Thoughts Fly Apart

by QueenOfTheDreamers87

Just as he is about to throw himself from the Pont au Change, Javert is yanked back by none other than Jean Valjean, who coaxes Javert to come to his home and clear his thoughts. It's there that Javert becomes increasingly aware of Cosette Fauchelevant, who is not only beautiful but good and kind. When tragic news about Marius comes, Javert finds himself in an unexpected position.

11. Chapter 11

"Oof ."

Cosette collapsed onto the sheets beside Javert and stared at him, her pale eyes round and her braided hair a bit of a frizzy mess at this point. He eyed her sweat-sheened decolletage, which was heaving quickly as she tried to regain her breath. She touched her cheek, flushed scarlet with exhaustion after all they'd done, and she whispered a bit frantically,

"I had no idea it was possible to feel… for it to happen so many…"

Javert smirked where he lay, feeling far more spent than he ever had with a woman. In the purest physical sense, he could not remember having exerted himself like this in decades, and to be certain, he'd never gone so far intimately. He sighed heavily and allowed his fingers to drift to the inside of Cosette's bare thigh, feeling her shiver in response when he stroked the soft skin there, and he dragged his tongue over his chapped bottom lip as he admitted in a low, rumbling voice,

"I must confess that reaching my own peak three times in one night is unheard of for me, Cosette, and not something I am likely to replicate any time soon. Don't get your hopes up about that."

She giggled like a madwoman at that, rolling from where she lay toward him, but he stopped her a bit and mumbled,

"Hold on for a moment."

He reached for the damp rag he'd put on the bedside table around an hour earlier, the second rag he'd finally dipped into his wash basin out of desperation, and he dragged it around his own stomach to clean up the mess of seed he'd just spilt there a few minutes earlier. He scrubbed hard until it was all gone, and then tossed the rag back onto the bedside table and proceeded to drag Cosette's naked form onto his. She curled her right leg over his lap and started to brush her fingertips around his bicep as she tucked her face against his chest, and Javert shut his eyes where he lay, wondering briefly if perhaps he had died that night when he'd meant to jump from the Pont au Change, if this was a divine Paradise.

"Javert," he heard Cosette whisper after a while, and he just grunted in response. She squeezed a little at his upper arm as if exploring the muscle there, making him curl up his lips as he considered that he was somewhat proud of the way he had been careful for all of these years to take time at the station-house to do exercises to keep his body fit and strong. With his own right hand, he rubbed gently at Cosette's back, and she hummed onto his skin before she asked,

"When will you let me taste you again? That was my favourite bit."

Javert scoffed then, feeling quite surprised. "Erm… you never need ask permission for a thing such as that. I think perhaps you are unique among wives in enjoying it. Now there is something that would make men like Inspector Martin very envious indeed."

"Oh. Well, perhaps censor yourself in bragging about me to your colleagues when it comes to that," Cosette laughed, and Javert choked out an amused noise in response. Then his breath shook in his nostrils as he thought back over just what had transpired between himself and Cosette since he had dragged her up the stairs from the dining room.

He had never disrobed with such haste and abandon since his days as a soldier, Javert had thought earlier, for Cosette had been panting and insistent as her tiny fingers had desperately worked to unbutton his waistcoat and white shirt. His boots had landed with ungraceful thunks on the ground once he'd pulled them off, and then every scrap of his clothing had been torn off and strewn on the ground in a messy heap near the window until he had towered, nude and hulking with an eager erection, over his pretty and wide-eyed little wife. He'd watched her shuck her muslin wrapper and strip her nightgown up over her head, and then he had encouraged her up onto the bed, onto her back, and he had crawled up toward her like a tiger about to attack its prey.

They'd kissed until their lips had bruised; he'd caressed her whilst she'd arched and moaned, whilst she'd grown wet between her legs. His hand had migrated there, touching her carefully and affectionately as his cock had strained and begged for attention. Cosette had shocked him then when, with her body still writhing in ecstasy and her walls still clamping around Javert's fingers, her hand had wrapped around his cock and she had begun to stroke. He had gasped and seethed for a few moments in surprise but had not protested in the least when she had let him adjust himself and finish on her chest, splattering his seed on her small, lovely breasts. He had marveled at the sight of it, at the way the creamy fluid had landed in obscene puddles around her pert pink nipples and the soft, round tissue. He had torn her hands away when she'd reached up to play with the mess, smirking at her and teasing her that he would clean up after himself, which he had proceeded to do with the first wet rag from the wash stand.

Cosette had graciously conceded that Javert's body would need a slight rest after a climax, but she had still seemed as activated as ever, so he had decided to fondle the breasts upon which he'd just found completion and kiss her for a bit before migrating his mouth down her neck and chest, over her stomach, around her pelvis, and then going between her legs as he had done to her once before. She had moaned like a proper harlot, entirely unashamed to express the pleasure she was finding from what Javert was doing to her as he licked and suckled at her womanhood, and when she had wriggled too much, he had firmly pinned her hips down with his large hands, eliciting even more moans. She had pulled out the tie in his hair and taken fistfuls of it as he'd tasted the metallic tang of her, feeling dizzy and overcome as he found himself grinding a bit against the bed. He hadn't realised how hard he'd become again until she was climaxing again, driving her head back against her pillow and crying out.

When he'd sat up, thinking she must be fatigued, Cosette had stared at him with half-hooded eyes and wondered aloud whether she might use her own mouth on him. Javert had felt shocked, for as far as he knew, it was really only whores who did such things. He himself had never received such treatment from a woman. He did not think women enjoyed it. He had often heard men talk about wanting women to do it to them, about men enjoying it when it happened to them. So he had shrugged a bit and told Cosette she was more than welcome to carry out the act, but that she was by no means obligated. She had eagerly encouraged Javert to lie down, and then she had seemed enthusiastic and curious and careful as she had licked at him, dipping herself down onto him with a fist wrapped around him until his tip reached the back of her throat. Javert had gritted out groans at that, hearing the quiet, feral roar rip from the bottom of his own chest as she gulped at his cock, as she made hungry sounds around him, as she raised her eyes to him with her full lips wrapped around his shaft. And then he'd lost himself entirely, too quickly, before he could warn her. He'd found himself desperately apologising, knowing it must taste horrid, but Cosette had sighed and suckled at him as he'd finished in her mouth, almost as if he were bestowing a gift upon her, and then Javert had almost lost consciousness.

He had indeed needed quite a rest after that. They both had.

Somehow, though, Cosette had managed to rile him up again, because she had been lying in bed beside him and had started marvelling in a quiet voice about how she had not expected his seed to taste bitter, sweet, and salty all at once. He had apologised again; she had assured him that she had not minded it one bit. So Javert had just gulped and gripped the crimson and cream boutis quilt, seething a bit as blood surged to fill his cock again. He struggled, a bit, to believe that he could get erect for a third time in so short a while, and he'd cleared his throat and risen from the bed to fetch a second wet rag from the washstand. When he had come back to the bed, he had found Cosette up and kneeling, flashing him a look of pure hunger, and that had been that.

For the next five minutes or so, she had ridden him, tentatively and uncertainly at first until Javert helped her find a real rhythm. Then Cosette had swayed atop him, her thin little body moving like a goddess on horseback, her back arched a little and her thick blonde braid falling back as she shut her eyes and opened her mouth, gasping as she somehow peaked yet again with little cinches of her walls around Javert's member. She'd planted a palm flat on Javert's sternum and he'd reached up to cover it with his as her hips had ground against him, and he had felt his cock swell within the snug, wet embrace of her womanhood, until at last he knew he was out of time. He had quietly told her to please climb off, and she had immediately obeyed, dismounting him and scooting backwards onto his thighs, watching as he found his own release, his seed spurting onto his stomach as he let out a few shaking breaths. His ears rang and his veins burned hot for a few moments, and then, at last, she'd collapsed with that oof onto the bed beside him.

Now they lay curled up like tangled vines, naked and sated, salty from dried sweat and in no rush to bathe. Javert considered the fact that this had been their wedding night and he had not burrowed his seed within Cosette as nearly all husbands would have been wont to do with their wives. But she had seemed completely terrified of the notion of immediately swelling up with child and bearing him a string of heirs when he had proposed to her in the garden, and small wonder. She was remarkably old, and she had lived a life where parenthood and childhood were incredibly complex notions. Well, so had Javert. He was not even certain, to be honest, whether he sought fatherhood at all. If it came to pass that he put a child on Cosette, of course, he would accept the reality with as much joy as he could muster, but in truth, he could not find it in himself to seek out such a situation. Childbirth was ridiculously dangerous for women. He had precisely no inclination to lose Cosette in such a way, to hear her screaming in agony as she struggled to birth a child, only for her to die. He had lived fifty-four years without having any children of his own. Cosette was very young. Javert was meant to keep her safe. So he would do his very best not to go spilling himself inside of her, he thought.

"Did you?" he heard then, and he turned his face a little, catching Cosette's gaze in the candlelight and frowning as he realised she'd been talking to him and he had not heard. He felt his lips part, and he saw her lips curl up a little as she whispered, "Your mind was elsewhere."

"I apologise," he said, but Cosette reached up and stroked at the jaw that he would need to run a straight razor over in the morning, and she shook her head a bit.

"I was only saying that… even with all of the complications, even with the bit of extra drama involved in the day, I am very happy to be married to you, and I had a fine day and night. I was asking whether you also enjoyed -"

"Yes." Javert nodded quickly. He bent to kiss her forehead. "Yes, Cosette. I am happy. And… even with the rattles and surprises, today was far and away the most wondrous day I have ever lived. And I have lived through many, many days."

Cosette just nodded, her eyes rimming a little. She kept stroking at his jaw, and finally, she whispered softly, "How I love you, my heroic champion of a husband."

"Heroic," Javert repeated, quirking up an eyebrow. "You give me entirely too much credit."

Cosette pushed herself up onto an elbow and moved her fingers from his jaw up until she was threading them carefully through his straight, grey hair. She stared into his eyes with a very serious expression and noted in a sombre voice,

"I have seen you leave the house at rue Plumet in full uniform, Inspector Javert."

"Mmm. Yes. And?" He huffed a breath, shifting where he lay, for the feel of her thigh over her lap and her hand in his hair was igniting a little twinge of thrill in his abdomen. He could bear no more physicality tonight, he knew, but… still. He eyed her as she tipped her head, sending her thick blonde braid over her shoulder, and she pouted in a way that made Javert want to snatch her face and crush her with a fierce kiss. But he just glared up at her as he repeated, "You have seen me in my full police uniform. What of it, Madame?"

Cosette shrugged nonchalantly. "You told me that you do not often use your truncheon to beat people, that it was mostly there for show."

"That is true enough," Javert asserted, frowning, but Cosette twisted her fingers into his hair a little and mused,

"Sometimes, I have noticed, you leave the house with more than just your truncheon. Sometimes you also take a sabre with you, or even a small pistol."

"Mmm." Javert let out a long breath and reached to pull her hand away from his hair. He simply could not stand the overwhelming sensation of her touch there. He kissed her knuckles and licked his lip, explaining calmly as he met her eyes, "I do not march about the streets of Paris putting bullets in people or slicing them open, either. The sword and pistol are even more symbolic than the truncheon. Even more intended for intimidation. But the vast majority of the police force are not granted swords, much less pistols, and I rarely carry mine."

Cosette's hand twitched within his grasp, and her full lips pursed with confusion. "Do they suppose you need them more?"

Javert scoffed. "No. I have been granted the honour of carrying such weapons owing to a record of service with distinction. It really is that simple."

"Oh." Cosette smiled a little, looking abashed. "So, for your heroics in war, they gave you medals, and for your heroics in the police service, they grant you weapons."

"Something like that," Javert considered. He raised his eyebrows. "I will not protest; if ever I feel the need to slice someone through, I shall have the ability to do so."

Cosette laughed a little and shook her head. "Oh, I do not wish to think of you being violent."

Javert winced, for he had been remarkably violent on countless occasions in his past. As a young soldier, he had killed, time and time again, with bullet and with bayonet. He had been following orders; he had been trying to help win battles, to serve France. Still, he had been violent. He could still feel the very distinctive squelch of blood and organs when one withdrew a large knife or a bayonet from a freshly killed enemy on the battlefield. Javert shut his eyes, thinking of that. Then he startled, for in his mind, he heard a whip crack, heard chains clang, heard the groan of galley slaves labouring under Javert's own watch at Toulon. His work there had been violence, surely. He had told Cosette that he did not use his police truncheon often , and it was true that he did not use it often , but he could recall several times when he had used it quite severely throughout his career. He had felt compelled, once, to bash one misbehaving drunk thief until the man had been bloodied and moaning before arresting him. Another time, Javert had pointed his pistol straight at a boy of perhaps thirteen who had been harassing an old woman and had wound up terrifying the both of them, eliciting a shriek of terror from the old woman.

"Javert."

He opened his eyes and realised his breath had quickened in his nostrils. He gulped and shrugged a little as Cosette gave him a worried look, and she asked him,

"I've said entirely the wrong thing, haven't I?"

"No," he lied, shaking his head vigorously. "No, it's not… it's nothing to do with you. I am tired. That's all."

But their earlier teasing mood had dissolved, and she could plainly tell that. She just nodded, and Javert closed his eyes again as he felt her lie back down and curl up against him. There was a very long silence then, and Javert thought perhaps Cosette was asleep, for he was almost asleep himself, when finally he heard her voice murmur very gently, just as she had done earlier,

"How I love you."

He breathed in as deeply as he could, filling his lungs with the entirety of the moment, and when he exhaled, he replied softly to her,

"I promise you, Cosette, that I shall endeavour to love you and to do nothing but make you as happy as I can… every day… for the rest of my life."

He felt her lips plant a few gentle kisses on his chest in response to that, and as he drifted off to sleep, he thought to himself,

Yes. This is divine Paradise.

---

Javert allowed himself precisely one day after the wedding to relax at home with Cosette, but the day after that, he arrived at the station-house at nine o'clock in the morning. Well, strictly speaking, he arrived at ten minutes to nine, for he was in the habit of believing that to arrive precisely on time somewhere was to be, in fact, late.

As Javert strode into the station house wearing his uniform with full weapon allotment (having thought to do so today after Cosette had put the thought into his mind), he removed his top hat and touched tentatively at the truncheon he had sheathed on one side and the sword on the other. He sighed a little, glancing down at his shiny black boots and dragging his gloved fingers over his neatly styled hair. He passed the dressing area for the low-ranking police officers and peace guards, and they all stood at attention as he passed to acknowledge him. Then he approached the area of the station where the higher-ranking Inspectors kept their desks. It appeared that this morning, he was not alone in having a shift where he was meant to do several hours of paperwork before a patrol; he spotted both Antoine Leroux and Phillippe Martin at their desks, already focused on their own work. That meant they'd had shifts that had begun at seven, then, Javert thought. At the sound of his footsteps coming in, Leroux and Martin glanced up, and then they met one another's eyes with an anxious exchange.

"Morning," Javert said simply, going over to his own desk and unbuckling his sword and truncheon to prepare to sit. But before he sank down, Leroux said carefully,

"Congratulations on your marriage, Javert."

"Thank you."

"I believe the Commissaire wanted to see you in his office." Martin's voice was quiet and meaningful, and when Javert looked at him in response, Martin's cheeks were red. Javert pursed his lips and rose, buckling his weaponry back on and nodding crisply. He strode at once away from his desk to the back of the station-house, to the door that bore Commissaire Caron's name, his stomach churning and his heart thrumming with anxiety. He remembered the way the mayor at the Mairie had surreptitiously covered his marriage certificate, the way Javert had muttered to the mayor about not being able to complete the form properly… the way Valjean had rushed Martin out of the ceremony room whilst Cosette had stood there in confusion. Javert took a shaking breath and raised his fist, knocking four times on Commissaire Caron's door and waiting.

"Enter," he heard a stern voice said, and Javert steadied himself before turning the doorknob and then pushing his way in with completely feigned confidence. He shut the heavy wooden door behind him and saluted tightly, standing at attention until Commissaire Caron looked up from where he sat at his desk, eyeing Javert with his beady black eyes and saying in his reedy voice,

"At ease, Javert. Sit."

"Yes, Monsieur." Javert came at once and moved stiffly as he put his too-large body into the wooden chair opposite Caron's. He stared straight ahead and kept his face expressionless as Caron opened a folder on his desk and pulled out a new-looking paper bearing the stamp of the Mairie of the 15th Arrondissement of Paris. Javert recognised the paper at once as his own marriage certificate, and he struggled hard to maintain a stoic visage where he sat, though his blood was galloping in his veins and panic started to set in. Commissaire Caron met his eyes and sniffed.

"Congratulations are most certainly in order, Javert. Allow me to wish you countless years of happiness with your new wife."

Javert nodded, struggling to summon the ability to speak properly until at last he managed thickly, "Thank you, Monsieur."

Caron hesitated, then shut the folder with the marriage certificate inside it and passed it to Javert, who felt his own brows furrow in confusion. Caron pinched his lips into a tight line and folded his hands on his desk as Javert tucked the folder under his arm. Caron finally said, in a simple sort of tone,

"I shared the news of your engagement far too liberally, and for that, Javert, I should like to apologise. I can assure you that you will be granted due privacy and discretion regarding all details of… of your biography, and of your wife's. Both of your information will remain completely confidential, as is appropriate for a respected inspector of your rank and tenure."

He sniffed lightly again then, and Javert nodded slowly. He heaved himself from his chair, feeling a bit numb, and he clumsily mumbled some thanks before managing to stand at attention for a moment.

"Dismissed," Caron said quietly, and with a crisp nod, Javert turned to go.

Back out at his desk, he set the folder with his marriage certificate in it down and hurried to unbuckle his weaponry again, and when he did, Martin rose from his own chair and walked over to Javert's desk. Javert looked up, feeling suspicious and sceptical since Martin had been at the Mairie and had seen things rather dissolve before the mayor. Javert sat down as he set his sword and truncheon aside, and he acted as casually as he could as he pulled his file drawer open and pushed the folder with the marriage certificate open inside, locking up the drawer. It was as though the folder were an ordinary confidential police document given to him by the Commissaire, he thought. He took his time moving - setting aside his weapons and filing the folder - before finally giving Martin his attention with a mild, pleasant, expectant little look. Martin looked about and then leaned close toward Javert, speaking quietly enough that he could hardly be heard over the low din of work in the station house.

"Javert, your new father-in-law explained the truth of the situation to me when he took me from the Mairie. I thought you ought to know that I am fully aware of why it is that you were in an awkward situation during the ceremony… and I do feel sorry for you."

Javert's lips fell open. He shook his head, mildly confused. "Erm…"

"He revealed your wife's true parentage to me," Martin said solemnly, as though making a confession to a priest, and Javert raised his eyebrows as Martin continued, "He said that he knew your wife's mother well earlier in his life, but that the girl's mother had died. Your father-in-law and your wife's mother had never been romantically linked, apparently; he was more of a benefactor, he says. And your wife's real father was an awful cur who abandoned the both of them. In any case, he says that your wife did not know. That she had grown up thinking that Monsieur Fauchelevant was her real, true father. It must have been quite a shock to see that other man's name upon the certificate, and to find out that the man who had raised her had adopted her."

Javert nodded quickly, gulping hard and blinking a few times. So Valjean had spared him yet again, then. Valjean had rescued his career, it seemed. If Martin had had any suspicions of anything truly odd about the marriage certificate, Valjean had successfully snuffed them out like the flame of a candle with an artful evasion of the complete truth. There had been a time, almost certainly, where attempting to cope with Valjean's benevolence would have driven Javert to utter consternation, even to madness. But now he found himself very grateful for the man's foresight and thoughtfulness. He cleared his throat and replied calmly to Martin,

"Cosette took the news better than I'd anticipated, actually. Still, I greatly appreciate your understanding and tact."

"Of course." Martin nodded. "Congratulations again, Javert."

He stood then and turned to go back to his own desk, and Javert sighed, opening another drawer to pull out some remaining paperwork for the next few hours.

---

Javert stalked up rue Maître Albert as the sun beat down upon the streets of the Latin Quarter. The air was not warm, but the late summer sun seemed to have a vengeance, and the people of the area were more than a bit grumpy as a result. Javert moved with a purpose, for he often found that when he did so, people fixed their behaviours without needing much intervention. The spectre of his presence striding meaningfully toward the students and peasants of the area was usually sufficient to ameliorate the air of misconduct and to temporarily dissuade the populace from carrying out the boldest acts of mischief. Today, though, Javert had already had to rescue one housewife with a babe in her arms who had come careening into the street from her house, followed closely by her drunken husband who was pursuing her with his fists punishing her with blow after blow. Javert had wrestled the husband off the wife and baby and shackled the man, dragging him off the jail as the wife had sobbed. Javert knew full well why the woman had cried so ferociously. Naturally, Javert knew, being beaten with a newborn in her arms was no treat at all, but to have the breadwinner of the household - drunken though he was - disappear to jail for the two months Javert had prescribed might mean financial ruin. There was nothing to be done for that, Javert knew. Still, it all niggled at his mind, and he, too, was cross as he entered rue Maître Albert.

Students from the nearby Sorbonne were sitting at tables at cafés nearby, and Javert took note of them, pursing his lips. Curious, he thought, that these particular students had apparently wanted nothing at all to do with the rebellion in June. What exactly had prompted some of the university students of this accursed city to decide that their lives were worth throwing away for a hopeless political endeavour whilst others had decided to opt out of the chaos? Javert sighed as he continued down the narrow path of cobblestones, finally entering into the Marché Maubert. The market was bustling this afternoon, and Javert slowed his steps considerably, turning his face left and right as he moved between people and stalls, studying everything he could see and looking for any sign of trouble.

To his left, a stack of wooden crates overflowed with ripe apples that had been brought into the city on a cart. At least four or five small children were seated up in the cart whilst their parents sold the apples, the father looking sun-worn and haggard and the mother obviously heavy with yet another child. Javert rolled his eyes a bit and continued on. He wrinkled his nose at the wretched smell coming from a row of fishmongers and decided to keep his distance; he could tell from here that nothing was amuck there, though he himself would never buy fish that had come all the way from the sea to Paris this time of year to be sold at a peasants' market and smelled this way. He moved away from the odour of the fish, toward a stall selling aubergine and beans.

"Madame," he greeted the old woman selling the vegetables with a polite nod. Suddenly, Javert was almost torn off balance, and he whirled to the side as he felt someone yanking roughly at the right sleeve of his uniform coat.

"Please, Inspector! Inspector Javert! Please help me! Please!"

Javert found himself gazing down at a visibly pregnant woman, a woman he knew to be called Nathalie, who was clad in a simple green wool dress with an apron. Her face was utterly frantic as desperate tears streamed quickly down her puffy red cheeks. She clutched harder than ever at Javert's sleeve as he scowled at her and demanded sharply,

"Whatever is the matter?"

"M-My little Lucienne! She has been taken! " exclaimed the mother with a gasping sound of desperation and anguish. She bounced on the balls of her feet, seeming more anxious than Javert had seen a person in quite some time, and her fingers squeezed at Javert's sleeve again as she glanced over her shoulder. She raised her face to Javert and hissed, "It was all my all my fault. I'm a terrible mother! It was my fault!"

"What happened?" Javert asked again, not forcing the poor woman to let him go. The mother met his eyes, tears still streaming down her inflamed face as she whispered in a choked sob,

"That horrid madman took Lucienne… I was buying some cheese for my family, and Lucienne had wandered off toward the peaches. I shouted at her to come back, but I was making change at the cheese stall, and when I looked back… Lucienne was gone. That madman had been there; I just know he is the one who took her."

"Who?" Javert snapped. "What madman?"

"Gabriel Roux!" shouted Nathalie, her hand releasing Javert at last and cradling her expectant abdomen. Her face twisted with heartache and regret, and Javert's stomach flopped. Gabriel Roux was a man of perhaps twenty-five, known in this area for being very frequently arrested and jailed for petty little crimes, and then for securing compassionate release on the grounds of utter insanity. Javert had unsuccessfully argued, more than once, that the man needed permanent housing in a sanatorium for his own sake and to remove him from society. He hallucinated and was convinced of some terrible untruths. Far more dangerously, he was known to harass girls and women from toddlerhood up until they were crouched and white-haired. He taunted them cruelly about anything and everything, or he gave them dolls. He called them ugly witches and he tried to steal kisses from them. He was an unpredictable man, unwell, emaciated, flea-bitten. Sometimes Javert would find him wandering the streets naked. Javert had twice testified in court to try and get Roux locked up for longer terms if for no other reason than to truly protect society, for there seemed to be no curing Roux's brand of madness. But Javert's pleas always went unanswered.

The jails were very crowded, Javert was always told. Roux was not a violent man. The compassion of Christ Jesus was in order for creatures like him.

Well, Javert thought ruefully now, where had that gotten them? He led Nathalie, the expecting woman who had lost her child, as quickly as he could across the market toward the stall that sold peaches, and as soon as they reached it, Javert demanded of the wiry, white-haired man there,

"What happened to the little girl who was here?"

"My daughter, Lucienne," specified Nathalie in a rush. "Her hair is reddish-brown and curly. She was wearing a simple dress of pink cotton. She has lived but three winters, Monsieur!"
The peach-seller's face crumpled, and he looked shocked. "I gave her a peach… I did not charge her a single centime. She was happy, bit straight into it. Then her father came over and took her. There you are, darling, he said, and he -"

"Father," hissed Nathalie, sounding horrified. The peach-seller shrugged helplessly.

"I didn't know! I swear it! Inspector Javert, I had no idea; he seemed quite sure of himself. Took her by the hand and just led her straight away. I'm so sorry."

Javert huffed a breath and aimed a finger straight at the peach-seller. "Stay here. Do not leave."

The peach-seller nodded quickly, and Javert hurried away, onward through the market with Nathalie in tow. He heard Nathalie ask, breathless and frenetic, where they were going, but Javert ignored her. He knew where to look for Gabriel Roux. The man had several well-known hiding places in the area where he would conceal himself after nicking something from a shop or accosting a woman in the streets. Javert always managed to find him. Around here, around the market, Javert knew where to go.

"Clear the way!" he exclaimed, barreling a bit roughly through the crowd in the market. A plump middle-aged woman nearly dropped her basket of onions and cried out in alarm as she scurried to escape Javert's trotting steps, and a little boy of around six almost tripped on his spindly legs as he scampered off. Javert rushed beyond the market's stalls, and as he neared the alley at the back of the market, his evident urgency startled a donkey tethered to a cart, causing the creature to stomp and bray in protest. Javert gestured to Nathalie to follow him, but she was very evidently struggling in her condition, her face flushed and sweating. Javert gently touched at her elbow and informed her,

"It is quite a climb. Stay here. I will go find her and bring her to you."

"Inspector." Nathalie shook her head wildly, her eyes welling afresh, but Javert insisted brusquely,

"There is no time to spare. I promise , Madame. I shall bring Lucienne to you."

He could not possibly keep such a promise, he knew, and so he had no business making such a promise. It was entirely unprofessional. He had begun picking up bad habits from Jean Valjean, going about making sentimental promises to desperate women.

He shoved that thought aside and set his mind to the task at hand, wrenching open the charred wooden door inside the alley and charging into the dark, quiet, empty house inside. This place had suffered a bad house fire around a year earlier, and whilst the stone exterior had not been badly damaged, the interior needed a good gutting that it had not yet received, and the inhabitants had mostly abandoned the place. But Javert had found Gabriel Roux on the uppermost level of this burned-out house twice before after the madman had committed petty little injustices. This time, it was no petty little injustice for which Javert hunted him. Javert considered calling out for Roux, but thought the better of it, thinking he might spook the man into doing something rash and endangering little Lucienne.

When he reached the very top of the stairs, Javert could hardly breathe; his lungs seared like fire and his heart hammered a war tattoo behind his ribs. He was more than fit and very strong, but he had dashed up here so quickly that the muscles in his thighs were already aching. He gulped and steadied himself against the wall for a moment, pausing when he heard a small, tender voice asking in a frightened tone,

"P-Please, Monsieur. Where is my Maman? I want my Maman."

Javert froze where he stood outside the doorway to the abandoned bedchamber, contemplating which of his weapons he out to go for. Then he thought he should enter the room with his hands extended, for he feared Roux's mental instability in this situation. Coming in with too threatening an aura, he knew, might lead Roux to do something very rash. Ordinarily, Javert would have not been concerned about such things, but there was a little child at stake here. Javert shut his eyes and let out a shaking breath, licking his lip and then slowly pushing open the door to the bedchamber.

"Who is there?" snapped Gabriel Roux, and as Javert walked slowly into the room, his boots moving heel-to-toe to stay as quiet as possible, he looked Roux up and down. The man had dressed carefully today, Javert saw. Stolen clothes, perhaps? He had acquired a real white shirt, over which he wore a decent burgundy wool frock coat. It did not fit Roux's frame well at all; it hung off at a strange angle, as did the black trousers. And then Javert saw the horrid dark blood stains all over the coat and shirt. He gestured to them and murmured,

"You are injured, Monsieur Roux?"

Roux scoffed. "No. Got these fine clothes from one of them students what died at the barricades in June. Don't I look pretty?"

He twirled around as though he were a dancer in the ballet corps, and it was then that Javert saw the way something glinted in Roux's hand. A knife. Roux was holding a very sharp knife, it seemed. Javert swallowed hard, flicking his eyes to the terrified-looking little girl next to Roux, the auburn-haired child in the pink dress.

"Lucienne," Javert said in a low voice, "Your Maman is a bit cross; you were not meant to go off and look for peaches whilst she was buying cheese. But all is well now. Come with me, and I shall take you back to her."

Lucienne's eyes went very wide upon her freckled face, and she started to dash across the room toward Javert. Immediately, Gabriel Roux stopped his whirling about and snatched cruelly at the back of Lucienne's cotton dress, wrenching her back against him and touching the blade of his knife to her little throat.

"Don't either of you think about it," Roux snarled, his own expression twisting at once into a visage of feral rage. Javert hurried to take a few steps forward, his own hand curling around his front and starting to reach for the hilt of his sword. But his fingers seized up when Lucienne shrieked in pain and terror, for Roux seemed to have cut her a bit with his knife, and when Javert saw a little trickle of blood gurgling down the tiny girl's throat and chest, he instructed Roux in a very angry tone,

"Enough now, Roux. Your madness will not save you in this case. There will be no mercy this time. Release the girl immediately. Hand her over."

"No!" Roux sounded like a petulant little child, staggering backwards until his back hit the charred wallpaper in the old bedchamber. He dragged Lucienne with him, and the little girl sobbed helplessly. Roux stared down at Lucienne then and whispered in a very strange voice, "She is like a real doll, isn't she? Pretty little creature. My pretty little -"

"That is more than enough." Javert felt sick, and he unsheathed his sword, knowing he no longer had any choice but to act very definitively. He charged forward with his sabre in his right hand, and once he reached Roux against the wall, he wrestled the other man's left arm away from Lucienne with all of his might.

"Run!" Javert hissed down to Lucienne through clenched teeth, with some degree of effort, pinning the loudly protesting Roux to the wall. "Run, Lucienne, as fast as can, down the stairs and outside to your Maman. Go! Go now."

The little girl skittered beneath Javert's broad arm and sprinted; Javert could hear her footsteps pattering down the staircase. Gabriel Roux wrestled free enough to shove roughly at Javert's shoulder and exclaim in a voice that crackled with anger and despair,

"You have lost me my pretty little doll!"

"Disgusting madman!" Javert seethed. "You have lost yourself more than that."

He intended, in the back of his mind, on shackling the beast and worm of a man and taking him to the station house immediately. From there, Roux would be quickly processed and condemned by the court - with Javert's witness, of course - and almost certainly would face death for a crime like this. But Javert was getting ahead of himself; before dreams of court and condemnation could come into play, he had to disarm the man.

That did not prove as easy as Javer would have liked. Javert reached for the knife Gabriel Roux still gripped tightly in his right fist, its blade sheened with red blood from little Lucienne's throat where the madman had grazed her. He attempted to yank it from Roux, to toss it away, but Roux held firm and, with a sudden, manic lunge, attempted to stab the blade up toward Javert. Hearkening back to his earliest days of training as a young man, Javert responded to the attack quickly, parrying his sword against the sharp knife Roux held up before it could be stabbed forward. Still, Roux held firm and thrust, forcing Javert to stagger backwards a few steps into the larger area of the bedchamber. Roux laughed maliciously and waved his ruby-stained dagger, snarling,

"I shall kill you, you Devil, for taking my sweet doll, my Fabienne, from me!"

Javert wrinkled his face in confused disgust. This wretched madman did not even know the name of the poor little girl he had kidnapped from her mother. Javert shook his head and resisted the urge to spit on Roux's filthy feet as he surged forward again. But Roux caught him up, emaciated and wiry though he was, wrapping his thin arms around Javert's waist and knocking him off balance. Roux sent both men tumbling ungracefully to the charred floorboards of the bedchamber, and Javert growled with irritated annoyance as he rolled to get atop Roux and dominate the other man. Roux jabbed upward again to try and stab his knife into Javert's upper chest. But Javert, again, was much too quick and responded with force and instinct to overwhelm his foe. With his left hand, he shoved roughly at Roux's fist where the knife was clutched, and when Roux somehow - somehow - tightened his grip around the knife's handle, Javert raised his police-issued sword up and arced it downward. The sabre found its target, almost too true as the sharp tip of the blade plunged deeply into the spot beside Roux's sternum.

Javert gasped a little and careened backwards, falling onto his backside and looking on in shock as Roux's eyes bugged out and blood started to gurgle from between his lips as he made soft choking noises. His right hand finally released its grip on the knife he had been holding, and the blade clattered obnoxiously to the wooden floorboards. Roux coughed a few times and then went silent and stopped moving altogether. Javert just stared, examining the way his sword was sticking straight up into the air from where he had plunged it into Roux's chest in desperation. Javert slowly heaved himself off the dusty, charred ground, feeling dishevelled and dirty and tired, and he gulped as he stared down at Roux's body. He took hold of his sword's hilt and yanked it out, wincing at the feel of it coming loose.

He needed to go see to Nathalie, the mother, and to Lucienne, the little girl, he thought distantly. He needed to get to the station house to fetch other officers and inspectors to come attend to Roux's body. There was paperwork to be done.

And then he would desperately need a bath.

---

When at last Javert crossed the threshold of his own home at 27 rue de la Croix-Nivert, the sun was already down and he had been gone for nearly twelve hours. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He had been permitted to scrub himself clean and to exchange his blood-soiled uniform for an entirely new kit at the station house after filling out the appropriate documentation for what had happened with Gabriel Roux. Commissaire Caron had assured Javert that his use of lethal force had been more than justified, that he had been defending himself and had killed a crazed madman in the act of valiantly rescuing a child. Deep down, Javert knew all of that to be true. Still, there was a sort of sting in his palm that he could not quite scrub away, the feeling of death from having sent his sword straight into a criminal's chest.

He shut the door of his own house behind himself, knowing he was over an hour later than he was meant to be in arriving home, and hung his hat up as he called out in a voice he hoped Cosette could hear,

"I am home, Cosette."

"Papa, he's here at last!" Javert heard Cosette's relieved voice exclaim, and Javert winced. Part of him was glad that Valjean was here, for he knew that Cosette would have wanted the opportunity to speak properly with her father after all that had unfolded on her wedding day. But Javert's mind was a bit of a mess right now. He gnawed his lip a little as he unbuckled his weapons and set them aside near the door, thinking that right now he had no desire to be around Cosette with either his truncheon or his sword. He walked with slow, long strides until he entered the dining room, with its pale turquoise-painted walls and its fine oak table. He found Valjean and Cosette seated at the table eating from plates filled with what appeared to be lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and simple greens salads. Javert's stomach grumbled with ravenous hunger at once when he saw the food, but he ignored the feeling to bow respectfully and murmur,

"My dear wife. Valjean."

"I do try not to worry when you come home later than your shift ends, but… well, in any case, do come and sit down, and we will get you food at once," said Cosette enthusiastically. Javert raised his eyes to hers, his face grave as he nodded. Isabelle seemed to have noticed Javert's arrival, for she was already rushing into the dining room and setting down a full plate of food for him at the head of the table, along with a goblet of red wine. He pulled out his chair and sat, looking Cosette up and down and saying quietly to her,

"You are lovely as always, Cosette."

She frowned, seeming a little concerned as she glanced down at her pale blue dress. Javert knew why she was scowling at him now. On their wedding night and the night before, they had spent hours engaged in animalistic intimacy, kissing one another, pressing their bodies together after engaging in every carnal act imaginable, whispering to one another about love and about everything else. Now, Javert could hear the distance in his own voice as he glanced at Jean Valjean and shrugged, saying,

"Welcome to our home. I hope it is to your satisfaction."

Valjean just stared. "It is a very fine house. Cosette likes it quite a lot."

"That is all that matters to me." Javert picked up his fork and knife and began cutting into his meat, eating very deliberately for a while. He listened distantly whilst Cosette and Valjean spoke quietly about perhaps taking a walk together soon in the Luxembourg Gardens, as they used to do together.

"You would not mind that, would you, Javert?" Cosette asked tentatively, and Javert flicked up his eyes, washing down his bite of potato and meat with wine. He shook his head and insisted firmly,

"I would never in a thousand years begrudge you time with your father, Cosette, no." He glanced to Valjean, who lowered his face to his own nearly-empty plate of food as though he were contemplating something. Then Javert asked Cosette, "I wonder if you might grant your admittedly unsophisticated husband the honour of your time at the opera soon. They are presenting La Cenerentola by Rossini; I thought perhaps you might enjoy it."

Cosette's face erupted into a broad grin, and she laughed a little, nodding. "A Cinderella story! How delightful. Yes. Thank you."

"Right. I shall secure tickets, then," Javert said, and he finished his meal quietly. Once Isabelle had taken away their plates, Javert cleared his throat and said quietly to Valjean, "Inspector Martin informed me, Valjean, that you very intelligently gave just enough information but not too much in order to stave off his curiosity. And my Commissaire is being more than discreet with the marriage certificate. So all is well. Thank you for that."

"Of course." Valjean nodded. He tipped his head and seemed about to say something, but then he narrowed his eyes and hesitated. Finally, he turned to Cosette and asked, "My dearest Cosette, may I have a quick moment to speak with Javert? Just two men left to converse among ourselves, if you would grant us the liberty?"

Cosette looked unnerved, but she feigned a little smile and rose from the table. She walked around to where her father sat and bent to kiss his forehead, and then she came to Javert's chair. He took her hand in his and brought her knuckles to his lips, keeping them there for a moment and then releasing her. She whispered down to him,

"I shall see you soon, then."

"Yes." He gave her a meaningful look, and she curled up half her mouth before turning to go. Once Javert heard her footsteps vanish at the top of the staircase, he turned his face back to Valjean and asked quietly, "Well? What is so important that you had to send her away? Martin made it seem as though you smoothed things over quite easily. I told you I was grateful, and I am."

Valjean pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the lace tablecloth. "Tonight, my daughter is consumed with a drive for revenge against a man she did not even know existed until the day she married you, Javert."

Javert said nothing. He shrugged. Valjean raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Javert scoffed a little at last and mumbled,

"Revenge. You and I are not unfamiliar with the idea of lingering animus. We are quite adept at holding grudges, you and I."

Valjean looked surprised then at that accusation, and Javert caught himself, for he realised it had really ever only been him who had maintained an obsessive grievance against Valjean. He huffed and tossed his hands up.

"Fine, then. I see your point. You do not want her seeking revenge against her birth father, against Félix Tholomyès, because you want better than that for her soul. But what does it matter, Valjean? She's already asked me, only half-jokingly, if I could find the man's house and threaten him in my capacity as a police officer. She does not really understand…"

He trailed off then, shutting his eyes and gathering himself. Cosette was young. Very young. But she was his wife, and grown enough to be so. He did not wish to infantilise her now. Still, there was so much about the world that she was simply not jaded and disillusioned enough to understand because she had not been slapped about by decades of experience yet. So Javert opened his eyes and noted to Valjean in a voice barely above a whisper,

"I do not think she understands, at all, how remarkably common situations like hers are… the idea of wealthy men putting bastards on poor women like her mother and then scampering off without a care and without another word. I simply do not think that Cosette understands how incredibly mundane and typical it all is. Women called whores after their husbands die or their lovers leave. Children called bastards when they have no control over their own circumstances. Urchins in the street, having been abandoned. Orphans all around. I do not think she knows that it is almost customary for people of a certain class, that it is a privilege for such circumstances not to be one's reality."

He felt queasy then, and he reached for his glass of wine and sipped deeply before setting it back down. He finally met Valjean's pale eyes, and Valjean gave him a conciliatory nod before saying softly,

"Perhaps walking in the gardens and going to the opera things of such nature will distract her mind from the past."

"Yes. Perhaps." Javert sniffed and glanced away, staring at the painted wall for a long moment. Then, after awhile, Valjean said to him,

"You seemed disturbed and absent-minded when you first came into the house, Javert. Is something the matter?"

Javert blinked, keeping his eyes on the wall. "You would know. You would be able to tell… Monsieur le Maire. I could never hide much from you, it seemed, though you hid well enough from me for a good while."

"You are deflecting and bringing up old wounds again, and I've no idea why," Valjean pointed out, rising from his chair and coming to stand before Javert. He gazed down, looking concerned. Javert scowled, but Valjean demanded, "What is the matter?"

Javert sighed heavily and held up his hands as though Valjean might see evidence of his earlier struggle upon them. He finally whispered, hearing the slight crack in his own voice,

"I… killed a man today. That is all."

"Mmm." Valjean sniffed. "He earned it, I suppose? Having his life taken?"

"Yes. He did." Javert snarled the words up at Valjean quite defensively, lowering his hands to the knees of his uniform trousers. He grit his teeth and informed Valjean harshly, "There was a girl. A little girl, no more than three years of age. She got kidnapped from the peach-seller in the Marché Maubert. Her frantic mother begged me for help; I found the man who had taken her in an upstairs room of an abandoned house. I knew he'd be there; he was always… anyway. He had a knife to the girl's throat. I got her to run. She was fine. She was fine; she just had a little cut on her throat, but they said she would be fine. I do not know what his full intentions for her were, but were not good, Valjean, and he… he fought me hard until the last; he was a hair's breadth from having his dagger in my own chest when I put my sword into his. So."

Javert said all of that as quickly as he could, the words rushing forth from between his lips as he felt his cheeks go hot. He flung himself up from his chair and stood face to face with Valjean, meeting his eyes and tipping his chin up defiantly, daring the man to call him a cruel and cold-blooded murderer. But Valjean just asked softly,

"What was she called?"

"What? Who?" Javert snapped. Valjean smiled a little.

"The little girl. The one whose life was spared today."

Javert's lips parted, and his throat felt thick as he managed to say, "Lucienne."

Valjean reached up and touched at the sleeve of Javert's uniform jacket, patting his bicep, and then stepped away, bowing his head a little respectfully before he said,

"Then, Inspector, I think you are very wrong in your assessment of the day. You did not kill a man today. On the contrary, I should say that you saved a little girl today. For that, I think, you ought to give yourself a bit more grace, at least. Thank you for having me for dinner. It is, indeed, a very fine home, and Cosette tells me she will be happy indeed here. Goodnight, Javert. I will see myself out."

Javert nodded, feeling numb where he stood alone in the dining room and thinking he needed to go upstairs to be with Cosette.

---

"Papa says I will make a good and steady spouse of a police officer if I can manage to stay calm when you arrive home late from work." Cosette picked at the crimson and cream boutis quilt and sighed. Javert turned from where he stood at the wash table and flashed her a small, crooked little smile, nodding.

"Your father is right."

He stepped back from the table and started to yank at the cravat around his neck to loosen it before starting to work on the buttons going down his uniform jacket. Cosette frowned deeply when she saw him strip off the dark jacket and hang it in his wardrobe, and as she furrowed her brows, she said,

"That is not the shirt you wore when you dressed this morning. I have never seen that shirt before."

Javert bowed his head then, facing away from her, and she heard him clear his throat. Finally, he turned to her and smirked just a little, holding his arms up as though he had been caught doing something. He glanced down at the cream-coloured linen tunic he wore instead of the crisp white shirt in which he had left the house earlier, and he said to Cosette,

"Very well spotted. Perhaps you would make a better inspector than I once gave you credit for."

Cosette pouted then and huffed, pulling herself from the bed and padding barefoot across the bedchamber to stand before Javert in her nightgown. She tipped her face up defiantly, her eyes flicking him up and down and narrowing as she noted then that his uniform breeches did not fit him quite right; they had been belted more tightly around his waist to accommodate the length. They were not custom-tailored, she thought. They were not his. She finally said to him,

"This is not your uniform."

Javert's smirk broadened. He reached to tuck a stray bit of Cosette's blonde hair that had fallen loose from her braid away, and he murmured to her,

"You are quite right. It is not my uniform. I had to change at the station-house. My own uniform became dusty and dirty and bloody due to a very unfortunate situation this afternoon."

Cosette felt her stomach twist to hear that. She shrugged and nodded, thinking to herself that she ought not ask Javert for any more details than was necessary. This was his line of work. He did what he needed to do. He had decades of experience with these things. She needed to trust him. So she just reached up and touched her hand to his chest and asked gently,

"Are you all right, husband?"

"Yes. Perfectly fine. Thank you." He sighed then, reaching for her hand. He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, and he locked his eyes onto Cosette's in a way that made her shiver before he murmured to her, "Much better now that I am in this room with you."

Cosette felt a true smile break across her face at that. She liked it, she thought… being a source of comfort and stability for Javert. Her father had told her she would need to be a centre for him, a grounding, and she liked it. She brought herself closer to him, wanting kisses, wanting his touch, and she felt his hands go down to settle on her waist and caress her through the thin material of her nightgown. She felt hungry suddenly, in a way that she knew was scandalous, for Javert had told her that 'respectable women' were not meant to enjoy taking men in their mouths. But Cosette had liked it, and right now she craved it for some reason. She let out a very frustrated little noise and tipped her forehead against Javert's sternum, feeling a bit irritated.

"What is the matter?" Javert asked her, and when she raised her face to him, she felt her cheeks flush with shame.

"I must be an awful, wretched harlot to savour that particular act the way I do," she worried, watching as Javert's eyebrows went up. She gulped and clarified, "You told me that women were not meant to care for it. For the feel of a man inside their mouth, or for the taste of a man's… completion… but I… I… can not help myself. I am sorry. I am ashamed of my immodesty about it all. You must think me quite the Jezebel."

She began to pull away from him then, but Javert grabbed at her wrist and pulled tightly against him, cradling her by the small of her back and gazing down at her. Cosette gasped a little at his sudden movements, his little hint of aggressiveness, and she shifted when she felt the lump in his breeches rubbing her upper abdomen. There was dark fire in his eyes, she could see, and she let her lips part as she touched his chest again and whispered once more,

"I'm sorry."

But he shook his head and told her in a low voice that rumbled like thunder,

"I took your maidenhead."

Cosette frowned, confused. What an obvious declaration, she thought, and an odd thing for him to say. She shrugged a little and nodded. "Yes. You did."

Javert licked his lips. "I had never received such ministrations from a woman before, Cosette. Not ever, not once… not in fifty-four years. And you say you enjoy the act. Well. Who am I to deny you or mock you for it? Hmm? When it brings me such pleasure and when you were the first woman to give me such a gift and will be the last? Can it not be an act shared uniquely between us in our lives? Hmm?"

Cosette was a bit overcome at that, and she found herself blinking away hot tears as she nodded quickly. "Yes."

Javert's grip on her wrist tightened just a little, and she saw her own hunger reflected in his gaze as he seemed to be thinking deeply about all of this. She dragged her fingertips around his chest, contemplating the notion that even in her youth and with his age and experience, there was something intimate she could give him that was novel and cherished between only herself and him. She swelled up with a bit of pride and with an ache of arousal then, and she leaned forward to kiss his sternum, murmuring there,

"Then you must let me do it all the time."

She heard a growl of laughter from him as he said good-naturedly, "You will never hear me reject any proposition of such behaviour, Madame, provided you allow me to reciprocate in some capacity or another."

Cosette giggled a bit against his chest and kissed him there, looking up and whispering to him, "Of course. But for right now, right this moment, I beg of you, let me have you as I crave. I am starved."

Javert's mouth dropped open in shock, and he let out a little noise as he backed up against the wall. His hands went to the black leather belt binding up his breeches, and Cosette gave him a ravenous stare as he unfastened it. She started to sink down, but Javert whispered,

"Your knees will ache on the floorboards, surely."

"I do not care. Not one bit," Cosette told him breathlessly, and Javert tipped his head back against the cream-painted wall. Cosette yanked and tugged at his breeches and the cotton undergarments beneath until she had lowered them almost to his knees, and she watched as Javert pulled his tunic up over his head and tossed it aside. His boots scraped against the floor a little as he steadied himself, and Cosette happily wrapped her fist around the base of his shaft, near the thatch of greying hair, as she studied the member that had been freed. Javert puffed out a breath at that and touched Cosette's head with shaking fingers as he whispered,

"What luck I've got; I must have the only wife in Paris who finds the hideous organ palatable."

Cosette giggled madly at that and then very deliberately licked his swollen tip, slowly swirling her tongue around in a lazy loop as she raised her eyes. He stared down at her and made a desperate noise as she lapped and then suckled a bit, squeezing her hand at the base of his shaft. Cosette toyed with the place where the tip met the shaft on the bottom; he seemed to respond most vigorously to that, so she danced her tongue there a few times until Javert's knees buckled and he seethed through his teeth. Cosette pulled back and smiled proudly up at him, declaring,

"I do like it. Quite a lot. You taste clean. You washed at the station; you did not just change your clothes."

"A fine inspector, indeed, my little wife," Javert panted, pressing his palms to the wall. He nodded and then shut his eyes as he whispered, "Have mercy on me; the things you do to me. I can hardly bear the feel of this."

Cosette's cheeks seared hot with arousal when he said that, and she determined then to make him experience deeper satisfaction than he'd felt in all his years of living. After all, this was the act he had never done with anyone else until she had come along, and now that they were married, he would never share it with anyone else. It was theirs , their communal and significant ritual, and Cosette relished it.

So she dipped her head onto him until she felt the tip of his manhood touch at the back of her throat, trying her best not to gag. Javert actually cried out a little at that, his hand flying to hold Cosette's face as she started to bob up and down along his length. She suckled on him as she moved, coiling her tongue around his velvet-on-stone member as she pleasured him, following with her fist. Her other hand moved on instinct and touched him everywhere she could. She brushed her knuckles over the orbs between his legs and then massaged the taut muscles of his thigh and hip before going up to plant her hand on his stomach.

"My God, Cosette…" Javert's voice was a low, whining groan then, and she knew he was seconds away from spilling himself. She wondered very briefly if she ought to take her mouth from him and left him find his climax on her face or neck or something of the sort; he had done so on her chest before. But she had also consumed his completion before, and whilst the salty, bitter, slightly metallic taste had been odd and unexpected, Cosette also could not help but revel in the idea of completely finishing him off herself. So now she took hold of both sides of Javert's broad hips and pinned him against the wall as firmly as she could, and she moaned onto him as she felt him pulse and throb inside of her mouth. She shut her eyes as his absinthal fluids spilt forth. She swallowed as quickly as she could and heard Javert's boots scrape the floorboards again as his hand grappled at her hair and he hissed out her name in desperation a few times.

Finally, Cosette released him, letting the tip of his softening member linger on her swollen bottom lip for just a moment as she gazed up at him. He seemed flustered, blinking slowly but breathing quickly as he stared back down at her and mumbled again,

"My God, Cosette."

She smiled then and drew herself up off the ground, ignoring the ache in her knees. She found herself standing quite close to him then and teasing the sides of his tightly muscled hips as she asked quietly,

"Do you feel better now? About whatever happened to make you wash up and change uniforms at the station-house?"

He huffed a breath and tipped his head, reaching to stroke at her cheekbone. He was quiet for just a moment until he finally squared his jaw and then replied rather incongruously,

"Who needs a bloody stupid Légion d'Honneur when you've got the Songbird, the best wife in all of France? Hm? Now. To bed with you, Madame, if you please. I believe it's your turn."

---

"You are very talented with hair, Isabelle," murmured Cosette, watching in her mirror as Isabelle carefully looped golden blonde braids around one another at the crown of Cosette's head. Isabelle gave Cosette a little smile in the mirror and said warmly,

"I know that Madame does not care for all the ostentatious piling-on that so many ladies do with their styles these days. Although, of course, when you go to the opera, we shall have to follow the latest fashions. They are a bit strange to my eye, I admit."

Cosette pinched her lips into a line and sighed. "I do like fine dresses and everything. I was thinking of wearing my wedding gown to the opera, since it is the finest one I own. Is that strange?"

"Not at all, Madame." Isabelle shook her head. "It will do perfectly. There. All finished."

"Thank you." Cosette happily seized her white gloves from her boudoir and hurried from her bedchamber, going down the corridor and pattering down the stairs as her mustard yellow skirts fluttered about her. She reached the main level of the house, and when she did, she could hear two low male voices conversing in the salon. Cosette rolled her eyes immediately and headed toward the sound of the men talking. Javert was not working until later this afternoon, she knew. She burst into the salon unannounced, and both men inside looked surprised at the intrusion.

"Ah! Papa. You are early," Cosette said happily. But neither her father nor Javert smiled when they saw her, and Cosette's grin faded a little. She winced a bit and noted, "It seems I am constantly interrupting very important conversations between the two of you. I apologise."

Her father flicked his eyes to Javert, who shifted on his feet and licked his lips carefully. Then Cosette's father painted a small smile on his face and told Cosette,

"My dear child. You are never a bother of any sort to either of us. Are you ready to go walk in the gardens?"

Cosette hesitated. "Yes. Of course. I need to fetch my bonnet and perhaps a cape, if it is chilly."

"It is, just a little," her father confirmed. He moved past Cosette then and said, "I shall meet you out in the foyer. Javert… good to see you as always."

"Valjean." Javert nodded seriously. Once he had gone, Cosette stepped into the salon and approached her husband, who bowed his head to her and murmured, "How pretty you look."

"What is the matter?" Cosette demanded without any pretence. Javert feigned ignorance; Cosette could see straight through him as he raised his eyebrows and shrugged, glancing around a little. She scrunched her face and made an exasperated noise, hissing at him, "My father is very evidently cross with you. What has happened?"

"Erm…" Javert's throat bobbed. "I… yesterday I worked a day shift."

Cosette tipped her head. Her heart thrummed with anxiety then. "Yes, husband. I am aware. What of it?"

Javert cleared his throat and glanced toward the window. "I… out of… well, call it morbid curiosity, perhaps. I had obtained specific information. Names. An occupation. An address. And so I went to 28 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré yesterday afternoon. I ought not to have done so, I know. I did not ask your permission, and your father told me not to. But I went. And I knocked on the door. In my police uniform."

Cosette just stared. She said nothing at all. She just shrugged a little, waiting for Javert to continue. He let out a shaking breath and gnawed his lip a bit, glancing around the room before he admitted,

"I did not say who I really was. I did not tell him that I was your husband. I did not tell him that I had known of Fantine… had known Fantine. I just allowed the servant to let me into the house and once I saw him, I met his eyes straight on and I… I invented a reason for being there. Told him there had been a rise in crime in the area and that I…"

He trailed off and shut his eyes, seeming very frustrated. Cosette watched Javert's fists clench and release at his sides. His jaw seemed to seize for a moment, and he sighed. Cosette reached to brush her fingertips around his chest, trying desperately not to let tears well in her eyes, trying not to imagine her own mother enduring all manner of torturous hardship. She finally asked,

"What sort of man was he?"
Javert shrugged, his eyes still shut, and he said in a numb tone, "He was no one in particular. Sandy, greying hair, what little of it he had left. Blue eyes. Quite plump. He seemed older than I knew him to be. He did not seem altogether happy, despite very evidently being possessed of a great wealth."

Cosette swallowed hard and managed to demand thickly. "And a wife? Children?"

Javert shook his head and opened his eyes. "Cosette…"

"Well?" Cosette snapped, her grasp cinching on Javert's waistcoat. He inhaled sharply and finally said,

"A wife, around forty years of age or so, it seemed. Odette, I heard him call her. One daughter, perhaps twelve… someone called her Victorine, and a son similarly aged. I did not catch his name."

Cosette tipped her head up quite defiantly and shrugged. "Well. What do I care of such people? Of that man's rich wife, that woman he decided to marry after abandoning my mother and me? Hmm? What do I care of his other children? They are no siblings of mine."

"No. Indeed not," Javert said patiently, "and I never should have -"

"Because my dear Papa is only parent I have ever remembered," Cosette said, unable to fight off her tears then and swiping angrily at them. "I know… I know my mother loved me fiercely, but I really do not remember her very much at all. And certainly, those wretched innkeepers were no parents. So it is only my Papa, it is only Jean Valjean himself, who is my parent. Don't you see?"

"Yes." Javert nodded eagerly. "Yes. That is right. And I should not have gone to that house, Cosette, because I -"

"No, I am very glad you went to see how empty that house was, even with people inside of it!" Cosette heard herself spit. "I may have that man's blood in my veins, but he is no father of mine. My father is waiting to take me for a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens."

Javert steadied her by her shoulders then and nodded down at her, giving her a sombre look. "Yes," he whispered. "Your Papa is waiting to take you for a walk, Cosette. We must not keep him waiting any longer, hmm?"

Cosette tried to gather herself, sniffing roughly and trembling as she let Javert escort her out of the salon and through the main level of the house. She was surprised, when they came to the foyer, to see her father standing patiently, ready to go, already wearing his own top hat and coat. He was holding Cosette's wool bonnet and shawl from the rack by the door, and he helped her put them on in silence. She stared up at him with an apologetic look, but he just gave her an understanding sort of expression in return and bent to kiss her cheek. Then he looked up, past her, and nodded.

"I shall have her back to you soon enough, Inspector."

"She is yours whenever you have need of her," said Javert, and Cosette laughed a bit at the way the two of them were only half-jokingly discussing trading her about. She pushed playfully at her father's shoulder and rolled her eyes and insisted,

"Come now, Papa. Let's go."

---

"I look ridiculous."

"No." Javert shook his head at Cosette across the cab they had hired, but he did not seem so certain. Cosette gulped and raised a white-gloved hand, touching at her flamboyant, almost garish hairstyle. Isabelle had not been joking; she really had adhered to the latest fashions. Cosette's blonde hair had been brought into a voluminous chignon on the absolute top of her head, encircled with a braided crown and stuck through with beaded pins. Many curls adorned the sides of Cosette's face, not neatly framing it but deliberately combed out to be just a bit poufy. Combined with Cosette's lavender satin gown and her new white satin gloves, the entire look made her feel anxious. Attending the opera, especially dressed like this, was not something she had ever dared to do in her life. It was not something she had ever been allowed to do.

"My entire life," she mused, staring out the window of the cab as they worked toward rue le Peletier, "I have either been terrified or hidden away or both. Nights like tonight… they have never happened for me."

"Well," said Javert in a bit of an uncomfortable tone, "It is my fault, I think, that that it true for you, so…"

Cosette snapped her face to his. "I did not mean to accuse -"

"But it is true," he noted. Cosette sighed.

"The past is in the past. So Papa always says. He said it again when he took me walking in the Luxembourg Gardens, when we discussed your trip to visit Félix Tholomyès. The past is in the past."

Javert nodded slowly where he sat. He was quiet for a moment and then said softly to Cosette, "How pretty you look."

She burst into uncontrolled laughter then, shaking her head a little. "You always that. And I've just told you that I look ridiculous."

He raised his eyebrows. "And I replied that you do not look ridiculous. If I make a habit of telling you how pretty you look, Madame, it is only because the fact strikes me so often."

"Oh." Cosette's stomach did a somersault at that. She noticed then that the cab was coming to a halt, and she let out a nervous breath as Javert alighted the cab and paid through for their journey before helping her out. She stared up at the building once she got out, her mouth falling open in wonder. The Salle Le Peletier, home of the Paris Opera, was a towering neoclassical building, its imposing facade crafted from pristine white stone. Rising grandly above this part of Paris, its towering columns were intricately detailed and supported a sculpted depiction of Greek mythology.

Cosette laced her arm through Javert's and let him guide her into the opera house, and she tried to look as staid and dignified as she could as they joined the throngs who had come to see La Cenerentola by Rossini. She remained quiet as Javert led her up some stairs, seeming to know exactly where he was going. They came to a place that was marked for box admission, and finally Cosette whispered up to Javert,

"You've not got box tickets, surely?"

"I was not irresponsible," he assured her, as he did sometimes when she fretted about money and he needed her to know that he was neither rash nor impulsive about such things. He rubbed at her arm and murmured, "Some measure of privacy for a man of my profession is always appreciated."

"Oh." Cosette nodded. She followed him to where a man in a very formal ensemble was talking to people before granting them entry to the boxes. When Javert and Cosette stepped up to him, the man tipped his face up and said,

"Good evening, Monsieur. Mademoiselle. May I see your tickets, please?"

Mademoiselle? Cosette scowled. She glanced between Javert and the man working at the opera, tightening her grip on Javert's arm. Javert calmly reached into his jacket pocket and passed over their tickets, and the man nodded crisply. "Right this way, Mademoiselle. Monsieur."

He turned and took a few steps before pulling open a wooden door to a box, gesturing inside and pointing to the seats that Javert had purchased. Javert led Cosette inside and helped her sit and arrange her skirts, and Cosette was quiet for a long moment, trying to enjoy the striking view of the theatre and stage as Javert pulled off his top hat and hung it up on the rack in the corner. But when he sat beside her, she said in a quiet but furious voice,

"He called me Mademoiselle , that man. Twice!"

Javert met her gaze and rolled his eyes a little, drumming his fingers on the railing before him. "Come now, Cosette. You are not a fool. Do not pretend you do not know why he did that."

Cosette rumpled up her features and let out an indignant noise, preparing to speak, but Javert's eyebrows flew up as he informed her,

" That sort of thing, right there, is not exactly helpful, Madame. "

"Whatever do you mean?" Cosette demanded.

"You are pouting," Javert informed her smoothly, looking out around the crowd below. Cosette's jaw dropped, and she scoffed indignantly.

"Pouting," she repeated in disbelief. "I hardly think it is too much to ask to be granted a modicum of respect as a married woman."

Javert flicked his eyes to her. "I am a police inspector, Cosette. We have very nearly four decades between us, you and I, and, believe me, that is very visibly evident. You are wearing gloves tonight that cover your wedding rings. It would not have been obvious at all, and would not have been a very logical assumption in most cases, to see a man my age coming here with a young woman your age and presume the two are married and thus address the woman as Madame. Do try not to take it all personally, will you?"

Cosette huffed and leaned onto the railing as she sniffed defiantly, "I do not care for anyone thinking of me as your daughter."

He actually laughed a little then, sounding amused, and when she frowned at him, he asked her, "And you think I like them assuming I am your father? Please, Cosette… I beg it of you to free your mind from it all. We were born many years apart. People will make their assumptions. Let them. What business are their thoughts of ours? No more than our marriage is of theirs. Anyway. We are here for opera, not to perseverate over such things."

"You're right." Cosette nodded. "I'm sorry."

All was well soon enough, for the opera was enchanting. At one point, the set on the stage had been transformed into a lush garden, with artificial trees brought on and lanterns with candles made to make it all magically sparkling. Entranced by the spectacle and intoxicated by Rossini's delicate melodies and the sounds of the harmonious strings, Cosette found herself a bit breathless. She perceived a brushing sensation against her fingertips and took hold there of Javert's hand, threading her fingers through his and cinching her grasp onto his a bit firmly as the aria in the scene swelled. Finally, Cosette turned her face a little, wanting to watch Javert take in the splendour unfolding on the stage. But he was staring straight at her as if she herself was the star of the production, and his lips curled up a bit when her eyes met his. He huffed a breath and leaned toward her, whispering quite meaningfully,

"How pretty you look."

"Oh." Cosette felt stunned and stupefied then, rendered utterly helpless by him. She loved him more than anyone had ever loved anyone in the entire world, she thought. Somehow, she would have been able to argue such a thing in a court of law; she was that certain of it. But as she sat in a box at the Salle Le Peletier, with Rossini's music aching behind her, holding Javert's hand and staring into his eyes, she had never been more certain of anything in her life. She loved him, so deeply that it almost physically hurt.

After the performance was finished, she flew to her feet to give a rousing ovation, to show her approval, and as the theatre began to clear out, Cosette rather impulsively grabbed at the sleeve of Javert's formal black wool coat and pulled him near. He seemed startled until she said quickly to him,

"Thank you. Thank you for bringing me here. It was a dream."

He smiled a little and shrugged. "Then we shall come again."

Cosette nodded and laced her arm through his, letting him lead her toward the exit of the box. Once they'd made their way out into the crowded corridor, they were spotted by the formally-dressed usher who had shown them inside earlier, and he asked politely,

"Ah! What did you think of the opera, Mademoiselle? Monsieur?"

Cosette winced at the way the man had mistaken her title yet again, but she forced a little smile and nodded. "It was beautiful. A lovely production."

The man bowed his head. "I am glad you enjoyed it. Do join us again for -"

"It is Madame, " interrupted Javert in a low, almost threatening voice. Cosette startled next to him, and the usher seemed taken aback.

"I beg your pardon," the man said. "Forgive me."

"No harm done," Javert shrugged. Then he bent very far down and kissed Cosette's lips gently, which was a bit difficult for him elegantly to do with his height difference from her. He sighed, nodded, and gave the usher a sour little smile, tipping his top hat. "Good evening."

He pulled Cosette away then with long, deliberate steps, forcing her to practically trot to keep up with him. Once they were down the staircase and outside and had made their way into one of the many waiting cabs out front, Cosette giggled like a madwoman and reached across the cab to rap upon Javert's knee.

"You awful man," she teased him. "Just as petulant as I am."

He shrugged. "Do as I say, not as I do, I suppose. Have I made you happy?"

Cosette smiled warmly and nodded. "Yes. Very, very happy."

He gave her a consequential nod and flicked his eyes out the window as they pulled away from the opera house. "Good. Then all is very well."