"Well. I am very sorry indeed to see the boy in such a grave state, Monsieur." Javert sighed deeply and shifted where he stood in the home of Luc-Esprit Gillenormand. He sniffed lightly and watched as a nun daubed cool water onto Marius' feverish forehead, and the young man rotated just a little in his bed and groaned softly. He seemed delirious, though he was barely conscious. Javert grit his teeth, thinking of the letter from Cosette he'd brought in his uniform pocket. He turned to M. Gillenormand and asked carefully,

"What has happened to so quickly cause this deterioration?"

"The doctor says the wound has festered beyond control." The boy's patrician of a grandfather sounded aggrieved as he sank into a Rococo chair that had been pulled up to the bedside. He put his shaking, bony fingertips to his forehead and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "It will not be long now, I fear. He has already had his Last Rites administered, just this morning."

"I see." Javert nodded. He gnawed on his lip and then finally reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out the letter inside. He wordlessly handed it to M. Gillenormand with a shrug. At first, the old man seemed confused, but as he opened the letter and read it with his ancient, tired eyes, a wave of emotion seemed to come over him, and then he folded the letter again and said in a quivering tone,

"Poor little lamb of a girl. It seems she was besotted with him. Fool that he was, and many a profound disagreement he and I had between us, it would have done him well to find happiness."

"Hmm." Javert shifted again, his shined books creaking a little, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He was uncertain of what to say. He was not a praying man, so he could hardly make empty promises to pray for Marius. He could go on and on about how Cosette was saying Rosaries for the boy, for that was true enough. But he'd given the letter and he'd seen for himself what state Marius was in. Was that not enough? He huffed a breath and pulled out his police notepad and stubby pencil, and he jotted down Valjean's address, knowing he intended on staying there until his head was to rights and he no longer had intentions of leaping off bridges. He smoothly passed the written address to M. Gillenormand and asked in a murmur,

"Will you kindly send word if and when the boy either improves or departs this life? I think the Mademoiselle would like to know either way."

"Yes. Of course, Inspector." Marius' grandfather tucked the written address into his own waistcoat. Suddenly, where he lay on the bed, Marius let out a strange little roaring sound, an odd, gasping, pleading sort of vocalisation. Javert scowled as he watched the boy's nun rush to shush him and try and get him to lie back down, for he was trying to sit up.

"Monsieur Marius; you shall hurt yourself worse than ever!" the young nun insisted, but Marius shoved at her shoulder and crinkled his face as if in terrible pain. His face was sweat-slicked, though the house was not too warm. His nightshirt stuck to him, drenched and smelling of his festering gunshot wound. His restless hands pawed at his blankets and his head lolled to the side. He collapsed backwards onto his pillow and started to convulse suddenly, seizing badly as though being shaken by giant, unseen hands.

"Marius! Marius, my boy!" exclaimed M. Gillenormand, and Javert's lips parted in surprise as he stepped back to make room. He considered quickly leaving; this felt entirely inappropriate to be present for, but he could hardly go dashing from the house in the middle of this hullabaloo. So he just stood there, instinctively reaching for his truncheon with one hand, because his decades of police work had trained him to arm himself during bedlam. He frowned deeply, his heart picking up a bit, as Marius continued to convulse and seize on the bed, his old grandfather bending over him and beginning to sob. The nun was frantically trying to help, but to no avail. One of the maids had come crashing into the room and desperately crying out for Monsieur Marius. It had become chaos. And then…

And then Marius went still and quiet, and though the others shook his shoulders and slapped at his cheeks and tried for several frenzied and emotional moments to get the boy to wake, to respond, Javert knew that he would not. It was very obviously hopeless; the boy's glassy eyes were staring blankly at the wall as his grandfather burrowed his old face into the crook of his neck, as the nun pressed her fingers to the inside of Marius' wrist and then dolefully shook her head, as the maid collapsed onto her knees and wailed into her fists.

Javert finally licked his lips and approached the bed, and he was able to pull M. Gillenormand very gently off of Marius, and as he rotated the distraught old man, he met his eyes and said carefully,

"Monsieur. I shall summon the appropriate authorities for you. Yes? All of this unpleasantness shall be sorted out in due course. In the meantime… grieve your grandson. You have my condolences. I am very sorry. Now… Excuse me, please."

M. Gillenormand flicked his eyes to where Marius lay unmoving on the bed, and his legs seemed to give out just a little as he grasped at the shoulders of Javert's police uniform jacket. Javert caught the old man's elbows to hold him up, and Gillenormand whispered hoarsely,

"To die for such a silly little nothing as he's done."

Javert let out a very long breath and said quietly, "I was there, Monsieur. They all died for nothing, I am afraid. I can tell you that a very great effort was put into saving your grandson, and that he was loved, and that there were several people who desperately wanted him to survive. That is more than many of the fools who perished upon that barricade could say. May he find peace now. Go to him."

Gillenormand stared at Javert for a long moment, his pale eyes searching and watery, but finally he nodded and whispered with a nod, "Inspector."

Four hours later, Javert strode with his characteristic air of authority down rue Copreaux, though he was feigning focus. His legs carried him with long confident steps, and his back was ramrod straight, and his chest was puffed up, so, as always, most people scattered in fear when they saw him coming. But Javert's mind was elsewhere; he could hardly pay attention as he yanked a stray whore out of a threshold where she was loitering and barked at her to move along. He felt like there were flies buzzing about in his brain as he nudged at a drunkard who had nearly passed out on the cobblestone and told him to get up and find somewhere else to sleep that wasn't blocking the path of carriages.

After leaving Gillenormand's house, Javert had gone back to the station-house to report Marius' death and arrange for the body to be collected, but also to file a report about the fact, now that the boy had died, that Marius had been present at the barricade. It was his duty, he knew, to record the truth about that. It was of little consequence now. The rebellion had been quashed. Everyone who had played any significant role had been slaughtered. Most of their corpses had been thrown into mass graves. Marius would be far luckier, Javert knew; his wealthy grandfather would see to it that he had a proper coffin and headstone and everything.

Javert had still had time before beginning his patrol, and he'd used that time to go back to rue Plumet to deliver the news of Marius' death to Cosette. For some reason, he had felt the need to do so in front of Valjean. The three of them had sat at the dining room table, glasses of red wine before them. Javert had given his report almost clinically, like he'd been telling people of deaths for decades as a police officer.

"Mademoiselle Cosette," he had said in a crisp sort of tone, sitting up straight in his chair, "I regret to inform you that whilst I was at his grandfather's house, Monsieur Marius Pontmertcy passed away. He died of a convulsion that I witnessed; his gunshot wound had festered and his fever could not be treated. They tried very hard to save him. I passed along your letter; your deep and abiding affection for him was made known and was very much appreciated. I am very sorry for your grief and loss."

Then Javert had picked up his cup of wine, sipped, and set it down. At first, Cosette had said nothing at all. Then, silently, she'd begun to shake, quivering but seeming to refuse to heave with ugly sobs. Tears, one after the other, wormed their way from her shimmering eyes and then dripped from her jaw onto the fabric of her pale blue gown. She made no effort at all to wipe them away. She sniffed, just a little, and then Javert watched as she laced her fingers together and her lips began moving. Praying, he realised. She was praying, there at the table, with her eyes shut. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Javert glanced over to Valjean, who looked disheartened. The other man met his gaze but nodded and acknowledged seriously,

"You have exceeded your duty, Inspector Javert, going to that boy's house for my daughter. Thank you."

Javert's chest tugged painfully then. He felt the same awful conflict that he'd felt when his mind had told him to leap off of the Pont au Change. This was the man who had driven him mad for decades, was it not? This was a petty criminal who had broken parole. But here he was, praising Javert for showing kindness to Cosette. Javert grit his teeth and, entirely on instinct, turned his face to Cosette and said, perhaps just a little too quietly and only for her,

"I really am very sorry… Mademoiselle."

She opened her eyes and nodded. "I had hoped… hoped he would live," she choked out, shrugging, "but Papa warned me that he was so badly hurt. I am so grateful… to my father, for trying so hard to save… my beloved Marius… and to you, Inspector, for checking on his progress and for taking my letter to him, and… oh."

She cried more freely then, and she flew out of her chair and curtsied just a little to excuse herself. She rushed out of the dining room, and Javert glanced over his shoulder to see her dashing away down the corridor to her bedchamber. She shut the door quickly behind her. Once she'd gone, Javert drummed his fingers on the table and said to Valjean,

"I am not surprised. The boy was barely alive when I found you with him."

Valjean nodded. "Still. I had to try. For Cosette."

"Mmm." Javert acknowledged. He shut his eyes and suddenly felt vertigo wash over him as he perceived himself to be standing on the bridge again. He was about to leap, about to jump off, overcome by the confusion of calibrating Jean Valjean's past crimes with his current righteousness. He sighed now and whispered, "I am going to work, and then I am going… home."

"Javert," said Valjean, and there was warning in his voice. Javert kept his eyes shut, still picturing the bridge. The river, the cold, churning water. The confusion, the world that had seemed black and white and clear for so long and now seemed confusing and dark and swirling and mad. Marius, a rebel and revolutionary and traitor… loved and mourned in death. Javert cracked his knuckles and felt sick. He heard Valjean's voice say quietly again, "Javert."

He snapped his eyes open. "What."

Valjean nodded patiently. "My daughter likes your presence here. Please, will you honour us by being our guest for a while longer?"

Javert scowled. Cosette liked his presence here? Psh. Valjean just thought that if Javert went home on his own, he would make his way back to another bridge and jump and die. And if he did? Why did Valjean care? What business was it of Jean Valjean's if his old nemesis Javert committed suicide?

"Why are you trying to keep me alive?" Javert demanded in a quiet hiss through his teeth, and Valjean tipped his head, feigning innocence.

"I am trying to keep my daughter happy. Cosette has just found out that the boy she loved has died. I think she is rather fond of you, in spite of the acrimonious past you and I share. She seems to like conversations with you at the table and in the garden. I beg you to humour her for a little while longer whilst she grieves Marius. Please. Make an old father happy."

Javert narrowed his eyes. He could see straight through Jean Valjean; he had always been able to see straight through Jean Valjean. This had absolutely nothing to do with Cosette and everything to do with Javert being a mental wreck. But he finally shrugged and mumbled his assent. And then he left for work. Now he'd been patrolling for quite some time, but as he made his way down rue Copreaux, he was moving mechanically. Muscle memory and years of experience were guiding him. His voice was sharp, and the words were chosen by his brain based on whatever seemed like the logical thing to say in the moment. His motions were automatic. A yank here, a shove there. Decades of savoir-faire with policing and a natural imposing air allowed him to be effective for a while without actually trying. His mind was focused on Jean Valjean, on Marius, on Enjolras the foolish leader, on the little dead child Gavroche. His mind was focused on the chaos in a world he had once thought orderly, on the confusing balance in people he had thought were either all good or all bad. His mind, bizarrely, kept pulling up the face of Cosette, with her flaxen hair and her porcelain skin and her pale eyes.

But then Javert was jarred from his reverie, forced to pay far closer attention to his patrol than he'd done all night, because up ahead, two brawling men came tumbling out of a tavern, crashing through the doorway and landing out in the street as they messily traded blows. They were followed by a braying crowd who egged them on with shouts and occasional kicks. One man spit on the pair and shouted a rude epithet at the both of them. Javert scowled and gripped his truncheon tightly as he trotted toward the unrest, and he shouted at once,

"Clear away! All of you, get away from them, in the name of the law!"

Most of the bleary-eyed spectators of the fight, the majority of them men, did as Javert commanded. There were a dozen or so of them who had crowded around the tavern's door, all of them obviously drowned in wine at this very late hour. One man had a peasant woman draped off of his shoulder who looked just as deep in drink as he was, and she giggled rather maniacally at the sight of the two men trading punches on the cobblestones in the street. As one of the two men slammed the other's head roughly onto the ground, she pointed and remarked crudely,

"Henri, look at the poor bastard; he's going to get his head cracked open like an egg!"

Javert furrowed his thick brows and snarled at the woman, "I told you to get back, Madame."

She gave him a nonchalant and sarcastic sort of look and let the man she was holding onto lead her back toward the others as she continued to cruelly laugh. Javert finally went to the fighting pair in the street and bent down, feeling his age in his joints and muscles as he did. He disliked how, these days, the years he'd lived made themselves plainly known to him when he was at work. He was not ancient, but he was a man in his fifties, and he felt it at times like these. He used his free hand to take hold of one of the fighting men by the back of his collar and to rip him straight off of his opponent, grasping the roughspun fabric of his coat and yanking him backward. He tossed him without a shred of gentleness until he landed with a yelp and a gasp of pain on his back, skittering away from the crowd as he blinked and took in the sight of Javert looming over him. He had a thin, drawn fact with hollow cheeks and sparse greying hair, and he appeared to have taken a few good cuts and fresh bruises already in his scuffle.

"Get up," Javert growled, and a nearby tavern patron reached down to help the drunk fighter off the ground. From behind Javert, the man's opponent was already on his feet and brushing himself off and was insisting in a voice blurred from wine,

"It was nothing, sir. All over now."

"It is Inspector Javert." He whirled around and faced the man, shrugging and demanding, "Explain the meaning of this lawless chaos."

"Right. Inspector." The other man, much younger and more filled out, blonde with finer clothing, sniffed a bit and pointed at the scrawny man he'd been fighting. "I came here for a bit of wine, you see, and -"

"You were wanting one of his girls and you owe him thirty francs; let's not tell lies to the police, boy." A stray voice from the crowd of onlookers leered, and everyone rumbled with laughter. The young man's cheeks flushed scarlet in the lamplight along the exterior wall of the tavern, and he pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his lip, which was bleeding slightly. He tipped his head and admitted,

"If we are to be honest," he slurred to Javert, "I frequent this gentleman's… young women… as a customer, if you know what I mean. I am a bit behind in payments. I have accumulated a bit of a debt about it all, you see, and -"

Javert huffed out a bitter sort of scoff. He crossed his arms in front of him and glanced from the sallow, grey-haired pimp to the indebted bourgeois blond man, shaking his head. He shrugged a little and said,

"Disgusting snakes, the two of you. One of you deals in whores and the other is in debt because of an apparent addiction to them. This resulted in the two of you disturbing the peace by fighting violently in the streets of this city. I shall be taking the both of you to the station-house; I will not allow -"

"The rotten hell you will!"

Javert gasped a bit then, for out of his peripheral vision, he saw a swinging motion. He whirled to his side and started to raise up his truncheon, but he was too late. Before he could protect himself, something brown and heavy came crashing down in an arc. Javert registered what it was almost as soon as it made contact with his face. It was a glass wine bottle, a small one, empty, but still substantial. When it hit his cheekbone, the glass shattered and splintered, and he was sent crumpling down onto his knees from the impact. Javert nearly dropped his truncheon but somehow, somehow kept hold of it. His vision went blurry and he was dizzy and sick instantly from the searing stab of paint that rocketed through him as he felt a warm gush of blood stream from where his skin had sliced open just under his eye. The blood ran in rivulets that quickly leaked into his mouth, and he tasted iron immediately, squeezing his eyes shut to work through the pain as he heaved himself to his feet again. Dizzy, he thought. He'd been hit so, so hard by that damned glass bottle and he was very dizzy.

"Archambeau! Run! Go!" Javert heard a woman's voice cry out urgently. The woman who had been snide and mocking earlier, he managed to think to himself, still tasting metallic blood in his mouth. The woman who had talked about the blond young man's head being cracked open like an egg… now she was warning the pimp to run. Javert needed to act quickly somehow. He forced his eyes open and tried to steady himself, but when he did, he almost vomited. His head had been hit harder by the glass bottle than he'd initially thought. He flicked his eyes down and saw shards of glass on the ground, along with spatters of his own blood on the cobblestones. He sniffed a little as he realised his blood was drizzling through his grey mutton chops and dripping down onto his uniform jacket, seeping into the wool. The pain in his head was thick and throbbing, and his vision was still blurred as he tried to make sense of the scene before him.

Archambeau, the thin and sallow pimp, had scampered quickly down rue Copreaux and was beyond reach now. The better-dressed, indebted young blond man had gone somehow, too, and it seemed, in fact, that most of the tavern's patrons had figured out that it was in their best interest to depart the scene as quickly as possible. Javert heard his own voice yelling then, trying to get the stragglers to stop, trying to get anyone to halt so he could make arrests. But he found himself leaning heavily against the exterior wall of the tavern, feeling sick and dizzy again, his face hot and sticky from blood, and he hissed as he reached up to touch his fingers to the place where the bottle had broken beneath his eye and sliced his skin open jaggedly.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

Javert glared to his side, making his head swim as he did. An elderly man stood there holding Javert's hat out, and Javert wearily accepted it with a nod. The old man shrugged a little and said to Javert,

"He is a nasty one, that Archambeau. He is rather new about this place. Honestly, Inspector, I'd be glad to see him gone. Nasty business, he does, and a nasty way he has about him. He'll be back soon enough. You can come back for him."

"Don't worry," Javert growled under his breath. "I will be quite sure to do so."

He put his hat on his head and staggered off down the street, pretending not to be humiliated at the fact that all he'd managed to do was scatter the scum from the tavern and get badly injured enough himself that he needed to go to the station-house to get stitched up before returning back to Valjean's early to rest.

It was only five hours later that Javert sat at the dining room table in Jean Valjean's house on rue Plumet contemplating his miserable state of affairs. The medic at the station-house had seen to his injuries, stitching him up and assuring that he did not need a proper hospital. His bloodied uniform jacket had been taken for real laundering. He had a spare uniform, of course, but he was not wearing it just now, because he had been informed in no uncertain terms by his Commissaire that he was not to work for at least a week. The medic had determined that Javert's dizziness and blurred vision were the result of a concussed brain from the glassing he'd suffered in the street, and he needed to take good care of the cut under his eye that it did not fester or permanently affect his vision. He had argued, of course, but he'd finally saluted and left the station-house with his heart racing and his lungs burning in protest.

He'd collapsed into bed at Valjean's once he'd cleaned himself up, and when his body had naturally awakened him at half past six, he'd been shocked to see that his face was swollen and red and tender on the side where he'd been struck with the wine bottle. He looked a mess, he thought. In all his years of police work, Javert had never felt so humiliated. Well. No, that wasn't true. He'd felt grievously humiliated when he'd been outed as a spy at the barricade by the child Gavroche, who would later die a horrible death. Javert had been taken prisoner and nearly killed. But then Jean Valjean - petty thief, breaker of parole, Javert's own tormenter for decades - had asked permission of the students to take control of Javert and then had used that opportunity not to execute Javert but to spare him. That had felt so profoundly humiliating that Javert had been drawn to the Pont au Change, drawn to the churning, cold Seine so he could breathe the water into his lungs and die.

But now, too, he was utterly humiliated. He had broken up a street fight and had been about

to arrest both of the offending parties when he had been glassed and sent crumbling to his knees with blood dripping down his face and into his mouth as everyone scrambled. The shame of it, Javert thought now, as he sat at Jean Valjean's dining room table, his cheekbone swollen and aching. His left eyeball throbbed a bit as he reached up to touch the bruised area, feeling that the inflammation had spread all the way up past his temple. He winced and hissed a little and then contemplated whether or not he ought to ask for breakfast when Toussaint appeared.

He'd come from his guest room dressed in clothes he'd packed in a trunk from his own house, clothes he very rarely wore and had had tailored a good five years earlier. They were, perhaps, just a bit out of fashion now, but Javert could not be bothered with such matters as what was in vogue for men's clothing. He was most often seen in public in his uniform, anyway. Right now he was dressed in a simple dark brown tailcoat of wool broadcloth with a black silk satin waistcoat and black pongee scarf beneath, along with sand-hued breeches over which he wore his shined-up boots. His grey hair was, as always, brushed neatly back into a low queue, very much out of faddishness but, again, of no concern to Javert. He had worn his hair in such a way since his time in Napoleon's army, and he had no intention of stopping now.

"Good morning, Inspector."

He turned his face at the sound of Cosette's quiet voice, and his lips fell open when he saw her approaching him from the corridor. Toussaint had dressed her in a black silk mourning gown, simple and unassuming in construction with toned-down leg-o'-mutton sleeves and skirts that were less full than her usual silhouette. Her blonde hair had been styled into a relatively chaste braided bun atop her head, and it seemed she wore no jewellery today. Her face was distinctly sorrowful, and her face looked drawn and weary, like she'd gotten very little rest. Javert pulled himself to his feet as she entered the dining room, suddenly remembering how, the day before, Valjean had tried to use Cosette as an excuse to keep Javert from going home after work and probably winding up at the Pont au Change again.

"Inspector Javert," Cosette gawked in a gasp, almost rudely, rushing toward him and studying his injury in a way that made him abruptly self-conscious. "What on Earth has happened to your face, Monsieur?"

Javert shifted where he stood. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides and shrugged. "I… it happened whilst I was working last night. It is of no consequence, Mademoiselle. Please. Sit and eat your breakfast; do not trouble yourself with my -"

"Inspector." Cosette's voice was very firm then, and she took another step toward him as she scowled. Her face was almost endearing as her features furrowed and pinched with consternation. When Javert breathed in, he smelled roses on her, and he felt so unexpectedly dizzy at that that he reached to lean onto the edge of the dining table. He shut his eyes and felt the dining room spin. His brain had been mildly concussed by the force of the glassing, he'd been told at the station-house. That was part of why he'd been ordered not to work. In reality, he'd been ordered to rest, and he was not following those orders very well. He put his lips into a line, knowing that if he meant to get back to work expeditiously, he needed to obey what his Commissaire had told him to do. He finally murmured,

"I need to go lie down, I'm afraid. I took a large glass bottle straight to the face last night, and I am still feeling it quite strongly, and… and you are only thinking of Monsieur Pontmercy, so I am being quite selfish. Pardon me, Mademoiselle."

He began to stumble from the dining room, his boots scuffing a bit as he did. It took him a moment to realise that he was not alone in the corridor as he headed back to his guest room, that Cosette had rushed to his side and was guiding him into his bedroom by his elbow. She pushed open his door and walked inside with him, and Javert found himself just a bit breathless then as she stood beside his double bed with its blue toile curtains and coverlet. Cosette gazed up at Javert for a long moment and then finally reached up toward his face with trembling fingers and drifted her touch around his jaw, avoiding the place that had become swollen and painful from the attack. She licked her lips and asked him softly,

"Someone struck you with a glass bottle, Inspector, whilst you were doing your duty? Is that so?"

"Yes." The word hardly escaped Javert's lips in a whisper, a cracked little noise, and he found himself suddenly wanting to reach for Cosette's face the way she'd reached for his. Why? Why did he want to touch her? She was so young, so beyond him. She was newly mourning a traitorous dreamer of a boy. And, worst of all, she was the adopted daughter of Jean Valjean. But here she was, before him, her face almost doll-like, her eyes wide and pale and searching, her hand hovering near his whiskered chin as an expression of sincere concern came over her.

"You ought to rest, Inspector," she told him quietly, and he just nodded. He hesitated for a moment, thinking he ought not remove a scrap of clothing in her presence, but also knowing he could not possibly lie down comfortably in his bed with his rather stiff tail coat on. So at last he took a step back from her and slowly pulled the tail coat off, and once he did, he gathered the courage to yank off his pongee scarf. The heat that flushed straight up his neck and filled his cheeks then forced his eyes away from her, eliciting an awkward little cough from him as he went to the wardrobe against the wall to hang up his coat and toss in the scarf. He shut the door of the wardrobe and just stood there for a moment, feeling a strange stirring in his abdomen as he contemplated that his daughter, Valjean's daughter, looked like a grown-up porcelain doll who was gentle and sugar-sweet and was standing very near. And that she smelled of roses.

"Inspector?"

"Hmm." He turned around, realising at once that he'd done so much too quickly. He stumbled and grappled somewhat frantically toward his left. His palm plastered flat onto the wallpaper and he leaned there to catch his breath, the dizziness he'd been experiencing since first being glassed outside the tavern with the heavy bottle setting in again. Then he felt his left eyeball start to throb, felt a headache setting in, and he was queasy once more as he whispered,

"I… ought to lie down."

"Come. Come with me, Inspector Javert." He felt small hands around his forearm then, and he let her pull him off the wall and gently drag him the few paces toward his bed. Before Javert knew what was happening, he'd heaved himself up onto the blue toile bed. He was about to mumble something about his boots, but then he felt them being yanked off of his feet, and when he managed to crack open his eyes, to glance down, he saw Cosette's face looking stoic and purposeful as she set his boots on the rug beside the bed and then drew up the toile blankets around Javert's form.

"How ridiculous and silly I feel, like a wounded little child," Javert scoffed, though of course when he himself had been a child living in a prison and he'd had raging fevers, he had received no such tenderness as this. Cosette just glanced at him and curled up her lips a bit sadly. Javert caught himself then, realising why she'd met his words with the expression she had. Her own childhood had not been filled with soothing or consolation, either. Very much the opposite, if Javert was to understand correctly. Jean Valjean had saved her from abuse in Montfermeil. That was what he was made to understand. So he just stared at her and amended,

"Not a child, I suppose, for you and I know that wounded children can be left grievously unattended. Perhaps I feel like an invalid old man, when I would much rather be working."

Now Cosette's smile broadened, and she dared to sit on the edge of Javert's bed, startling him a little. She stroked at his blue toile blankets and said gently,

"I have not known you long, Inspector, but my Papa has, and if what he tells me of you is true, then you will be back at work before you are even really allowed to be."

Javert laughed just a little, which made his swollen face ache. He nodded and admitted, "Yes. That's probably right."

Cosette hesitated for a moment, sighing, and then she finally asked him, "Did he suffer badly?"

Marius. She meant Marius. Javert winced. Ought he tell her the truth, that the boy had looked like some mad giant had grasped his body and shaken him like a rag doll? That just before the convulsions, he'd been so feverish that he'd been sopping wet with sweat and delirious to the point of incoherence? What good would come of Cosette knowing that the boy with whom she had been besotted had endured such misery in his last moments? It would not benefit her in any way, would it, to dream and speculate about such things? Javert shook his head at last and twisted the truth for her just enough.

"Mademoiselle, when I arrived, I do not think he was feeling much of anything. His mind was already gone, his body having been badly wracked with fever. He passed without a word or cry, without expression of pain or suffering."

Cosette turned up half of her mouth sadly and nodded. She twined her fingers together sadly and mused, "Papa says that though I did love Marius, and it is my right to mourn him, I am very young indeed, and someday I shall find another love. I do not know."

Javert said nothing to that. He reached up to touch at his swollen cheekbone and grimaced. The inflammation was badly aching. He really did need to rest it or he'd be out of work longer than he wanted. He tried not to stare at Cosette. What business of his was it if she ever fell in love again? She was just a girl, just a young woman. She was Jean Valjean's adopted daughter.

"I received a letter today," Cosette said then, "from M. Gillenormand, from Marius' grandfather. He says that he wishes for me to receive one hundred thousand francs. It was to be part of Marius' inheritance, you see. M. Gillenormand says that I would have become entitled to the money upon marrying Marius, and that he is confident I would have married Marius."

"Oh." Javert felt his eyebrows go up, and he just nodded. "Congratulations, I suppose… even among such sorrow."

But Cosette shook her head wildly and insisted, "I wrote back telling M. Gillenormand to please donate the money to the poor of this city in Marius' name. I can hardly accept such a large sum as though I was Marius' widow. We were never married. We never even… he never even…"

Suddenly her cheeks went deeply scarlet, and she looked very embarrassed, as though she might ooze straight into Javert's bed. She gnawed her bottom lip hard, her eyes going wide. Javert felt a sudden twinge of concern, an instinctive sense of unease that had been baked into him after decades of police work. He shifted where he'd propped himself onto his pillows, and he asked Cosette carefully,

"Did he ever attempt anything with you, that boy?"

"What? No!" Cosette squealed in reply, sounding angry and defensive. Javert held his hands up in apology, but Cosette looked around as though making sure no one could hear as she leaned closer to Javert and hissed, "Toussaint told me. She told me everything. How it all works, between a man and a woman. I know. I understand. And it never happened, you know, between Marius and me. So I am a Virgin, like Mary. That is what I mean."

Javert's mouth fell open. "Oh."

Cosette barreled on in a shrill little tone. "How could I possibly accept one hundred thousand francs of Marius' inheritance just because I bore him love? We were never married. We never did those horrid things Toussaint told me about. And what kisses we shared… they were real kisses, serious kisses, and I know perhaps I went too far, for I even let him briefly touch his lips against mine every now and then, but still, how could I accept -"

Javert involuntarily let out a caustic, derisive snort before he could stop himself. Cosette looked shocked, sitting straight up. Her pale cheeks flushed crimson, but still she looked so pretty that Javert's chest yanked. She squeezed at a bit of toile blanket and spoke through clenched teeth as she accused Javert,

"You are mocking me, Inspector!"

"I assure you, I am not," Javert said sternly. He winced; his cheekbone was still quite painful. Cosette still looked furious as she pursed her lips and studied him for a long moment. She had no idea what the problem was, Javert realised quickly. He huffed a breath and clarified for her, in the most soft and gentle voice he could muster, "Those… were not serious kisses."

Cosette looked extraordinarily confused for a long moment before finally shrugging. She tipped her chin up a bit imperiously and said to Javert,

"Yes, they were. He pressed his lips against mine. That is what you're allowed to do before you're wed, before the bit that Toussaint told me about. I know all about manhoods and how they're moved about and… and… and…"

Her face was the colour of a tomato then, and she leaned forward and whispered in a crackling shake,

"Find completion."

Javert tossed up one eyebrow and dragged his tongue over his lower lip. Suddenly he wasn't certain what exactly what going on here. Was he just very old, having lived more than fifty years by now? Or was this girl very young and innocent? Both? Was it both? Were all unwed young women this naive? Perhaps, he thought. He'd been with a very young and innocent mademoiselle once in his youth who had seemed to know next to nothing about what went on alone in beds with men. Of course Jean Valjean, petty thief and breaker of parole and apparent merciful angelic father figure, would never discuss such vulgarity with Cosette. So the maid had done it. Sort of. But she had doubtlessly intended the education for Marius. Javert shifted where he was propped against the pillows and stared up at where Cosette was sitting.

"You have oversimplified just about all of it, Mademoiselle," he informed her in an almost cruel, crisp tone, "or someone else has for you. But it is hardly my place to instruct you on all the nuance."

Cosette tipped her head, an almost angry curiosity crossing her features as she whispered, "What? What do you mean?"

Javert put his head back on his pillows. "I need to rest. My face has been badly injured by the glassing last night."

"Yes. I can see that. I'm sorry you're hurt. Please, will you speak with me?" Cosette prompted him, but Javert just let out a long sigh.

"I would prefer not to feel yet again the force of your father's brutality when he is filled with defensive rage about you. Thank you anyway. I am very sorry for your loss regarding Monsieur Pontmercy. I hope you find peace today. Good day."

There was a long silence then, until Javert was aware of Cosette sliding up the bed closer to him and then asking softly,

"What do you mean, they were not serious kisses?"

Javert shut his eyes and squared his face where he lay on his back. He kept his eyes shut and felt his pulse accelerate his blood in his veins as he thought that he ought to just keep quiet, that he ought to send her on her way again. But some unseen force dragged the words right out of him, very much against his will, and he murmured,

"Serious kisses are much more passionate. Tongues dance. Voices hum. They last a long time. They are exciting. There is push and pull. Hands caressing. Urgent. And then there is the bit about… what men and women do. Only a brute of a man would do it as you described. That is nothing more than rutting, what you outlined. Real lovemaking is to be savoured, like a glass of good wine. Fiery and lush, touching and grasping and feeling… for both parties… it is not a simple matter of entry, movement, and release."

"Oh." He could hear that Cosette's breath was coming in quick, shallow pants at that, and finally he cracked open his eyes to see her gazing down at him with full, parted lips and a look he could only read as unmitigated hunger. It shocked him, to see that expression on her pretty face, and he felt an abrupt and unexpected tightness in his breeches. He very suddenly wanted nothing more than to snatch at her face and drag her down, to crush her mouth against his and show her exactly what a proper kiss flet like. But she was sitting here in a black gown, in a mourning gown.

And she was the daughter of Jean Valjean.

"You should rest," Cosette whispered quietly, and Javert just nodded. She leaned forward just a tiny bit and wondered, "May I give you a little kiss goodbye, Inspector? A, erm… a very not serious kiss?"

He just nodded again, wordlessly, and then Cosette bent a bit more. She pressed her lips to his forehead, letting them linger there for a long moment, and then moved her mouth to his and brushed her lips against Javert's. The feel of that, the shock, sent a shiver up his spine. As she rushed off of his bed and wordlessly made her way out of his bedroom, Javert leaned back and shut his eyes, and he thought to himself that, somehow, that kiss had felt very, very serious indeed.