheeks pinked.
"Javert…"
"Was that meant to be confidential?" The inspector's thick brow cocked up. He reached for his glass of juice and sipped. "I do beg your pardon, Monsieur Fauchelevent. "
His dark eyes narrowed, and Cosette shivered.
"Marius?" she asked quietly. Her eyes welled thickly, and her father nodded, licking his lip.
"I intercepted a letter from him, meant for you. He said he would be fighting, that he expected to die. I could not allow… Cosette, you know I wish only for your happiness."
"Excuse me, please," Inspector Javert said, pushing back his chair and walking out of the dining room. Cosette's father looked tormented. She pressed him,
"What happened, Papa?"
"I… he was injured. I took him home." Her father's cheeks went darker than ever. "He's safe at home."
"With his grandfather, you mean," Cosette pushed. "I must go there."
"Cosette, my child, give it some time. He has been there but a few hours, and his condition was grave indeed. I beg you, wait a few days, and I will gladly escort you there."
"I would be more than happy to check on the boy," came a voice from the dining room doorway. Inspector Javert came walking slowly back into the room, his steps long, as though he were wandering. The inspector's fingertips dragged over the back of a chair as he said, "Give me the address, Fauchelevent, and I will pay a policeman's visit to see how he is doing."
Cosette's father seemed awfully sceptical. He pursed his lips and toyed with his fine napkin. He shook his head slowly and said,
"I think you should stay here, Inspector."
"Why should he stay here?" Cosette demanded, rather ungracefully. "He is a police inspector! Why shouldn't he go and see how Marius is doing? Papa, let him go and let him come back to us to report on it."
"I will indeed return," Inspector Javert said stiffly, "for you and I have unfinished business, Monsieur Fauchelevent."
Suddenly Cosette had a strange feeling, staring up at the inspector and seeing anger painted across his features. The inspector's fingers drummed on the back of the dining chair again. Cosette's father finally said, with great hesitation,
"Marius Pontmercy is at the home of Luc-Esprit Gillenormand. We look forward, Inspector, to your report. You will come back shortly?"
"Of course," Javert said, and he bowed a little toward Cosette before he bid her adieu and left the room once more.
Javert knocked firmly on the door of the Gillenormand mansion, and when the door opened, a uniformed butler took notice of his police uniform and immediately said,
"Do come inside, Monsieur."
Javert took off his hat and followed the butler into the enormous foyer of the house. His boots clacked on the black and white marble floors, and he sniffed as he dragged a finger across the brim of his hat.
"May I fetch Monsieur Gillenormand for you?" asked the butler. Javert nodded silently, and the butler rushed up a winding flight of stairs. There was murmuring upstairs, and then suddenly an ancient man in a clean-cut outfit appeared at the upstairs landing. He looked shocked, and somewhat terrified, to see a policeman in his home. He visibly gulped and descended the stairs, looking shaky and aged in his movements. He walked towards Javert and bowed his head.
"Monsieur. How may I help you? Tea? Coffee?"
"I have come, Monsieur, to inquire after the well-being of Marius Pontmercy. I have come on behalf of a concerned party."
"You have not come to arrest him…?" Gillenormand seemed genuinely frightened. Javert huffed and shook his head.
"I come only to know whether he lives or has passed, and the nature of his injuries."
"His body is gravely wounded," said Monsieur Gillenormand, his face stoic. "A tremendous fever has bloomed within him. The doctor is up with him now. He is delirious in the moments he wakes, but mostly he sleeps from the fever and the pain. It will be a good deal of time before we know for certain if he will even survive."
Javert sighed. "Well," he said, "I hope he does. I do not wish death on… even if he…"
"I understand your perspective, Monsieur." Gillenormand's face was tight then. He chewed his trembling lip and said, "My grandson and I do not agree politically."
"I care little for politics myself," Javert sniffed. "I care only for the law and for France. I advise you, if he wakes at last, to tell your grandson that criminality brings only doom and suffering."
But then Javert thought of Valjean, of the way the bread thief and escapee had saved life after life. He shut his eyes, feeling dizzy, and muttered to Gillenormand,
"I shall bid you a good day, then, and again give my sincere regards for swift healing. I shall pass along the information to the fearful party."
"May I ask who is so very concerned?" Gillenormand pressed. Javert tipped his head.
"A very beautiful young woman, a mademoiselle of means, from a loving upbringing. As far as I can tell, Monsieur, she is kind-hearted and pleasant. And she worries terribly over your young Marius."
Gillenormand's ancient eyes watered. "Her name? So that I may remember her in prayer?"
"Cosette," said Javert confidently. "The girl is called Cosette."
He left the Gillenormand house then and contemplated going back to the Pont au Change. After all, Valjean had interrupted him at a task in which he'd felt quite determined. But Javert had given his word that he would report back to Valjean and Cosette about the boy, Marius. So he went back to Valjean's house, and when he knocked on the door, Toussaint, the maid, opened it.
"Welcome back, Inspector," said Toussaint, her dark eyes shadowed with mild surprise to see the policeman returned. Javert stepped inside and chomped hard on his lip. What was he doing here? In a convict's home, sharing information to soothe a young girl? He had captured him - Jean Valjean - so why didn't he take him back to the station-house at once? Why didn't he end his own life after all this confusion? Perhaps he would still. Perhaps he would die tonight. But first, he had to speak with Cosette.
"The mademoiselle, if you please," Javert told Toussaint. A moment later, Cosette was dashing down the corridor to the foyer and clutching her mustard yellow cotton twill skirts. Her golden curls bobbed around her head, and Javert's stomach twisted strangely. She was very pretty, he thought. She was young. Old enough to marry, perhaps, but young enough that he ought not notice how pretty she was. In any case, he had precisely no idea why he was taking note of such a thing; he did not bother himself with noticing young women often. Javert sniffed a little and said to her,
"Mademoiselle, I regret to report that the boy's grandfather tells me he is in a terrible state. Not fit for visitors, to be certain. His wounds are severe, and he has acquired a fever that has rendered him mostly unconscious."
Cosette's wide, pale eyes filled with tears. They spilled over her cheeks as she seized Javert's hand, shocking him.
"Bless you for checking in on him for me. God bless you, Inspector Javert."
"No." Javert shook his head vehemently. "No; I've earned no blessings."
"I will pray most fervently for my Marius," Cosette said in a desperate whisper. "I will pray Rosaries for him."
"All right," Javert nodded with a shrug. Cosette rubbed at Javert's hand, sending a strange shock up his spine.
"You are a very kind man," Cosette told him before pulling her hand away. Javert scowled and insisted,
"I'm nothing of the sort."
She giggled a little and insisted, "It's not meant to be an insult."
"I am…" Javert struggled for words. I am going to kill myself tonight because your 'father' is a convict I've chased for half my life, he thought. Instead he just stared down at Cosette, at her pretty jade green eyes and her dusting of freckles. He gulped hard and whispered again, "I am…"
"Javert," said a voice, and when Javert looked up, he saw Jean Valjean coming from another room into the foyer. "You did as you said and came back. I must say, I am pleasantly surprised."
"Why wouldn't he come back, Papa?" Cosette scoffed, laughing awkwardly. "He said he was going to check on Marius and that he would be back. Isn't the Inspector a man of his word?"
"Oh, yes, Cosette," Valjean said tightly. "Inspector Javert is indeed a man of his word."
Javert's cheeks went hot at the subtle taunt. It stung badly just now, being quietly mocked by Valjean of all people. Javert dragged his teeth over his bottom lip and snapped,
"Marius Pontmercy is gravely injured. But he is alive. His grandfather has a doctor tending to him."
"We must pray for him, Papa," Cosette said eagerly. "Pray that my Marius heals completely."
"Of course, my dearest child," Valjean said, bowing his head. After a moment of silence, in which Valjean might have been communing with his God for all Javert knew, he raised his eyes to resolutely.
"And will you be going to the station-house today, Inspector Javert?" Valjean threw up an eyebrow, and Javert felt his face flush hot once more. Would he be arresting Valjean today, the man wanted to know? Would he go back to the bridge, to throw himself off the Pont au Change and drown himself in the Seine as he'd intended? What were his plans?
"I am returning to the station-house to resume my duties," Javert said stiffly. "There will be much to manage in the wake of these uprisings, I am sure. My Commissaire will have much for me to -"
"But you'll join us again tonight, as our guest?" Valjean urged, and Javert narrowed his eyes.
"That is not at all necessary. I have my own home."
"We cherish your company in times like these, Inspector," Valjean said warmly, holding out his hands. "We wish for you to be made comfortable, don't we, Cosette?"
"Of course, Papa." Cosette studied Javert's face for a long moment, until he felt uncomfortable beneath the weight of her gaze, and then she said, "Inspector Javert is a wonderful man., to have gone to see to Marius for me as he did."
Javert thought he would vomit. This was all too much. Entirely too much, and all wrong. He pinched his lips and said coldly,
"I'm going to work."
"Good day to you, Inspector Javert," Cosette said, reaching for his hand again. She squeezed his fingers and murmured, "Thank you. I thank you with all that I am."
"Until we see one another again, then, Inspector," Valjean said, and Javert felt as though he had no choice at all but to go to the police station, clean up the mess of the failed revolution, and come back that night to Valjean's house.
He spent a long day of drudgery at a the station doing paperwork at his desk. It was chaos; dozens of surviving rebels had been arrested and needed to be processed at the Conciergerie, but there was also paperwork for those killed by the Army, as well as paperwork for injured police officers, including paperwork for Javert's own capture by the students. By the time night fell, his hand was aching from filling out form after form, writing letter after letter, and his eyes ached from strain. He had a pounding headache by the time his Commissaire insisted he take his leave, and Javert only obeyed because the throbbing at his temples was so intense.
He should just go home, he told himself that evening. He had a perfectly serviceable home, and he should just go there. He should just go to his own house and his own bedchamber, and he should never again his life see or speak to Jean Valjean or his daughter Cosette ever again. They were surely even now, weren't they? Hadn't their decades-long game of cat and mouse gone on long enough and ended with enough finality? Hadn't Javert surrendered enough of himself? He was alive. He was still a police inspector. He should just go home from the police station and continue his work in life and leave Valjean and Cosette to their own living.
But, no, he thought. He had found Valjean. After years of relentlessly searching, he at last had the man in his grasp, in his clutches. He ought to go arrest him, take him to the station-house, and be done with it once and for all. Then perhaps his mind would know peace. Only, Javert suspected he would never know peace if he did such a thing. Not now. That was what had driven him to the Pont au Change in the first place, was it not? Well, then. He should go back to the bridge and jump. Valjean had interrupted his jumping, and he ought to go back and jump. It was quite silly, really, that he had not been allowed to send his body plunging into the black, cold water and exterminate his own presence on this Earth. He had no place here anymore, did he?
Instead, his feet took him back to Valjean's house, with no intention of arresting anyone, and he walked slowly through the gnarled garden and knocked on the door until Toussaint opened it with a look of mild surprise on her face. When Javert into the dining room, Cosette was already there, alone, eating from a small bowl of simple but hearty stew. She looked up with a small smile when he came into the room, and as he bowed his head, she said,
"Oh! Inspector. You did come back. Papa said he feared you would not. You must be very hungry. Toussaint! Please get the inspector some food."
Javert stood in silence, fingering his police hat with leather-gloved fingers, and he was so dizzy with confusion that for a long moment he said nothing at all. Finally, he pulled out a chair and sat, and as Toussaint put a bowl of steaming stew before him, along with a goblet that got filled with red wine, he murmured his thanks and then set his hat on the table as he began to pluck off his gloves.
There was silence for a few moments then, as Cosette and Javert ate quietly, until finally Javert flicked his eyes to her and noticed that she had styled her blonde curls in a much more subdued fashion than the overly elaborate updos worn by most fashionable ladies in Paris these days. Why Javert noticed such a thing, he did not know. She seemed less ostentatious, he thought, than other moneyed young women he saw whilst on patrol. Valjean clearly had means here, and her clothes were well-made, but even her sleeves were less ridiculously voluminous than was the current fashion, and she was adorned with fewer ribbons and bows and other flourishes than he often saw well-off females cover themselves with. Javert realised, suddenly, that he was quite rudely staring at her, and his breath caught as he turned his attention back to his lamb stew, shoveling a few spoonfuls into his mouth inelegantly.
"Papa told me that he has known you for a very long time," Javert heard Cosette say softly, "but I confess there is much about my Papa's past I do not know, and I… erm, I wonder, Inspector Javert, how it is that you know my father."
He heard the soft clink of her spoon touching her bowl, but he kept his own eyes on his food as he swallowed. He licked his lips and then took a drink of his dry red wine. He shut his eyes for a moment, contemplating how to answer her, and finally he set his glass down and met her gaze. Her eyes were the colour of the sea on a cloudy day, he thought suddenly. He knew the colour well. He knew the sea well. He pursed his lips and sighed, drumming his fingers on the table.
"Your father…" he hesitated. "Your father is rather an old man, and you were not an infant the first time you met him. Is that right?"
Cosette winced but nodded. "He rescued me. Perhaps you know more about it than I do, Inspector."
Javert shrugged. "It is not my story to tell you, probably. In any case, I think you are not under any deception that your father is a very charitable and pitying man, but that he did not directly father you. He had a long life before you were ever born. Hm?"
He was still drumming his fingers nervously on the heavy dining room table. Outside, it had started to rain, and though it was dark now, the patter of the rain on the windows created an anxious sort of background noise for the conversation. Javert huffed a breath as Cosette nodded her understanding of what he'd said, and then she picked up her own glass of wine and took quite a large sip, probably larger than Valjean would have approved of from a young lady. Javert put his lips into a line and waited for her to steady herself, and he said,
"I first met your father when he and I were much younger men. We were different men. It was a different world, a different place, a different time. We met again, and again, always in… different circumstances. It seemed I was always pursuing him."
Cosette's eyes suddenly rimmed red and swelled with tears, and her voice was thick as she asked seriously, "Are you suggesting that my father was a criminal, Inspector?"
Yes, of course your father is a criminal, Javert wanted to shout at her, thinking of the decades of mental torture he had endured chasing Jean Valjean. But he scratched at his own grey hair and shook his head in frustration, thinking of himself standing on the Pont au Change, about to commit suicide, having realised the futility of those decades of pursuit, the ridiculousness of the long conflict between the two men. What good would come of sullying this girl's relationship with her adoptive father? Especially now that Javert understood that, even with the petty crimes Valjean had committed decades earlier noted, he had apparently become a benevolent and kind man in myriad other ways, and had a tendency toward mercy and generosity and kindness? Javert's sense of justice, his sense of righteousness, had been shattered. That was why he had wound up on the bridge, why he had been about to kill himself before Valjean had convinced himself not to jump, to come to this house in yet another act of confounding clemency. So what good would come now of cruelly telling Cosette that the father figure who had rescued her from abuse and had cared for her all these years was, by Javert's estimation, a mere felon deserving of arrest and imprisonment?
No good would come of it, Javert realised, his stomach sinking like he would in the Seine. He scowled, cleared his throat, and found the courage to go against every instinct he had possessed for decades to say to Cosette,
"Your father committed crimes in his younger years, yes. It's true. And I pursued him for it, because I have, for a great many years, represented the Law. And that has been how we knew one another, Mademoiselle. But… your father's life has morphed and shifted, I daresay into something which…. I confess myself impressed by him. It is a bit difficult to understand, for a man like me, how your father has become who he is today, but he has done so, and I admit that witnessing has affected me a great deal more than I…"
He trailed off then; he had said much, much more than he had wanted to say. He furrowed his thick brows and gnawed hard as his lip, finally finding Cosette's eyes again. She just stared at him again for a moment, and then she nodded a little and whispered,
"Please, Inspector. I interrupted you eating your stew, and it shall be cold. I'm sorry."
Javert's stomach twisted then as he turned his attention back to the bowl in front of him. He resumed eating and finished his bowl of food in silence.
Author's Note: Hello! I haven't written for Les Misérables in a very long time, but the material is ever so dear to me. I actually have five Les Mis tattoos and have seen the show dozens of times in person (and am next seeing it on the sixth of September on the West End! Woot!) and can never get enough of it. It just felt like the right time to start up another Les Misérables fic.
This fic will pull canonical material from both Hugo and the musical. Please know that my face claim for Javert in this is 90s-era Philip Quast, my face claim for Cosette is Katie Hall, and of course, my face claim for Valjean is 90s-era Colm. ;) The Explicit rating for this story is for later chapters, but it will definitely apply. I am a historian of Modern European History and will stick *pretty* close to historical accuracy regarding clothing, chronology, etc. but may take a bit of artistic license here and there. I will try to be as accurate as possible.
I do realize this is a small fandom and a super rare pairing, so I know this story won't be getting tons of hits/kudos/comments. Therefore, any feedback whatsoever is ENORMOUSLY appreciated what I can express. Thank you so much for reading!