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Chapter Text

In the weeks following the failed revolution, Paris slowly returned to its usual rhythm. Summer rains scoured the blood from the cobblestones. Families mourned their dead, or denied ever knowing them. Remains of the barricades were swept off the streets until no grim reminders of the events of that June night remained.

Though the city at large seemed to move forward, there were people in Paris who were still haunted by that night. One of these people was inspector Javert, though perhaps his reasons for it were different from those of most.

On that night back in June, he had found himself standing on the parapet of Pont au Change, with his feet at the edge, staring at the black abyss below, the roar of the river muting any sounds that might have come from the sleeping city. He took a deep breath. Then he turned around and stepped back onto the bridge.

He had come there with every intention of falling into the flowing water. But it was never too late for that. Death always remained an option - inevitable, always at the edge of his mind. He did not turn away from the Seine that night driven by hope or fear; he simply postponed his fate. The river would wait.

He had remained a police officer, but continued his work in a different manner than before. His usually focused gaze became more absent, sometimes he seemed to be staring through the person he was looking at, as if observing something invisible. His once-unyielding demeanour shifted in ways that unsettled those who knew him.

The cold, methodical inspector developed some sort of an uncharacteristic hesitation. On occasion, he sought to remove himself from situations which called him to execute the letter of the law, preferring to limit himself to more menial tasks and allowing the decisions of other officers to decide the course of events. When he could not do so, his behavior was irresolute, as he now paused to hear the pleas of the accused, on occasion letting them go with only a warning. For the first time, faults and punishments became a question rather than a certainty. The accused, who had seen their certain futures in prison as soon as they recognised the inspector, often found themselves confused but free after having explained their faults, or lack thereof. And yet, they were not even sure if the inspector heard them - he seemed to be far away despite standing right before them. 

And so, his life went on. The local prisons turned a little bit emptier and some more people tipped their hats in a greeting when they saw him on the street. He seemed not to notice it, though he automatically tipped his own hat in response. Every once in a while, he also noticed a familiar-looking man in the crowd. He would then pause, look away and quickly walk off in another direction.

Sometimes, he would stop during his patrols if he happened to cross a bridge. He would stand at the edge for a moment, watching the water flow below, before turning away and continuing with his work. Each time he walked away, it was as though he had made a silent pact with the river: not yet.

Summer had passed quickly. His stops over the river were getting longer and more frequent. He had granted himself more time, though nothing seemed to change. Autumn came and passed, the river still awaited answers. Snow whitened the world around and then melted away, but he still had not moved on from this state, as if frozen in time. Only the sound of the roaring water in his head, that accompanied him everywhere, grew louder.

He still lingered in this absent state when on a chilling day in spring he walked along the streets of Paris during a patrol. The temperature and the light fall of rain caused many Parisians to stay inside their homes. With only the ones who had to be there, the streets were rather empty. Beggars huddled in the corners, seeking shelter from the rain, and others walked as fast as they could to reach their destination and escape the unpleasant aura.

Javert was pulled away from his thoughts by a soft thud in front of him. Looking up, he noticed that a man walking some distance before him fell down and was now laying on the street. Some of the beggars looked up, but did not move from their spots. A few people passed next to him, not granting him a single glance in their rush.

With some reluctance, Javert walked up to the man. Did he seem like a drunkard? No, earlier he walked slowly, supported by a wooden cane. He wasn’t intoxicated, but ill, perhaps, or simply old.

He had little interest in approaching the stranger, but at the very least, he had to get him off the street. He knelt next to the man and shook his shoulder. “Monsieur?”

The man stirred, and made an attempt to support himself with his arms and get up, mumbling something inaudibly.

Javert froze.

He recognised the voice, and the white hair that he could now see underneath the hat. And, as the man managed to push himself to a sitting position, he recognised the face as well.

Jean Valjean looked at the ground with glazed eyes as he attempted to stand up. He leaned heavily on his cane, but his legs seemed to give out.

Before he collapsed, Javert reached out, gripping his shoulders firmly. The gesture was not one of compassion, but necessity, though for a fleeting moment, the two men stood face to face.

Javert stopped, struck by the cruel irony of any fate that would have put him in this situation. Here he stood, propping up a man he once swore to bring down - a man who dared to show him mercy. The law had failed to account for such contradictions. 

He realised why he had not recognised him earlier - Valjean looked as though he had aged two decades in only months. His skin seemed thin enough to tear, his hands were trembling, and each movement seemed to cost him more than he could give. In no way was he the same man who managed to carry a dying boy through half of the city’s sewers not even a year ago - now he hardly seemed able to carry himself across the street.

Perhaps it was not Valjean after all, just someone who looked similar? But the more he looked, the more certain was the man’s identity. He shook him lightly by the shoulders. “Valjean?”

The old man blinked at the sound of his name and looked up at him, squinting and furrowing his brow. It did not seem like he recognised him - or that he was aware of anything going on around him, for the matter of fact.

Javert took a step back, his mind already crafting an excuse to turn around and leave the man there. It wasn’t his duty, not anymore. Had he not washed his hands from anything concerning the fate of Jean Valjean? The man had lived a free life for decades - perhaps this was some sort of justice catching up at last, a sentence carried out not by chains but by years. 

Javert turned slightly, preparing to leave.

But his feet refused to move. A flicker of memory stopped him - of one night of the past summer, at the barricade - that night something cracked within him, though he still could not name it. Now, standing over the same man, he felt the fissure widen.

It was infuriating how the past refused to stay buried.

There was nothing just in Valjean perishing on the muddied cobblestone, brought down by some aliment and left there. How could there be? To Javert, the man could very well be a saint- a convict- he chose not to dwell on that thought.

With a scowl, he reached down, his hands hovering for a moment as if weighing the decision one last time. When he finally grasped the man’s arm, his grip was firm, though reluctant.

Duty, he reasoned with himself. He couldn’t leave a man sprawled in the street, if only because he was blocking it.

He stopped, unsure how to proceed.

He had to leave this man somewhere, find someone else to assist him. A hospital might help, but a private doctor would be faster. Still, the thought of spending the day hauling Valjean through the city filled him with unease. He wanted to be rid of this responsibility quickly.

Then it dawned on him - Rue de l’Homme Armé. The address, etched in his memory since the barricades, was only a few streets away. Closer than any hospital. This made him decide - he would bring him there, he would let whoever else lives at that address worry about calling the doctor, and that will take the problem off his shoulders - that was the best option.

Did Jean Valjean even live with anyone? He probably had at least one servant. He briefly wondered why they even let him leave the house unaccompanied in such a state. It was surely not a condition that developed during the past few minutes.

So it was decided. He felt like trying to discuss the matter with Valjean would be utterly pointless, as the man did not seem aware enough to even hear anything. He would probably not respond. Or worse - he would. Instead of trying, Javert tugged at his sleeve, pulling him in the direction of the address that he knew.

To him, Valjean was walking infuriatingly slow - as if he was sleepwalking. In an attempt to speed him up, Javert soon switched from tugging on his sleeve to walking next to him, supporting him by his shoulder, then he wrapped his arm around him and half-dragged him through the streets.

By the end of the walk, he was wholeheartedly sick of this situation, and physically exhausted. To make matters worse, some people on the streets watched him curiously. It must have looked like he was escorting some drunkard. 

He greeted the sign marking the beginning of Rue de l’Homme Armé with relief. He wanted nothing more than to drop the man off here and leave as soon as he could.

He dragged Valjean towards the same building that he left him in back in June. He noticed the gate was ajar, and pushed it open. He looked around, but the porter was nowhere to be seen.

With a sigh, he looked at the stairs before him. Could he really not have lived on the ground floor?

Getting Valjean to walk upstairs took what seemed like aeons, but having accomplished it, he finally stood before what he supposed was the door to his flat. He raised his hand and knocked.

There was no reply.

Louder, he pounded on the wood. Again, he was met with silence.

Looking down, he realised that the key was in the lock - and that the door was unlocked. If there was nobody home, why would they leave the key here?

He decided that escorting the owner granted him the right to enter the apartment. He opened the door and pulled Valjean inside.

The apartment was modest for someone of Valjean’s means, but what struck Javert was the lifelessness of it. A single plate of uneaten food sat on the table, the only hint of recent activity in the otherwise barren space. 

His gaze fixed on the armchair in the corner. He nearly tossed Valjean onto it, glad to be finally free of his weight.

As Javert settled him into the seat, Valjean’s lips moved faintly. The words were not audible, but they unsettled Javert. Was it gratitude? A plea? Either way, he had no wish to hear it. He shook his head, unwilling to linger. 

He looked around the apartment. What now? Anyone that he had hoped to find was obviously not present. Should he simply leave? Perhaps someone would return soon - maybe they went outside to search for Valjean?

What troubled him was the lack of any normal objects that he would expect to find in a house inhabited by anyone, even a servant. A couple of books on the shelves and candlesticks on the mantelpiece suggested that someone still lived here, but most of the furniture held a layer of dust, proving that it has been unused for some time now. The room almost looked abandoned. He frowned. Over half a year has passed - what if Valjean has not even lived here by now?

He glanced at the door leading to other rooms. He could check there for signs of life but the idea of searching people’s bedrooms did not appeal to him at last. Perhaps he could ask the porter to pass the message to whoever should handle the situation?

He looked at Valjean who was now slumped over in the armchair, apparently asleep. He wondered if he would be of any help anytime soon. On the other hand, he shivered at the idea of having to talk to him.

At the thought of it, he suddenly felt the urge to leave that room. 

Javert stepped out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him. He descended down the stairs, pushing away the thoughts filled with unease.

He approached what could have been the porter’s door and knocked, hoping for a better result than upstairs. He could hear the door unlock and a small, old woman opened them.

Before she could say anything, he introduced himself. “Inspector Javert of the Paris Prefecture of Police. Does monsieur-” it took him a moment to remember what name the man was using, “-Fauchelevent reside here at present?”

Looking at the woman made him realise that perhaps it would have been better not to speak as a police officer - she seemed rather startled by the situation. “Oh- yes, he most certainly does, but- I don’t know- did he-” she stuttered, then composed herself. “My deepest apologies, I thought that it was him that I heard earlier. But if it was you, then perhaps he isn’t here after all. Would you-”

“I have already deposited him in the apartment upstairs,” he interrupted her. “I only wanted to make sure that the apartment still does belong to him. But do you know where I can find-  whoever lives there with him? I did not find anyone present.”

“Deposited?- Ah, I suppose that you are looking for his daughter, monsieur. Madame Cosette moved out weeks ago after her wedding,” she explained, her tone softening as she spoke of the young bride. “But may I ask, monsieur - deposited? Is monsieur Fauchelevent unwell? Is that why you are here? I thought-”

Javert waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, he is, but please do answer my questions first. If his daughter...” he stopped for a moment and frowned. Daughter? And a married one at that? It has been no more than nine years since he was a mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer; he definitely did not have a daughter then. Unless he was hiding one from the public - enough time has passed since he left Toulon for him to have a daughter this old. Either way, it was no use wondering about it now. “...if she is absent,” he continued, “how can I contact anyone else who lives there? A servant, perhaps?”

“Monsieur, I’m afraid that you won’t be able to find anyone who does. Their servant moved away together with madame Cosette - monsieur Fauchelevent has been the only resident here lately.”

“Oh.” That complicated the situation. “Then I suppose that his daughter should be notified. Hopefully she had not left Paris?”

“To the best of my knowledge, she hadn’t, monsieur. Her husband lived in Paris, though I don’t know his address-”

“His name then?” Javert interrupted her again, feeling his patience running thin. “Or any details?”

“Ah yes, I do know it, madame Cosette spoke about him often! Pontmercy was his name, if I’m not mistaken - Marius Pontmercy.”

Javert frowned. The name seemed familiar to him, though he could not recall where he had heard it. Nonetheless, a name should be enough to find the man. “Thank you,” he said to the portress, nodding. “Now, may I ask you a favour in monsieur Fauchelevent’s name, madame? It may be crucial for him to see the doctor as soon as possible. Please call for one. He will cover the costs.”

Nodding, the portress started chattering on in response but his thoughts had already drifted away. Pontmercy. The image of a piece of paper, taken from a seemingly dead body, with a few scribbled lines on it, flashed through his mind. Of course. The boy who Valjean carried from the barricade. So Valjean was right - he was alive then after all, and somehow still survived.

That was... fortunate, given the circumstances. He knew his address, at least. He could simply contact the Pontmercys and free himself from this situation.

Now that he thought about it... Marius Pontmercy had participated in the revolution. Did he kill anyone there? He was not sure, but he could face legal consequences for just taking part in the fights.

He could just send a letter. But why not have a word with the young revolutionary in person?

The porter’s rambling reached his ears again. The old woman, now recovered from her initial shock, was unstoppable. Javert, already sick of her chatter, half-listened until a detail caught his attention.

“...and perhaps this is none of my business,” the portress went on, “but madame Cosette hasn’t visited in ages! Such a loving child once, but to abandon her father now… how cruel! You must know, monsieur, I would have never expected that from her. Oh, it must be that husband of hers! I never trusted that boy. Poor monsieur Fauchelevent - his health is failing, and yet they’ve abandoned him! It really is so horrible of them… such a nice old man. But he has been looking so pale lately, I suppose his time has come, oh well. And-”

“Madame, please,” Javert interrupted her, suddenly more uncomfortable at her words. Was Valjean dying? The thought was surreal - could a man like Valjean truly die? He shook his head as though to clear it, turning back to the portress.  “There is no need for the entire story now. We both have more urgent matters on hand. Please do contact a doctor as soon as possible. And, if you excuse me, I will try to see that the Pontmercys to pay a visit here.” 

The old lady nodded vigorously, her enthusiasm almost overwhelming, and Javert stepped quickly out of her sight before she could launch back into her chatter.

Chapter Text

Though he resolved to proceed to Monsieur Gillenormand’s house without delay, he elected to walk rather than summon a cab. The time it would take him to reach Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire on foot would allow him the opportunity to consider what he should say.

When he arrived, he stood before the iron gate, hesitating. The thought of simply turning back crossed his mind more than once. After all, it was none of his concern. He had already done more than his duty demanded of him. And yet, some persistent impulse - something between duty and curiosity - compelled him to knock.

It was several minutes before he had introduced himself and asked to speak with Madame Pontmercy. It seemed to him that the matter at hand was one that concerned her more directly, and he resolved to address her first. 

Once his request had been conveyed, he was ushered into a spacious sitting room. The chamber was furnished with three armchairs arranged around a small table, the walls adorned with paintings and laden bookshelves.

He seated himself in one of the armchairs, choosing the one that faced the door so that he might see whoever entered. As he waited, his gaze wandered over his surroundings. Finding nothing better to occupy his mind, he scrutinized the room. Its air of affluence was unmistakable, though that much had been plain enough from the grand exterior of the house.

He stirred at the sound of the door creaking. The figure that entered was not the one he had anticipated. Neatly combed dark hair, a freckled, wide-eyed face, and a slender frame - none of it belonged to Valjean's daughter.

“It is you!” the young man exclaimed, his voice tinged with incredulity. "You are alive!"

Javert raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the unexpected greeting. “I might say the same of you,” he replied. The young man looked far better than when he had last seen him. Still, Javert recognized him immediately as the corpse Valjean had brought from the barricade - the same rebel who had stood there in the thick of the fighting. “But I doubt that you are Madame Pontmercy.”

“My apologies, monsieur! I had to come, once I heard who the visitor was!” Marius stammered, suddenly laughing, though his face was still full of disbelief. "I thought surely it was some trick, a false name - but no, it is truly you!" He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "How can this be? I saw you led away to be executed, with my own eyes!"

Javert scowled. Given the last time they had met, this unrestrained outburst was rather surprising. “Clearly, I was not executed. But that is not the matter I came here to discuss-”

“But, monsieur,” Marius interrupted eagerly, “this means that Monsieur Fauchelevent did not kill you, does it not? Ah, I am so glad! He is not a murderer after all!”

Javert sighed, his patience thinning. “Yes, as far as I know, he is not. But as for Monsieur Fauchelevent -”

“Monsieur, believe me, I did not wish for your death! I realised that I knew you and I was about to protest but then I heard a gunshot-” he paused when he noticed the inspector lean forward, glaring at him.

“Please. Allow. Me. To. Speak.” Javert drawled.

Marius’ face flushed red with embarrassment. He nodded quickly and took a seat in one of the nearby armchairs. “My apologies, monsieur. I am at your service.”

Javert took a deep breath. “Since you are here in place of your wife, you may relay the message to her. Her father is ill, and neither I nor his portress are his nurses. Either go to him, or send someone in your stead. It matters not, but do so before he attempts to wander off again. I have had quite enough of hauling him through the streets today.”

Marius fell silent for a moment, as if mulling over the inspector’s words. His expression shifted to one of solemnity. “It is fortunate that I came here first, monsieur. I shall dispatch someone to him. But I must ask that you refrain from mentioning this to my wife.”

Javert’s brows lifted in surprise. “And why is that?”

“If she knew, she would go straight to him, monsieur. It must be avoided,” Marius declared, his expression suddenly growing stern.

“Why? Is he not her father? Why should she not see him?”

“Because…” Marius hesitated, his voice faltering. “...because he is a bad man, monsieur.”

Javert's eyebrows could not rise any higher. “Elaborate?”

“I cannot, monsieur,” Marius muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Javert studied him, a puzzled look on his face. Out of all people, he would never have expected this young man to call Valjean a “bad person” - especially after Valjean had saved his life.

Could it be because of his past as a convict? Did Marius know of it? Valjean had kept his history a closely guarded secret, but perhaps he disclosed it to his son in law. Javert looked closely at Marius, whose hands were now fidgeting nervously in his lap. He could press further, demand more answers, but Marius was now hardly eager to explain himself, and Javert was running low on patience. He could leave, of course, but his curiosity had already been piqued.

With a sigh, he resigned himself. He would assume that Marius was aware of Valjean’s past. If not, then the boy already viewed him as a "bad man"- surely truth would not cause much more harm.

“Is it because he is a convict?” Javert asked, his tone calm, but his eyes fixed intently on Marius.

Marius nearly tumbled out of the armchair in shock. “You know?!”

“I am aware of it.”

“But- but how has he not been arrested, then?”

“It was you who were meant to explain something, not me, boy.”

“But then you know, monsieur! He is a thief! Not a murderer, perhaps, but a thief nonetheless! I cannot allow Cosette to associate with such a man! And she knows nothing of it!”

“A thief?” Javert’s voice hardened. “That it all? You would prevent his daughter from seeing him because he stole a loaf of bread and a single coin decades ago? You, with your recent personal involvement in-”

“Monsieur, this is not about that!” Marius interrupted, his voice rising. “It is about his entire fortune! Stolen from the mayor of a town called Montreuil-sur-Mer, the man known as Monsieur Madeleine!”

Javert leaned back in his seat. “Stolen from… Monsieur Madeleine?”

At that moment, Marius realized that perhaps he had spoken too freely.

Javert watched the boy’s horrified face in silence for a moment, then his gaze sharpened. “If this concerns you, I have no intention of taking any action against him, and I doubt anything you say will change that,” he declared, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Just… what is this nonsense you speak of?”

Marius, believing his declaration, began to speak fervently once more. “This is no nonsense, monsieur! I have gathered all the information I could, and it leads me to conclude that he is a criminal by the name of Valjean, who acquired all his wealth through Monsieur Madeleine’s charity. He denounced him - a good and honorable mayor who brought prosperity to the town - in order to seize his fortune, all based on a minor misdeed committed years ago! Then he forged the man’s signature to lay claim to the money!”

Javert stared at him blankly for a moment. “So, you accuse him... of denouncing... Monsieur Madeleine?”

“Yes, monsieur, I am sure of this!”

A brief silence followed. Then, Javert snorted with laughter.

Marius blinked, his disbelief palpable. “Monsieur, I am serious!”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that!” Javert chuckled. “Monsieur Madeleine was denounced, that much is true! And you are looking at the very man responsible for it!” He gestured grandly to himself. “And just imagine the reason I denounced him - because he was the infamous ex-convict, Jean Valjean! And what is even more remarkable, it turned out to be true!” he raised both of his hands, relishing in the moment. “Because Jean Valjean and Monsieur Madeleine are one and the same person, you utter fool!”

Marius stared in shock as Javert laughed. “But- this is not possible!”

“It is, I should know! I had personally arrested him for it!”

“But-”

“How on earth did you even reach that conclusion?”

“Monsieur, I- I have been reading-”

“What, were you so eager to add yet another sin to his list of criminal acts? A man rescues you from the barricade and the first thing you do is concoct insane theories about the most vile deeds he might have committed in his past? And one would think I was the one going out of my way to unearth his history!”

“What- the barricade?”

“Ah, so amidst all these wild theories, this is the one thing you failed to consider? How marvellous! And he didn't see it fit to enlighten you either?”

“I-”

“Boy, who do you imagine brought you home from the barricade? What, you crawled through half of Paris on your own? Were the spirits of your fallen comrades the ones to carry you? What exactly do you think happened?”

Marius looked as though he was on the brink of a stroke. “He- It was him ?!”

“No, it was Napoleon! Of course it was him, you booby! Was there anyone else alive and present there?”

“I- I didn’t think-”

“Yes, I gathered that much.”

“But it means-”

Before Marius had a chance to finish, they both heard the door creak. Their heads turned towards it.

A woman entered, dressed in an elegant blue gown, her face pale. Though visibly shaken, she carried herself with an air of determination, her gaze shifting between the two men.

Marius leapt to his feet.

“I have heard everything,” the newcomer declared, staring at him firmly.

“Cosette, I-”

“How could you have thought such dreadful things about my father?!” she exclaimed, tears suddenly welling up in her eyes. “Now I understand it all! But now he is ill, and this is all our doing! How could I have allowed this all to happen? It is horrible! Marius, we must hurry!”

With that, Cosette stormed out through the door, and Marius followed, calling after her.

Javert, who had silently observed the scene, was once more left in the empty room, staring in surprise at the open door. After a brief moment of hesitation, he rose and followed Marius and Cosette outside.

The house seemed to be in a state of alarm, no doubt due to Cosette’s fervor. People were peeking out from various rooms, rushing about in all directions.

Javert retrieved his coat and hat while Marius and Cosette donned their own coats. Cosette hurried outside first.

Marius paused before stepping out, as though he had just remembered Javert’s presence. “Monsieur, will you accompany us?”

“No,” Javert replied simply, adjusting his hat.

Marius gave a brief nod before rushing after Cosette.

Javert stepped through the door and onto the street outside. He paused for a moment, watching the carriage as it pulled away.

It struck him then that he had not even had the opportunity to mention the matter of Marius’ own misdeeds. He grimaced. But for now, it was too late. The carriage, with Marius inside, had already disappeared from view.

Would he ever arrest the boy, though? True, he had been a revolutionary. But beyond that? He did not strike Javert as a corrupt or violent man - just misguided. Javert still did not know if the boy had taken a life at the barricade, but even so, the thought of arresting him now seemed... repulsive.

Javert rubbed his temple, grimacing. He had become utterly ineffective in his duties. The boy had broken the law, and there should have been no question of further investigation. Yet, instead of apprehending a revolutionary, he had sent him to visit his father-in-law - who, in truth, was also a man pursued by law. It was preposterous. What kind of officer allows criminals to walk free like this?

With a deep, resigned breath, he turned on his heel and walked away, his indecision weighing heavily upon him.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed before the consequences of his actions began to haunt him.

One afternoon, after returning from his patrol, upon entering the station Javert was immediately informed by the officer at the counter that someone was waiting for him upstairs. This was an unusual occurrence, and given the events of the past week, Javert had some suspicion about who it might be. A feeling of unease settled in his chest as he ascended to the first floor.

The figure seated in the corridor jumped to his feet at the sound of Javert's approach. “Good day, monsieur!” he greeted, his face brightening as he saw the inspector.

Javert let out a quiet sigh upon recognizing Marius Pontmercy. “Good day. What brings you here?”

“Well, I never had the chance to thank you properly,” Marius replied earnestly.

“To thank me?”

“For saving my father-in-law. Who knows what might have become of him, had you not intervened, monsieur!”

“Nonsense. I did nothing but my duty,” Javert replied curtly, brushing aside the gratitude, and wishing for nothing more than not to delve into that topic. 

“But you did more than that! You came and explained everything! Ah, monsieur, I cannot fully express my gratitude for that! You have truly averted disaster!”

Javert shifted uncomfortably. “That was never my intention.”

The earnestness of Marius' words unsettled Javert. If he knew the full truth - of his past with Valjean, the reasoning behind his recent decisions, or even that he was still uncertain whether he had made the right choice in forgoing the arrest of Marius himself - his gratitude would vanish in an instant. Not only were the thanks unearned, they were a sharp, stinging reminder of the choices he had made - choices that he had yet to fully comprehend.

“But it is what you did!” Marius grinned, clearly pleased. “You see, Monsieur Fauchelevent was not truly ill. His condition was brought on entirely by a lack of food and rest for a prolonged period, and now that he is properly tended to, he is already improving.”

“Are you telling me that he brought himself to such a state?”

“Yes, monsieur! He insists that he neither wanted nor required food or rest. We have determined that he cannot live alone for the time being, and have arranged for him to stay with us at the house on Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire. Should you wish to visit him, you are welcome to come at any time, monsieur.”

“Why would I need to visit him? I have already made it clear that I have no intention of arresting him.”

“Oh, but... I presumed you were his friend, monsieur?”

Javert stared at him, bewildered. “Which part of ‘I denounced him’ or ‘I arrested him once’ suggests ‘friend’ to you, exactly?”

“But you have aided him, and you came to us! And he helped you escape from the barricade earlier, did he not? I thought... are you truly not friends?”

“I assure you, we are not.”

“Oh.” Marius appeared visibly disappointed, though he quickly masked it, regaining his composure. “But monsieur, do visit us nonetheless! My wife would be most pleased to speak with you, though she can hardly leave her father’s side at present. And monsieur Fauchelevent would likely appreciate seeing you as well. Why not join us for dinner?”

“He would not, I assure you. It would be better for all concerned if I do not attend,” Javert winced. “Now, you must excuse me, but this may not be the most suitable time for further discussion. I have reports to file.” He said this while unlocking the door to his office - a small cramped room barely fitting more than his desk, but granting some peace and privacy, assigned to him after years of service.

“Then may I wait until you are finished, monsieur? I still have so many questions!” Marius followed him inside, prompting Javert to suppress a sigh.

Soon, they were both seated. Javert sat at his desk, filling empty pages with neat, precise handwriting. Marius occupied a stool in the corner of the room, watching the inspector, the bag that had previously hung across his shoulder now resting on his lap.

“So, monsieur,” Marius began, noticing that Javert had stopped writing and was now shuffling the papers, “you knew that it was monsieur Fauchelevent who rescued me from the barricade. I was told I was brought home by some man and a policeman. Was that you, then?”

“Yes, the policeman was I,” Javert replied. “But,” he quickly interjected, seeing Marius about to speak, “I had no part in retrieving you from the barricade- he did that. I merely encountered him later by pure chance.” He returned to his writing, his voice flat.

“And you helped him bring me home?”

“I suppose you could say that,” Javert muttered.

“Then-”

“No, I appreciate your good intentions, but if you continue to thank me, I shall have you removed from here. I assure you, I had no intention of earning any gratitude. If you feel the need to express thanks, perhaps you should direct it to him instead.”

“But monsieur, I am grateful nonetheless, to both him and to you.”

Javert shot him a sharp glare but said nothing, returning to his reports. Silence hung between them for a time.

Marius took a deep breath, as if gathering his resolve. “Monsieur, I must know why you have chosen not to arrest Monsieur Fauchelevent,” he declared, his voice steady.

Startled, Javert looked up from his papers. “What? No, I will not justify myself. But should you speak of it any louder, we may find ourselves addressing the matter with the prefect,” he winced. To think that it has come to this - he was now forced to conceal his actions from his superiors.

Marius paled and lowered his voice. “But monsieur, we must know if there is a risk that he may face arrest in the future. If his identity becomes known to the police-”

“Not one soul within the police force, save for myself, is aware of it,” Javert interrupted. “Jean Valjean is widely believed to be dead. In fact, he has been dead for nearly a decade now. And as I have already stated, I have no intention of acting on my knowledge. Unless someone else were to somehow recognise him by pure chance and alert the authorities, there is no cause for concern.”

Marius seemed to relax somewhat. “I-”

“And the same rule applies to you,” Javert interjected, his voice stern.

He turned pale once more. “Me?”

“What, did you suppose that your participation in the revolution was perfectly legal?” Javert asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh,” Marius replied simply, his expression betraying his horror at the implication.

“Do make an effort to avoid any soldiers who might have seen you there,” Javert added, then immediately winced at his own words. Advising an ex-revolutionary on how to evade arrest in my own office - yes, my career is truly flourishing, he thought bitterly. He could hardly make sense of his own behavior. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought aside. “In fact, you mentioned earlier that you recognised me at the barricade. Have we met previously?”

“Hm?” Marius blinked, appearing less troubled as he was distracted from thoughts of potential arrest. “Oh, I suppose you may not remember me, monsieur. I came here once to inform you about the attack on Monsieur Fauchelevent at the Gorbeau House.”

“Ah, so it was you...” Javert frowned, recalling the memory. Then his eyes widened. “Wait- so it was him ?”

“Well, yes,” Marius replied, looking somewhat startled by the inspector’s reaction.

Javert’s expression darkened, and he slammed his fist on the desk in exasperation. “So I was mere seconds away from arresting him!”

Marius stared at him with wide eyes. “But, monsieur, you said you would not do that!”

“Back then, I would have done it with great satisfaction.” Javert muttered angrily, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers through his whiskers. He sighed heavily. “But that’s of no consequence now.” He sat up straighter, resting his elbows on the desk and glaring at Marius. “Now, explain to me,” he nearly growled, “what exactly had stopped you from pulling that trigger as planned?”

“Well, uh,” Marius stammered, “I was… eavesdropping. I heard that Jondrette’s name is actually Thénardier. I couldn’t allow myself to cause his arrest.”

“Don't tell me that you have taken a liking to that louse.”

“No, absolutely not! But you see, during the Battle of Waterloo, this man managed to save my father’s life. I despise him, but I am indebted to him.”

“If this man has ever saved anyone’s life, it was likely by sheer accident.” Javert's voice turned cold, his eyes narrowing. “He is charged with murder, among other crimes. Do you even realize the danger you have placed the people of this city in, risking that Thénardier and the Patron-Minette may remain free?”

“I could not have acted otherwise!” Marius insisted with conviction.

“Even at the cost of allowing murderers to roam the city freely?” Javert’s tone was sharp, unforgiving.

Marius’ pale face remained resolute, but his voice faltered. “I truly could not, monsieur! Though I did not know that he had gone as far as to kill,” he added, his confidence waning as he spoke.

“It was exceedingly foolish of you. I trust you are aware of that,” Javert replied. “You are fortunate that we apprehended them regardless.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, with Javert's piercing glare fixed on Marius, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Then, Marius suddenly jerked upright, clutching his bag with urgency. “But... I never got a chance to return your pistols to you, monsieur! Though they did prove useful at the barricade-”

“So my own weapons were used in the revolution. Delightful.”

Marius hesitated, then spoke. “...and I regret to inform you that they were lost there as well. So, I have come to give you these instead.” With a smile, he carefully took a wooden box from his bag and placed it on the desk.

Javert stared at the box, slightly confused, before meeting Marius' gaze again. “I did not ask for these. There is no need.”

“But please, monsieur,” Marius insisted earnestly, his smile lingering. “Do accept it.”

“Someone may suspect I’m taking bribes,” Javert muttered with a sigh, but opened the box. Inside were two small pistols, much like the ones he had given Marius before the Gorbeau House incident, though these were lavishly engraved and looked far more elegant. He picked one up, inspecting it briefly. They were worth several times more than his old ones. Without the energy for another argument, he simply said, “Thank you.”

Marius smiled, eager. “So, will you visit us, monsieur?”

“That remains a no.”

Marius' face fell, and he looked at Javert with disappointment. “Why not?”

“As I have already said, Jean Valjean and I are far from friends. That would be an unpleasant experience for both of us, and for all those present, at best.”

“Surely, monsieur, you could still try it!”

“I have pursued him for nearly two decades. Do you expect us to exchange pleasantries over tea? Certainly not.”

“Please, monsieur! My wife and I would be greatly honored by your presence, and her father would surely benefit from some company.”

“Then you have chosen the single most ill-suited person for such an endeavor.”

“Or the only one capable of it! Even Cosette admits that she cannot recall anyone her father knows. Please, monsieur?”

“No,” Javert replied flatly, returning to his reports.

Marius sat in silence, disheartened. He remained still until Javert had completed his work, and only then did he wait for the inspector to turn in his reports and lift the wooden box from the desk.

As they made their way out of the building, the young officer at the entrance exchanged smiles and farewells with Marius. Javert watched them with suspicion, a growing sense of unease settling in. He was nearly certain that he would be hearing about his visitor from every junior officer in the precinct for the next week.

As they stepped outside, Marius made one last attempt. "Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to visit us, monsieur?"

Javert’s response was curt. "No. Do not trouble me further with it."

After a brief pause, they exchanged their farewells. Marius, his disappointment evident, turned and made his way back home, while Javert continued on, heading toward his apartment, his thoughts as dark and unyielding as ever.

The following morning, Javert was taken aback as he entered the police station. To his surprise, he found Marius leaning against the counter, engaged in conversation with the officer behind it while jotting something down on a piece of paper. At the sound of the door opening, both men fell silent, and Marius turned to face Javert.

"Good morning, monsieur l'inspecteur!" Marius greeted, flashing a grin.

Javert narrowed his eyes. "What is this? Have you taken to following me at work and distracting the officers?" he asked sharply.

"Of course not," Marius replied with a playful shrug. "I was just on my way out!" He swiftly tucked the paper into his pocket and made for the door, passing Javert without a second glance. "Good day!" he called out to both officers, his voice bright as he exited in a hurry.

When the door shut behind Marius, Javert turned to the young officer behind the counter with a glare.  “What was that about, Auvray?”

“Him?” Auvray smiled innocently.  “Oh, nothing, monsieur. I merely crossed paths with him on my way in, and he stopped by for a moment.”

“I see,” Javert replied dryly, his suspicion lingering. He could not accuse the officer outright, but the situation was hardly to his liking. “No conspiracies or idle gossip at work,” he added sharply before turning on his heel to head upstairs.

Javert’s suspicions about Marius’ visit that morning were soon proven correct. A few hours later, as he walked along a crowded marketplace, a familiar face caught his eye. Except this time, it wasn’t Marius.

Cosette was sitting on a bench, a basket resting at her side, her eyes sweeping the crowd. She appeared to be searching for someone. Javert nearly groaned when their eyes met. The moment she saw him, her face brightened.

“Monsieur l’inspecteur!” she exclaimed, rising from the bench and hurrying toward him. another woman behind her follower suit - possibly a servant, as Javert recalled her face vaguely from his recent visit. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here!”

“A surprise indeed,” Javert muttered under his breath, his teeth clenched. So that was it. That boy had come to the station to learn where my patrol would take me, and sent his wife to follow.

“I have just concluded my business here,” the girl replied cheerfully, swinging her basket with an air of glee. “Do you mind if I accompany you for a while, monsieur?”

He did mind. But Javert had a strong suspicion that, even if he declined, she would follow regardless. “I am not to be disturbed during my patrol,” he said curtly.

“Of course, monsieur! I shall not demand much of your attention,” she beamed, effortlessly matching his pace. “Ah, but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced! I am Euphrasie Pontmercy,” she added with a polite dip of her head.

“Inspector Javert,” he replied stiffly, briefly wondering how Euphrasie could possibly shorten into Cosette. Then, narrowing his eyes, he asked, “What brings you here, madame?” His tone was pointed, almost accusing. If the Pontmercys insisted on haunting him, they might as well admit it. Forcing an admission might embarrass her enough to leave him in peace. “I would have assumed you had servants to attend to such errands as shopping,” he noted, glancing in the direction of the other woman, who followed Cosette as silently and surely as her shadow.

“Oh, that is true, monsieur,” Cosette replied promptly, as though she had anticipated the question. “But I must confess, I take great pleasure in coming here myself. Markets are such lively and cheerful places, full of energy!” she added with an earnest smile.

Javert regarded her closely, his doubt growing. To him, the market was the opposite of pleasant. As if to illustrate his thoughts, a ragged child darted between them, narrowly avoiding the hem of her dress. Nearby, a merchant erupted into furious swears as a stray cabbage tumbled from his stall and was promptly trampled by the crowd. The air was filled with the noise of voices haggling, shouting, and calling. A fine place for a baroness, indeed.

“This market is rather distant from your neighborhood,” he pointed out, his tone dry. “Surely there are others closer to your home - on the far side of the Seine?”

Cosette’s smile did not waver. Indeed, it brightened, and Javert’s suspicion changed into certainty - she was enjoying this far more than she ought.

“Oh, naturally, monsieur!” she replied with an eager nod. “But, you see, I am particularly fond of this market in particular.”

“And what is it about this market that inspires such devotion?” Javert pressed, skeptical.

“Well...” Cosette’s eyes darted about for a moment, then landed on her basket with sudden purpose. “The oranges! Yes, they sell the finest oranges here. Sweeter than any I’ve found elsewhere,” she declared with enthusiasm, holding the basket aloft as if in evidence. She paused dramatically before offering with perfect sincerity: “Would you care to try one, monsieur?”

Javert stared at the oranges, then at her face. There was no malice in her - she was earnest, unshakably so. But she wielded her optimism like a weapon, much to his growing irritation.

“No, thank you,” he replied with deliberate dryness. He already regretted letting this conversation proceed; she had the same unrelenting nature as her husband but seemed even more adept at drawing him into idle chatter. He could feel a headache coming in.

“Oh, monsieur,” Cosette gasped, as if remembering something. “I must beg your pardon for my behavior the last time we met!”

Javert raised an eyebrow.

“I never meant to eavesdrop, truly!” she went on, her sincerity almost overwhelming. “I was about to enter, you see, but then I overheard Marius speaking... saying all these strange things. I stopped without thinking!” She clasped her hands together, her expression contrite but still somehow glowing. “I’m truly sorry, monsieur!”

“I would say you should have known it all along,” Javert replied with a slight shrug. “Since your husband and that old fool kept such things from you, eavesdropping was... excusable,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Judging by your reaction, this whole affair could have been avoided had everyone been properly informed.”

“Of course it would have been avoided! They are insufferable,” Cosette huffed. “It could have ended most dreadfully! So I must thank you, monsieur!” she smiled at him brightly.

“Do not thank me,” he said firmly. “As I told your husband, I did nothing but my duty-”

“Duty or not, it saved my father!” Cosette interrupted, her smile unwavering. “He would no doubt wish to thank you himself, but he cannot venture outside just yet.” She fixed her gaze upon him, making her request clear.

Not this again , Javert thought. “No, madame. We are not on good terms.”

“It can change,” she said with cheerful insistence.

“It can not,” Javert replied flatly.

Cosette made a pleading expression. “Please, monsieur? I have never met anyone who knew my father in the past!”

“For good reasons,” Javert muttered under his breath.

“But, monsieur, you see, you may be my only chance to learn more of his past! He is still reluctant to speak of his former life.”

“Then I shall not be the one to gossip behind his back.”

“But monsieur!”

“Madame,” Javert said, his voice firm, “if you seek knowledge of his past, it is he whom you should ask, not me.”

Cosette crossed her arms, frowning. “Then you must help me with this, monsieur!”

“With all due respect, no.”

Cosette’s face fell, and she let out a small, disappointed sigh.

On that day, Cosette left him empty-handed, having achieved nothing in her pursuit. However, as Javert soon realized, the Pontmercys were far from willing to relent. From then on, he found himself unable to escape them; either Marius or Cosette would show up on nearly every one of his patrols, persistently trying to engage him in conversation and, to his growing annoyance, repeating their request for him to visit.

Even worse, to Javert's dismay, he would occasionally receive packages delivered by Auvray during his time at the station. The contents ranged from baked goods to a new pair of gloves, none of which he had asked for.

As the Pontmercys continued their attempts to persuade him into making an appearance, Javert’s irritation deepened. Their chattering during his patrols frayed his nerves, and each arriving package deepened his discomfort. Despite his repeated protests, however, neither Marius nor Cosette seemed the slightest bit deterred.

After nearly two weeks of enduring their persistent attempts, Javert had reached his limit. All he wanted was to put an end to this strange situation and carry out his duties in peace. It was clear that he needed to make them understand the reason for his refusal once and for all. The sooner they grasped the truth, the better.

On his afternoon patrol, Javert spotted a familiar face in the crowd. It was Cosette, her attention elsewhere, allowing him to approach her unnoticed. As he drew nearer, she caught sight of him and began to smile, but before she could greet him, he cut her off with a pointed question.

“If I do come to visit,” he asked, “will you two finally stop haunting me?”

Cosette agreed vigorously. 

Chapter Text

His plan was straightforward - to make it clear to the Pontmercys’ that it was a terrible idea, then leave without looking back. He had no idea how Valjean would react to seeing him - they had not exchanged a word since he said “I'll wait here” about ten months ago. However the meeting would unfold, hopefully it will suffice to convince the Pontmercys to cut ties with him for good. He just had to endure it for a brief time. Afterward, everything would return to normal.

With that thought, he arrived at Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. A servant opened the door, ushering him inside. Nearly immediately after he took off his coat, Marius joined him, seemingly glad to see him, though noticeably nervous. Having exchanged a brief greeting, they walked together into a room where a small table was already set.

Javert’s discomfort grew with each passing moment, but he did not have to wait long. Before he or Marius took their seats, the sound of a door opening drew their attention.

Cosette entered first, leading a white-haired man, whose presence, though not unexpected, made Javert’s chest tighten.

Valjean looked much better than during their last encounter. His skin no longer had the grey tone to it, nor did he appear decades older than he was. He still moved with a noticeable limp, but it was evident that Cosette’s supporting arm was not a necessity.

As Valjean glanced up, their eyes met. Javert instinctively crossed his arms.

Immediately, Valjean’s face grew pale. He stiffened, an expression of fear appearing on his face, as though he might either flee or collapse on the spot.

Cosette noticed it and gripped his arm with reassurance. “Papa, calm down-”

“You cannot take me here!” Valjean exclaimed suddenly, startling everyone present. “Not now, not in front of them! Please, you cannot!”

Javert raised his eyebrows. “I am not here to arrest you. Stop shouting.”

“You- you're not?”

“Do you suppose that I've been on holiday since June and only decided to return now to arrest you? Obviously not,” Javert replied with a scowl.

“Then why-”

“We've invited monsieur Javert to visit,” Cosette interjected, taking over the tense situation and steering bewildered Valjean further into the room.

“Or rather, harassed into coming,” Javert muttered, not hiding his irritation.

“...because we thought you might wish to speak with him yourself, considering how he’s just saved your life,” Cosette continued, trying to dispel the lingering tension.

“What?” Valjean’s eyes widened.

“Oh,” Marius looked at Cosette with sudden realization.

Javert observed him with a raised eyebrow. “That is fair, I suppose,” he remarked. “The three of you excel at sharing information.”

“I'm terribly sorry about that, monsieur, “ Marius mumbled, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Well, yes,” Cosette stammered, while Valjean stared at her in shock. “It was monsieur Javert who brought you home back then, and came to us to explain everything! And- papa?” She broke off and looked at Valjean with concern as he appeared to be trembling.

Valjean let out a muffled sob. Then another one. He covered his eyes with his hand as he started crying.

Javert stood frozen, watching in confusion as equally surprised Cosette hurried to console the weeping man. “Did I do something now?” he asked Marius, but the boy also seemed just as lost as he was. “Well,” Javert started, “you can see that it was a bad idea. I’ll take my leave.”

He headed towards the door, but as he passed next to the pair near the exit, he felt a hand on his wrist. He turned around to face Valjean’s wide eyes staring at him.

“Why did you do that?” Valjean asked in a shaky voice, immediately withdrawing his hand as though it had been burned. 

Javert scoffed, trying to hide his discomfort. “Perhaps next time you might consider not laying down in the middle of the road.”

“But- why?” a note of desperation sounded in his tone, searching for an answer Javert was not sure he could give.

“Let us sit down first, won't we?” Cosette interjected with a forced smile, suddenly realising that Javert was close to slipping away. She gently took Valjean’s arm and guided him toward the table, glancing back at Javert with an expectant look.

Javert reluctantly followed.

They seated him across from Valjean. Javert was relieved not to be sitting directly next to him, but it did nothing to make the situation less uncomfortable - Valjean kept staring at him with a look of disbelief, as though observing a ghost.

The silence between them stretched awkwardly, interrupted only when a servant entered with a teapot and teacups, setting them on the table. Javert noticed, with a slight sense of satisfaction, that Marius appeared far less certain about the whole affair now. The young man shifted in his seat, his earlier confidence evaporating. Cosette, too, was casting concerned glances at her father, unsure of how to fix the tension that filled the room.

Was this enough to make them see? Javert wondered, watching Valjean grip his teacup. The man’s reaction undoubtedly left an impression. Hopefully, it would make the Pontmercys realise how uninformed their plans had been.

After some time, Cosette excused herself from the table and left the room. Before the door even closed behind her, Marius followed suit. Javert assumed that they retreated to discuss their plan in private - hopefully concluding that it was a terrible idea and ending the whole ordeal. Yet, it left him in a situation even worse than previously - being alone in the room with Valjean.

As the sound of the door closing echoed, Valjean raised his eyes from his teacup. He turned to the door, then fixed his gaze on Javert.

“You should not have told them,” he spoke slowly, quietly, with anguish written over his face

“Told them what?” Javert asked, his eyes darting toward the closed door. He suspected that both Cosette and Marius were right behind it, but he supposed that the wood was thick enough to muffle their words.

“Everything,” Valjean’s voice trembled. “My past, the barricade-” 

“Obviousy,” Javert interrupted. “You should have told them yourself. It's a pity you did not.”

“No, you do not understand,” Valjean said, his voice faltering. “They were never meant to know.”

“You recounted some of it to the boy already, did you not?” Javert pressed.

“And that was enough!” Valjean breathed in sharply. “But Cosette-”

“She came to know of it all by chance,” Javert explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And as for it being ‘enough’- enough for what? For you to carry yourself to the grave without so much as a word to these two? Was that your grand design?”

Valjean’s face paled. He made no answer.

“It was, was it not?” Javert drawled with a glare. “To make a martyr out of yourself?”

“It would have been better,” Valjean almost whispered.

“Better for whom?” Javert retorted sharply. “For them?”

“Yes!” Valjean exclaimed louder. “I should not be here, they don't- they don't need me!”

“But it seems clear enough that you need them.”

“That is not important! Here I am only a burden to them-”

“Indeed,” Javert interrupted with a biting tone. “They appear positively crushed beneath the weight of your presence.”

“-and if my past is revealed? The very association will ruin them! As things stand, they are sheltering a criminal-”

“Jean Valjean has been officially dead for a decade. How many, pray tell, do you think are still looking for you?”

Valjean stared at him with an unreadable expression, saying nothing.

Javert sighed. “I have known of your whereabouts for months and taken no action, how much more clear do I need to make myself-”

He stopped abruptly at the sound of the door opening. Startled, he drew back in his chair, suddenly aware how far forward he had leaned while speaking. 

Cosette and Marius entered the room, murmuring vague apologies for their absence. Javert briefly wondered if they had heard anything, but nothing about their manner seemed to suggest so.

The creaking of the chairs sounded deafening in the sudden silence as Cosette and Marius returned to their seats. The atmosphere somehow seemed even heavier than before. Valjean gripped his teacup with such force it seemed as though he might shatter it, his eyes firmly fixed on the swirling tea within. Javert shot him a sharp glance before looking away. Cosette and Marius exchanged uneasy looks, clearly unsettled by the strained atmosphere.

“So,” Cosette said, clasping her hands with a sheepish smile, “Papa, Monsieur Javert, where did you first meet?”

Valjean made no response, still staring at the teacup, though his face paled.

“Perhaps-” Marius began hesitantly, but stopped when he caught Cosette subtly shaking her head.

“Was it during Papa’s time as mayor?” Cosette asked, focusing her eyes on Javert with an air of gentle curiosity.

Hearing the question, Valjean lifted his head and gazed at her, once more on the edge of tears. “No,” he responded, shaking his head faintly.

Javert’s fingers tightened around his teacup, the heated porcelain scalding his skin. He focused on that sensation.

Cosette’s eyes darted back and forth between Valjean and Javert. “When, then?” she asked, though now with a note of uncertainty, as if she was beginning to understand how delicate the matter might be.

Silence fell, interrupted only by the sound of Marius nervously scratching the ornaments on his teacup. Valjean's head hung low, his hands trembling slightly on the table.

After a moment, Javert turned his head to Cosette. “I worked as a prison guard before,” he stated in a steady voice, his face betraying nothing.

“Oh,” Cosette responded simply, then blinked. “Oh,” she said again, this time with realization.

Valjean’s head sank lower into his shoulders, as though he wished to vanish entirely. Again, a tense silence filled the room.

Javert took a sip of his tea, emptying his cup, then put it down. “I believe it is time for me to leave,” he said, rising from his chair.

"No, wait." Valjean's voice cracked as he abruptly pushed his chair away from the table.

Javert paused and turned to face him. "Wait for what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“You- I still need an explanation,” Valjean insisted, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Well, you will not get it. I'm leaving.“ Javert turned toward the door, ready to end this encounter once and for all.

“Why did you not wait back then?” Valjean spoke feverishly. “And now- why-?”

“I'm leaving, Val-”

“You have never let a criminal go!” Valjean leapt to his feet, causing the table to rattle with the force of his sudden movement.

Cosette immediately pushed her chair back, ready to rise if the situation escalated. She observed her father with a mixture of concern and confusion.

“Not a single time in all these years,” Valjean pressed on, his hands flat against the table, staring wide eyed at Javert. “Not even for the smallest of crimes! So why me? A recidivist, a parole-breaker? A lifelong criminal?”

“Papa, don't say such things about yourself!” Cosette cried out, but Valjean seemed not to hear it. 

“You've helped me-” Valjean’s voice faltered.

“I will do whatever I deem right,” Javert hissed in response. As soon as they left his mouth, he regretted them. He clenched his fist tightly, feeling the edges of his nails dig into the inside of his palm. 

He was not supposed to be doing what he deemed right. He was supposed to uphold the law. The law that called for Jean Valjean’s arrest. And yet, torn between duty and something far less clear, he could not do that.

“Right?” Valjean repeated after him in confusion.

“I'm leaving ,” Javert growled, pushing his chair back towards the table and turning away. 

“I will accompany you to the door, monsieur,” Marius said, standing up. Javert could have sworn he caught a brief, pointed look from Cosette at that moment.

Javert remained silent, his gaze momentarily flicking toward Cosette and Valjean before he made his way toward the door, and Marius followed after him.

Cosette and Valjean joined them in the hall as he retrieved his coat.

"Are you certain you do not wish to stay a little longer, monsieur?" Cosette asked, though she knew the answer.

"It is late, and I have work to attend to, madame," Javert replied in a formal tone. It wasn't entirely a lie, but the truth lay deeper. He fastened his coat tightly, despite the warm weather outside.

They exchanged quick farewells. Cosette seemed on the verge of asking him something more, but she held back, perhaps sensing that it wouldn’t be well received. Marius, on the other hand, appeared almost relieved to see the meeting come to an end. Valjean looked like a ghost, his mind lost somewhere far beyond the present moment.

Javert walked briskly back to his apartment. He didn’t pause, not even for a second, but refused to hail a cab. The walk, the solitude, gave him the time he needed to think.

He decided that he had been waiting for long enough.

Chapter Text

If anyone would have been observing the windows of inspector Javert’s apartment then, they would have noticed that a candle in the room, lit at sunset, kept burning until the very sunrise. It was not exactly unusual for the inspector to stay up late or only take a short nap in the morning, as he had a habit of taking his work home when he considered it urgent. If anyone would have noticed that, they would see no reason to be disturbed.

Javert left for work early, perhaps looking just a little bit less energetic and more tired than usually. 

On his patrol, he kept looking around with caution. Nobody had disturbed him. For the first time in over two weeks, neither Cosette nor Marius came to find him during the day. They have kept their promise - he had agreed to their invitation, so they would no longer bother him. He was glad to be left alone with his work and his thoughts.

After returning to his office, he surrounded himself with paperwork. Carefully sorting through files for various cases, the scratching of his pen on paper could be heard for long after his shift was supposed to end. This was also not outside of his normal behaviour - he usually stayed a bit longer, sometimes for many hours if he considered some paperwork necessary to be finished quickly. So nobody questioned him when he remained locked inside of his office after it became dark outside.

He finished as much as he could, filled all the required reports and created detailed notes for the unfinished cases. Before leaving the office, he had arranged the papers into piles, carefully marking which ones belonged to which case. By the time he walked outside, the streets were nearly empty save for the homeless. The moon was lighting his way as he walked back to his apartment.

That night again a candle flickered in his window for long after nearly the whole city has gone to rest. Occasionally, he could be seen in the window, walking across the room with his arms crossed behind him - a dark silhouette passing through the dimly-lit square.

Hours passed before the candle was blown out. Just a moment after that, muted creaking of the stairs could be heard from outside of the building. Then the door opened and the inspector left. 

He did not have his cane or hat with him, but his black greatcoat was buttoned up perfectly. He walked quickly, passing the empty streets of  Paris without being noticed by anyone but the rats. The bottom half of his face was covered by the collar and his expression could only be seen in his eyes. They held no emotion - he stared at the space ahead of him without seeming to notice anything, lost in thoughts. That look would have been disturbing, had he not worn it for months.

If anyone were to walk into the apartment that he abandoned and to light the candle back up, the first thing that they would lay their eyes on would be the objects placed carefully on the middle of the desk, clearly meant to be seen. The biggest one was an envelope - carefully sealed and addressed with a clean handwriting to the prefect of the police. Next to it, Javert’s police badge rested, stating his name and age - like a signature of the author of this arrangement. On the side, a smaller envelope was signed with the name of the landlady - it obviously contained some coins. On the top of it, there was a ring with two iron keys on it.

Other than that, nothing seemed out of place in this room. There were barely any signs of life. Any everyday objects that could have been found there, though there were never many of these, have been tucked away into the wardrobe and the drawers. The room looked abandoned. 

His apartment was already long gone from Javert's mind when he reached his destination. Pont au Change was towering above the glistening surface on the Seine, not having changed a bit for the past year. This place became awfully familiar to him. As always when he approached this point, he was struck by the sensation that the roaring of the river, always present at the back of his head, suddenly became physical, filling his mind with the sound of water and causing a sting of panic, which just for a second stopped him in his tracks. 

It has been too long, he told himself as he stepped on the bridge. Has it really been almost a year since he first came there? It felt like much less; he had stopped noticing the passing of the time. Now he felt a pang of guilt about it. What was taking him so long? 

He had told himself back then that he needed time to think and consider the two paths he could go, to choose wisely - it has been a lie, has it not? He had made the decision long ago. It all boiled down to arresting Valjean or letting him be, and he made his choice before he even fully realized it. Saying that he was considering the options was just lying to himself; on the contrary, for the past year he was stubbornly avoiding thinking about it. Until suddenly he could not - he was confronted with Valjean, he announced his decision, it was standing in the light of the day, mocking him. Inspector Javert, unable to act according to the law, breaking the law many times over by harbouring a criminal. A miserable excuse of a policeman.

He should have died on that barricade, along with all these schoolboys. He was no better than them. Valjean should have shot him back then - he would be right and the world would be in order. Instead, he lived with the sky crashing down around him, which he calmly ignored. Until now.

It is high time, he thought to himself as he laid his hands on the parapet of the bridge. It has been a year, he did nothing, he did not come to understand anything, not even his own decisions. And he could not go on forever ignoring this. He had to acknowledge that all of his life he has been wrong, that he did not understand the world like he thought he did - this idea taunted him, driving him mad.

He could not understand, so what he needed to do was to turn in his resignation. First, a resignation from his job - it rested on his desk, safely tucked inside an envelope along with a few other pages of writing. He did not want to risk it being discovered early, which might have happened if he had sent it or left it at work, so he left it up to his landlady to pass it on. He had left her a compensation for her effort in the other envelope together with his rent. He hoped that it would be enough. 

 He calmed his breathing, which at some point became quick and shallow. As coldly as he could still muster himself to, he ran his thoughts through his recent actions. It has proven to be much more difficult than it should be - the roaring of the water below him seemed to drown each thought, causing a slight feeling of lightheadedness. Still, he did not notice anything missing - he has done all that he should before his second, long overdue resignation.

With that, he pushed himself up onto the parapet of the bridge. He straightened his back and looked up. He dimly remembered that when he came here in June, the sky was clouded. Now it was the opposite - without a single cloud in the sky, the stars were perfectly visible. He did not know which was worse. They seemed to look at him with accusation in their distant light.

With a sigh, he looked down. The swirling water below seemed black, occasionally reflecting a single gleam of light in a short flash, as if trying to mimic the stars. It did not feel like water - he felt as if he was standing over an abyss, even more distant and infinite than the sky above. It has been waiting for him since June and it shall wait no more. 

He took a deep breath. 

Then he felt a tug on the back of his coat.

He swayed as the sudden force pulled him back a little. Instinctively, he pushed himself in the opposite direction, turning his upper body to see who was behind him, and taking a small step forward.

His foot dangled over the abyss, not finding support. He lost his balance.

“No!” the voice behind him shouted, grabbing his elbow and pulling him back towards the bridge. His foot landed back on the stone parapet as he was forcibly turned toward the man behind him.

Javert froze when he saw the face before him. Of course it had to be him. Who else would it be? 

“What are you doing here?” Javert growled.

“No, what are you doing here?” Valjean shot back at him, wide-eyed, clutching the material of Javert’s sleeve. His pale face nearly matched the colour of his hair, though it was barely visible from underneath the rim of his worn hat. Next to him laid a suitcase, which he must have dropped earlier.

“That is none of your business,” Javert snapped, pulling his arm from the other man’s grip. He straightened his back, looking down at Valjean from the height of the parapet. “Leave,” he hissed, minding to make his voice as collected and hostile as he could. It still cracked a bit.

Valjean, his hand frozen in midair, gazed back at him with a terrified expression on his face. “Why are you standing on the parapet?”

“Not your concern.”

“Are you-”

“Go away, Valjean,” Javert growled, clenching his teeth. He felt that it was getting harder to keep himself together. This man was not supposed to be here. Nobody was - he did not predict that, he was not prepared for that. Sticking to a plan that he calmly and carefully created before, without having to think about it anymore - that was simple. He only had to follow through the last step, which he had decided on beforehand. Now his plan was falling apart and it felt like he was too. He needed to get this man away from here before he falls into pieces.

Valjean seemed to have noticed that. He reached for his hand. “Javert, step down-”

Javert whisked away the hand held out in his direction. “Valjean, I'm warning you-” he moved backwards minimally while saying that. 

Valjean twitched as he noticed that and threw his hands forward, but froze when he saw that Javert was still standing and glaring down at him with anger.

“Stop,” Javert drawled with visible effort.

“Are you going to jump?” Valjean’s voice rose at the last word. A rhetorical question.

“Never you mind,” Javert crossed his arms - mostly to hide that his hands were shaking. He immediately realized that perhaps he should have just lied, but the idea of lying somehow still repulsed him.

Valjean gaped at him, apparently taking it as a yes. “Why?”

“Leave, Valjean,” Javert growled as he turned his back to him, facing the river again. He did not know what to do now. Should he carry on and jump, ignoring Valjean’s presence? Trying to convince him to leave did not seem to have any effect, it just felt draining. He wanted to end it as soon as possible.

Valjean grasped the edge of his coat, causing Javert to glare back at him over his shoulder. “If you try to jump,” the older man announced with certainty in his voice, “I will jump as well, and personally drag you out of this river.”

“Good luck with that,” Javert scoffed, but dread arose in his heart. “You've been barely alive just about three weeks ago. You'd drown as well.”

Of course he would do that. The damned philanthropist could and would willingly risk his own life - even for such a lost cause as Javert. And it created a good chance of either both of them dying or both of them surviving - each option seemed horrible.

That would make just jumping now not an option. Committing suicide but risking surviving? He could try again, but just how many times would he have to do it before he would succeed? Or risking dragging Valjean down as well? Well, that was Valjean’s own decision. He should not care about it. But he also did not break all of his own rules by not arresting him for this man to drown while trying to stop him from doing so. That would just be wrong.

He had to get rid of Valjean’s presence somehow.

He pressed his hand to his face, feeling how cold his fingers were against his own skin, and breathed deeply. He felt as if he was detached from his own body and even mind. It was not like him. 

He blinked, realizing that he has spaced out for a moment. Did Valjean respond somehow? He was not sure, the only things he could hear were his own stream of thoughts and the constant roar of the river.

He exhaled, clenching his teeth and freezing his face into his usual frown. Just make Valjean leave, then he can end it all.

He turned around suddenly, tearing his coat away from Valjean’s hand and balancing himself dangerously on the edge of the parapet. He wrinkled his nose in anger when he noticed that Valjean jumped up a bit at the sight of that.

How should he even make him leave? Normally, he would intimidate others into leaving, but Valjean would not be affected by that, he knew it. What else then?

“I will not jump,” the uncertain sentence rolled off his tongue. Well, right now he will not. “You can leave.”

It did not sound convincing even in his own ears.

Valjean looked up at him, a mix of worry and tension visible on his face. “Come down, then,” he requested as he extended his hand.

Javert ignored it and leapt onto the bridge. It immediately made him feel worse - he felt more exposed when no longer looking down at Valjean from the height of the parapet, even if he still remained significantly taller. He regretted not having his hat with him. He pushed his hands into his pockets.

He looked at Valjean with furrowed brow. He was met with just the same horrified expression. 

He realized that he will not get him to leave him alone like that now. Even if he would leave, Valjean would probably stay somewhere nearby and observe his next actions. No, he had to find another way.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then Javert turned around and with no further comment walked away in the direction that he came from earlier.

“Wait-!” Valjean took a step in the same direction.

“Goodbye. Go home,” Javert growled over his shoulder. He sped up, leaving the shocked-looking Valjean behind on the bridge. As soon as he could, he turned into one of the narrower streets to disappear from Valjean’s line of sight.

He walked fast - hopefully too fast for Valjean to follow, considering his limp. He heard no footsteps behind him, so he wasted no time wandering around the streets. 

He took the direct route back to his apartment.

Chapter Text

He entered the building carefully, not wanting to wake anyone up. He snuck back into his apartment - he had left the door unlocked before, with the key laying on the desk on the other side of the room. He didn't bother to fetch it and lock the door now - it did not matter. 

Leaning back on the door, he darted his eyes around the apartment. He could barely make out the shapes of the furniture in the faint light of the moon and street lamps seeping through the window. 

He walked up to his desk and opened one of the drawers. He rummaged through its contents blindly until he fished out a ring of a few small keys. He squinted at the object, trying to find the one he was looking for, then with a huff of frustration reached for the candle and lit it.

A warm light filled the room, casting heavy shadows on the walls and making Javert’s surroundings a bit more visible. He blinked a few times, getting his eyes used to the light, and placed the candle on the side of the desk. He could now see the drawers of his desk and the bookshelf standing next to it, the shadow of a small table to his right and a fireplace to his left.

He found the right key and reached towards a locked drawer in the desk, unlocking it. 

Going back to the bridge was not an option - Valjean might still be lingering somewhere around there. But he was not about to give up his plans because of it. It was just a brief inconvenience. 

From inside of the drawer he picked up a small flintlock pistol - he always kept one loaded in his room in case his duty called suddenly. In a way, it was duty that called him now.

He held up the pistol, seemingly inspecting it closely, though his thoughts were far away. It was not his preferred method of dying, but he supposed that it would make no difference after he’s done with it. 

Time to get this over with.

He tensed up when he heard some sound from behind the door. He recognised the creaking of the stairs. Confused, he turned around, tightening his grip on the gun. 

The door flew open.

Before he realized what was happening, something heavy crashed into him, knocking him down. He felt a grip on his wrist, making him drop the pistol. 

He saw the gun sliding across the floor. It hit the wall on the other side of the room with a quiet clunk that broke the sudden silence.

He did not even have to look up to know the identity of the person that now kneeled at the floor next to him.

Instead, he looked at the pistol, lying far beyond his reach. He looked at the hand locked on his wrist, keeping him down, unable to stand up. He looked at the open door which he could not reach. And then he fell apart.

Before he realized it, he felt a warm trickle on his cheeks. He inhaled sharply, then forced himself to stop breathing before he could make any sound, and covered his mouth with his free hand. His other hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm. Still, he could not stop his body from shaking.

With that it seemed like all the energy has left his body. He did not know what to do, how to escape - he felt powerless, trapped. He felt the tears well up again in his eyes. Collecting all of his remaining strength, he blindly swung his elbow backwards. It hit a hard surface which he assumed to be Valjean’s shoulder, but it gave no effect. 

He felt his back being pressed against the other man’s chest and another hand wrapped around him, pinning his left shoulder to his body and causing him to lose his breath for a second.

He did not notice it before, but he realized that tears were dripping down his face. He wiped them off with his free hand. Then he gripped the wrist of the man behind him, trying to peel his arm off himself with no avail. With both of his hands, he gripped the arm, digging his nails into the man's skin, and tried to pull it away, but he could not move it. 

He felt the man behind him press his head to his back, muttering something in a calming voice, but he could not make out the words. He hated it - he hated that man for stopping him, and he hated feeling so helpless, he hated that he could not trust his voice enough to say something, he hated himself for that. He kept trying to free himself, but he could not even calm down his breathing enough to force his hands to stop shaking. 

He gave up on that, shut his eyes tight and focused on calming down his breath. He had to drive Valjean away. Fine . He could do that. Maybe. If he could just force himself into a more dignified state first.

For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were Valjean’s muttering and Javert’s breath slowly going from ragged and shallow to more regular. 

“Let go of me,” Javert demanded hoarsely as soon as he could speak without his voice breaking.

With some hesitation, Valjean complied - but when Javert stood up and turned around, he immediately grabbed his wrist.

Javert shot him a furious glare - it might have been effective, had his eyes not been reddened and his face swollen. 

“How did you get here?” he asked as coldly as he could muster.

“I followed you from the bridge and then saw in the window- God, Javert, why are you doing that?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Javert snapped, wrenching his wrist back. Valjean’s grip tightened, firm but not painful.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I am here, and I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself.”

“This is my decision, Valjean, and mine alone,” Javert interrupted him. “Spare me your pity. It is insufferable.”

“This is not pity,” Valjean replied firmly. “This is concern.”

“Concern - from you? Don't insult me. You have ruined me already,” Javert snapped with barely restrained fury. 

The anger cleared his mind, he thought. It gave him direction. The words flowed confidently, his face betrayed nothing.

Valjean paused at these words. “Is that the reason why? We met just a day ago and now… what happened?”

Javert scoffed. “I merely decided to do what I should have done long ago.”

Valjean looked at him in silence, connecting the facts in his mind. The words felt like an admission, but there was something more, something deeper that Javert was not saying.

Javert’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting away.  “I have nothing left. No purpose, no law, no justice. I am a man unmoored. If you think words will change that, then you’re a fool.”

“They will not, I know. But you can change that.”

“Men like me never change,” Javert muttered bitterly, as if the idea itself were a cruel joke. “All of my life, I have brought men to punishment for their crimes. I cannot put mine in the hands of the law, but I must face the consequences all the same.”

Silence fell for a moment. Suddenly, Valjean extended both hands toward him, the gesture simple yet heavy with meaning.

“Arrest me, then.”

He stared at Valjean’s wrists extended towards him with a puzzled look on his face. 

“If you truly believe that, arrest me. You will do your duty, justice will be served. I will return to where I was meant to be. But please, do not let Cosette know more than she needs to. She must not bear that burden.”

“I can't,” Javert mumbled, frowning with something akin to confusion at the hands in front of him.

“Of course you can. I’ll go willingly.”

“I mean- I can’t,” his shoulders dropped. “I can't,” he repeated, as if surprised by his own words.

Valjean blinked in confusion. “Why?”

“Because it would be wrong!” he nearly spat out the last word, raising his voice suddenly. “All of my life, I followed the law, down to every letter, and now it has no answer for me! After everything, how am I supposed to bring into justice a man better than I ever was? What kind of justice is that? Or am I to break every oath I have ever made and hide under the guise of who I was supposed to be, lying every step of the way? Everything brought to ruin by one man- you cannot expect me to live like that!”

The last words echoed startlingly loud in the silence that came after it.

Javert realized that he had been shouting. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then took a deep breath and looked at Valjean.

“You have already changed,” Valjean said softly. “I’ve seen it. The man who saved Marius after the barricades - the man who let me go - he is more than just the laws he serves. He is capable of mercy. Can’t you grant the same to yourself?”

Javert recoiled at these words.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy like before. It was lighter, tentative.

Javert exhaled shakily, wiping a hand over his face. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but there was no venom in the words.

Before Valjean made any sort of answer, he was excused from doing so by the sound of church bells coming from outside. Javert inhaled air sharply, looking at the window. That sound usually woke him up in the morning. He realized that the candle had gone off already - the light coming from the windows illuminated the room enough to make the change unnoticeable to him. It was dawn already.

Valjean, who also turned to look at the window, watched the light with a tint of sadness in his expression. “I must go back before Cosette wakes,” he muttered quietly.

Javert made no reply to that, barely even listening. He felt lost, maybe more so than ever. What was he to do now? He wasn't supposed to see this sunrise. 

It took some time before he processed what Valjean said. “Go, then,” he replied flatly. 

Valjean hesitated, observing him intently. “Walk with me.”

Javert opened his mouth to refuse,  but something stopped him. 

For just a split second, he thought he saw the face of Monsieur Madeleine.

“Fine,” he replied before he could stop himself.

If Valjean was surprised not to be met with protests, he hid it well. Javert averted his eyes.

Chapter Text

Walking the streets was an uncomfortable experience. The first rays of the morning slowly crept between the building walls to reach the cobblestones, dispersing the remains of the night’s mist. The streets slowly began to echo with the sound of footsteps, murmur of voices and the clatter of cart wheels. The silence of the night fit his mind better - the city stirring awake cast its eyes on him and he shuddered under this gaze.

Javert thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. Something in the air made the city seem so unfamiliar to him now. He followed Valjean, unsure of where he was going, not recognizing a single street or building. They walked without exchanging a word.

They stopped in front of some house, which, after a moment, he recognized as their destination. This seemed to be a back door rather than the main entrance, but it was undeniably the Pontmercys residence. Valjean produced a bundle of keys from his coat pocket, and they entered through the back door.

They did not encounter anyone inside, possibly arriving too early for anyone to be awake and moving about. Valjean moved carefully, not making a slightest sound, and without realizing it, Javert followed suit, careful for his footsteps to fall soft against the tiled floors.

They headed upstairs, then down a corridor, the house no less of a maze than the streets of Paris, until they approached a door.

The room was about as grand as the rest of the house, with ornate furniture and wallpapered walls. A writing desk on one side housed some pieces of paper, and the other side was blocked off by a delicately painted screen, presumably covering the sleeping area. The room looked freshly cleaned, with no personal possessions or other objects to speak of its occupancy.

Valjean hurried toward the desk, snatching a piece of paper from it and tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat with a sigh. He then put the suitcase he carried on the desk, fiddling with the lock.

Unsure of what to do, Javert seated himself on the chair by the door, crossing his arms. He briefly shut his eyes.

When he opened them, the room was flooded by bright sunlight, and empty.

He leapt up, confused and alarmed.

Had he fallen asleep? For how long? He looked around - the sun that stung his eyes indicated it had been at least an hour or two, and he was usually long awake at this time.  Valjean was gone, but he could hear faint footsteps and sounds of conversation coming from the house. 

He stood frozen in the middle of the room, fish out of water. What now? How can he get out of here?

He whipped around hearing a rustle, and a soft gasp - only to see a flash of a dress disappearing in the crack of the door. He groaned silently. So much for leaving unnoticed.

He waited, listening to the footsteps grow further, someone’s voice, then another set of footsteps approaching with haste. He guessed who this was by the sound before the door slowly creaked open.

“Madame Pontmercy,” he inclined his head in a greeting. Should he explain his presence here? What did Valjean tell the others? Unsure, he elected to say nothing.

“Good morning, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” she replied, her face unusually serious. “I must speak to you.” She shut the door behind her.

With the click of the lock, Javert was hit by a deep unease. He had to remind himself that the person before him was only a girl, barely out of childhood. Something about her demeanor unsettled him.

“Monsieur… What business do you have with my father?” she asked carefully.

“None,” Javert replied quickly, without any hesitation. “Not anymore.”

“And yet you are here,” she noticed, then quickly continued seeing him open his mouth to reply: “I do not ask for explanations. That is not why I came to you.”

“What is it about, then?” Javert asked, sharper than he intended.

“I… worry about father,” she admitted. “I know he hides things from me. He always did, but this is different. With everything that happened… I don’t know what to do.” She bit her lip, pausing.

Javert shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond to that. It seemed to him that this matter should not concern him.

“You know things that I don’t. Neither of you will tell me - fine, then. But I cannot guess where the problem lies. I do not know how to help.”

“This is not a matter you should take up with me-” Javert tried to interrupt.

“I know, but there is nobody else I can take it up with! I already stood by and did nothing, and it nearly brought him to his grave-” her voice faltered. “I will not do so again. Monsieur, please!” She reached out and grabbed his hand with both of hers.

“What are you even asking of me?” Javert took half a step back, bewildered.

“You must watch over him. That, or tell me everything so that I can do so properly.” She paused, then steeled herself. “This is not a request, monsieur. I will see it happen,” she said, locking Javert down with a gaze filled with utmost determination.

Only a beat later a voice echoed from down the hall, calling her name, coupled with approaching footsteps. She turned to the door, letting go of Javert’s hand. 

The door came ajar and Valjean’s white head appeared in the doorframe.

“Ah, Javert. You’re awake,” he said, with some apparent relief in his voice, as he entered the room. “Cosette, were you not headed downstairs? Olympie is waiting with breakfast.”

Cosette smiled brightly, any trace of her previous emotions gone from her face without as much as a trace. “I just stopped to greet our guest. Well, I’ll leave you to it!” With a brief curtsy, she left the room just as suddenly as she appeared in it.

Javert, still deeply shaken by her words, attempted to collect himself as he now faced another opponent. “Well, I will be on my way…”

“Will you join us for breakfast?” Valjean interrupted him. 

Javert's eyes narrowed. “I am expected at my workplace.”

“You cannot possibly perform your duties in such a state.”

A mixture of rising irritation and the brief clarity of mind after the moment of rest enabled Javert's mind to finally form some full sentences. “I am not some wounded animal for you to fuss over, and I take offense to being treated as such. I am of sound mind, I assure you.”

“Just last night you were ready to toss yourself into the river.”

“And why would you stop me? I am the only person who knows of your past. It would only benefit you if I disappeared permanently.”

Valjean looked at him strangely. “I fail to see how you can discuss such grim matters so lightly.”

“You seem to think that I am driven by some misguided emotions. I am not. My decisions are perfectly logical.”

“Javert, you speak nonsense. You will join us for breakfast, we will be civil, and you will reconsider afterwards. Come on now.”

Gesturing for Javert to follow, Valjean quietly slid out of the room. Though displeased, Javert followed without further protests.

He was led to a room he was already familiar with from his previous visit there, one with rose-patterned powder pink wallpaper and an oval mahogany table in the middle. It was already set up for breakfast - for four people, Javert noticed with a sigh. 

Valjean approached the furthest chair, with its back against a window, then gestured for Javert to take the one next to him. Reluctantly, he obliged.

Javert opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as he heard the creaking of the door as it opened slowly. Cosette entered the room together with an old man - visibly much older than even Valjean.

Nearly dragging Cosette forward while still leaning on her arm for support, the old man rushed towards Javert with his face beaming. “Monsieur Javert, I presume!” he held out his hand vigorously. “We had no chance to get introduced the last time you visited here - shame as it is! My name is Gillenormand, and it is my foolish grandson whom you have enlightened about some important matters lately, that I must thank you for!”

Javert shook his hand hesitantly with a greeting, taken aback by the flood of words. Cosette smiled apologetically.

“We really are living on a stroke of luck, aren’t we?” the old man laughed. “First he was saved from that irrational revolt by monsieur Fauchelevent,” he gestured at Valjean, who shifted uncomfortably, “then you came and rescued him! Ha, it is a mystery how anyone here is still alive! Speaking of that, where is that idiot boy of mine?”

“He left early for the court,” Cosette shook her head. “But let's sit down, shall we?” she added quickly, using the brief pause in Gillenormand’s rant.

The old man’s constant chatter did not cease when they sat down, nor when Nicolette brought in the platters. He complained about Marius, expressed his gratitude to Javert a few more times, commented on the politics, and started telling stories varied between ones from his youth and ones about the current residents of his house, each one seeming to stray further from reality, and to get more stained by his own opinions on the state of matters.

At some point, Javert stopped paying any attention to him, absently mixing the contents of his teacup with a spoon. He realized that he had not eaten anything for over two days now - to be fair,  he had not planned on being alive for that long, so he did not bother with eating - but rather than being hungry, he felt nauseous. He forced a few bites of the bread, if only not to just sit there and stare at it.

In a way he was grateful for Gillenormand rambling. It was better than the awkward silence and much preferred over Cosette’s strange requests or questions about the past. The meaningless chatter spared him from uncomfortable conversations - for some time, at least. 

He tuned out until he decided that enough time had passed. “I shall head out now,” he announced, pushing his chair back from the table. “I am expected at the office.”

“Then I shall accompany you there,” Valjean replied without a moment of hesitation.

Javert raised an eyebrow. “To the police station?”

“Yes.”

“No need to.”

“I insist.”

“Papa…” Cosette hesitated, casting a quick glance at Gillenormand. “I'm not sure if you should be going for such long walks already.”

“Exactly,” Javert agreed.

“And I think our police force can manage for a day or so without our dear inspector,” she crossed her arms with a smile. “You should stay some time longer, monsieur.”

“Oh, please,” Javert scoffed, bewildered, before regaining his composure. “Now, I beg your pardon,  but I must make haste,” he said, directing himself towards the door.

“Ah, a man's duty, what could be more important!” Gillenormand remarked.

It took all of Javert’s self restraint not to have his disdain towards that man painted on his face.

“Yes,” he drawled. “Farewell.”

He left the room, followed closely by Valjean. 

Javert pointedly ignored meaningful looks from Cosette as he buttoned up his coat. He bid his goodbyes and left without waiting for Valjean, but still he could hear his footsteps right behind his back.

It felt like some cruel irony, to be followed by and unable to be rid of the very man that he had hunted through the years, on the very streets they now walked. 

As soon as they left Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire, he turned on his heel and faced Valjean. “This is ridiculous. What you are doing is both unnecessary and dangerous. Do you intend to show up at the police station and hope it doesn't raise any questions?”

“I can wait outside. Or you could simply refrain from going there. You are clearly in no state to work.”

“Then I should notify my superiors of that.”

“Send a letter, then.”

“I would much prefer to speak to them in person.”

Valjean sighed. “Fine, then. Let us go there.”

Javert paused for a moment, contemplating arguing the matter further, but decided against it. He turned around and continued on his way, while Valjean joined him at his side.

They did not speak any more until the sight of the station stopped Javert in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder at Valjean, who betrayed no sign of unease.

“I will wait here,” Valjean declared. 

Javert cast him a brief glance. “Fine, then,” he replied and entered the building.

Jean Valjean waited still at the side of the street, just barely out of the view from the police station. How strange it all is, he thought to himself. 

So much of what he believed to be unchangeable had been uprooted in a matter of days. He could not tell how much time he spent in a half lucid state, alone and resigned to his fate, before Cosette burst back into his life, as bright and as sudden as a ray of sun breaking through the layers of clouds. For some time, he thought he was seeing an angel.

Then a mortifying realization shook him. She knew - far more than he told her, far more than she was ever supposed to know about him.

He had to turn his face away from the light. How could he face her now, when she knew so much, when she could glimpse the dark corners of his soul that he hid with deliberate care, careful not to hurt her, not to scare her away.

And yet, she did not come with disdain nor fear. She took his face in her small hands and gently kissed his forehead, and she threw her hands around him and embraced him. How wonderful, how unreal!

He could hardly grasp what was happening around him. He was taken from the empty house to one that he had once been visiting, given a room inside of it where he could hear Cosette’s gentle voice every day. He was not shunned, even her husband spoke to him kindly. He slowly recovered.

It took days for the old dread to settle in his heart. How much did they know? How did they learn it? They must not have understood most of it, or they would not treat him the way they did. He voiced none of these questions, not finding the strength to push Cosette away from his life once more. A deeply selfish desire, one that weighed heavily over his chest each time he saw her bright smile.

With each passing day, questions and doubts clouded his mind further. Who else knew about his past? Did they even realize the danger it posed, if it was revealed to the world? How could he, only for his own happiness, endanger them so, to share a house with them? The day his identity comes to light, the day the punishment he ran from reaches him at last, would be the day he drags Cosette down with him.

Then, before he could prevent it, that day came. He felt the gates of hell open beneath his feet and saw the hellhound that came to drag him down there, standing right in the drawing room. He felt Cosette's fingers grip his arms, and he knew that he had doomed her as well.

Then the hellhound spoke sharply, but with the words he could never have foreseen. And nothing happened. He was still free to live on as he did. It was more than he could comprehend.

Some of his questions have been answered that day, though he could hardly believe the answers he was given. Javert, of all people, let him go free, he had brought Cosette to him… it was bizarre. He looked at that man in front of him and failed to connect him with the image of the man he knew. It made no sense, it had to be some sort of a trick.

He no longer thought that, he realized now. After everything he had seen and heard, he had no doubt that Javert's change of heart was genuine. That terrifying man had morphed into something softer, something more approachable, in ways that stirred some old memories and made him yearn to reach out his hand. He could no longer fear him.

Instead, he feared for him. Javert's inner turmoil, which seemed as familiar as a mirror held to the face, removed the ground from underneath his feet and sent him falling.

Valjean hoped that he would land safely.

Some slight movement in the entryway of the station blinked him back to reality. How long had he been waiting? What took so long? A twinge of worry passed through his mind. Was Javert still in there?

Valjean hesitated for a moment. He could go back, forget everything. Instead, he headed inside. 

Chapter Text

The police station felt foreign. Javert straightened his back, feeling watched, though his arrival did not turn any heads.

Not stopping to talk to anyone, he locked himself in the safety of his own cramped office. What for - he had hardly any idea. He had no plan in coming here. Was he to resign here and now? He dreaded it. There were reasons his resignation was an unsent letter rather than an in-person conversation. How was he to explain himself?

He glanced around the office, mechanically seeking anything that might help him. His eyes fell on the desk drawer, unopened for some time.

He did not have to change any of the decisions he already made, he realized. Nothing simpler than to follow through.

He nearly pounced on the drawer and opened it, revealing an ornamental wooden box, a finer thing than anything else he owned. He opened it to reveal the contents, untouched since the day he obtained them - two ornamental pistols, resembling a decoration more than a weapon, small and delicate, yet perfectly functional. A gift from Marius Pontmercy, meant to replace the lost ones.

From another drawer, he fished out some gunpowder and bullets. With trembling hands, he loaded each pistol before carefully placing one in each of his coat pockets.

Not thinking about anything anymore, he left the office without locking the door behind him. Reassuming his usual stance, he knocked at the door labeled Le Préfet. In as few words as possible, he requested leave without giving a reason for it. The Prefect only cast a singular glance at him before agreeing.

The door behind him locked with a soft click just as he froze in place. He heard something - a murmur of voice from downstairs, and his own name being said.

He cursed under his breath as he nearly ran down the stairs.

Just as he thought, Jean Valjean was standing in the lobby, perfectly calm, talking to the officer behind the counter.

He turned to him as he descended down the stairs. “Jav-”

“I’m done. We can go,” Javert drawled, grabbing him by his shoulder and pushing him toward the door. 

He was met with no resistance. He forced Valjean outside, and, without a word, into the nearest deserted alleyway, out of the view of any passerby.

He grabbed the lapel of his coat and loomed over him, faces close together. “What on earth do you think you are doing?!” he hissed, barely restraining himself not to raise his voice to draw attention.

Valjean looked at him with some surprise. “You were taking strangely long. I came in to check-”

“Do you have any idea of the danger you put yourself into?!”

“Huh?”

“What if anyone recognized you, or simply decided to check your registers too closely- what then?! What were you thinking?!”

Valjean's face expressed immense confusion. He expected the anger, but not the reason for it. He remained silent for a moment, unable to respond. 

“Nobody should recognise me. You said so yourself,” he explained carefully. 

“It doesn't make walking into the lion's den any wiser,” Javert growled in response.

Valjean did not let himself falter, instead fixing Javert with a steady gaze. “You left me with no choice,” he said, and in a single swift movement reached into the pocket of Javert’s coat, retrieving the small pistol. “Why did you take this?”

Javert jumped back as if burned, struck by a sudden rush of something - shame? He felt like a child caught with a box of matches. 

It unnerved him how Valjean seemed to effortlessly see through him, to predict his every movement. He found himself unable to respond.

With a soft sigh, Valjean dropped the pistol in his own pocket. He reached out and put both of his hands over Javert’s palm, holding it with a gentle but firm grip. Javert flinched at the sudden touch. 

“I understand what drives you, really. But this isn't right. Every change, every thought that forces your hand so far can be good if you accept it. Can't you see that? A new path in front of you, and you would cast it away?”

Everything inside Javert urged him to back off, to turn away and leave, to find himself some dark corner to disappear in. And yet the warmth of the gentle hands on his own drew him the way sunlight draws a seed resting in the soil, barely sprouted, with no choice but to align its entire being with what little light reached it. He could not force himself to draw back his hand and abandon the burning sensation.

“I'm only asking you to give yourself more time. Can you do that?”

He felt like at this moment he would agree to everything this man asked of him. It was clouding his mind and his vision.

Or perhaps out was a trick of his own imagination - just exhaustion getting to him.

In a decisive, sharp movement, he drew back his hand and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. Inside of it, his fingers met the cold smooth metal of the other pistol.

“You of all people should understand. The things that I have done are not to be forgiven. They are not a weight I can carry.”

Valjean looked at him intently. “For what is my place to…” he started, “I forgive all of it.”

Javert’s breath caught. He stared back in bewilderment. “You cannot do that.”

“I can, and I do. You have already made any amends I could ask for.”

Javert had no answer to that. What amends? He did no such thing. Still, the enormity of what was said struck him deeply. 

“Please, let us stop this chase. We are both tired enough already. Give it some time, a week even. May I ask that of you?”

Javert hesitated. Who was he to deny this man anything? He was nothing faced with such great kindness. He had harmed him in every way, and still he owed him his life. It should just as well be his to command.

“Yes,” he finally managed, a little out of breath. 

Valjean’s face lit up, the crinkles of his skin framing his eyes in an expression much softer than any that could be directed towards a person such as Javert.

“I'm glad,” Valjean said simply.

They walked in the direction of Javert's apartment. On the way, Valjean kept his hand resting on the nook of Javert's elbow - a simple proximity that left Javert momentarily struggling to steady his breath. 

It was not until they were nearing their destination that Valjean stopped, taken by some sudden worry.

“Do you wish to stay at Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire for the time being? There are plenty of guest rooms, and I'm certain-”

“There is no need. I have my own apartment,” Javert paused. Seeing Valjean's doubt written on his face, he added: “It is fine. I swore I would not do anything.”

“It might be easier with some company, though.”

“I have no need for company.”

“Ah,” Valjean only sighed, with a touch of something like disappointment in his voice. He remained silent for a moment as they resumed walking. “Well, I suppose I will also be moving out of there soon enough.”

The way he said that stopped Javert in his tracks. He heard the same tone from men sentenced to death. “Why? Should you not live with your daughter?”

“Cosette has her own life now. It is not right for a girl to waste her youth tending to an old man.”

“As far as I know, it's not customary for children to entirely forget their parents after they marry. I fail to see why you seem to think this should be the case.”

“We are not related in any way,” Valjean sighed. “I merely took care of her for some years. To anyone concerned, we are strangers.”

“If you do not consider her to be family, you might want to inform her of the fact,” Javert stated dryly. “She is not aware of it.”

He heard the footsteps beside him come to a halt, and turned on his heel to face Valjean. The hurt expression in his eyes nearly made him take his words back. 

“She is everything I've got,” Valjean said slowly. 

“Then I fail to see the problem,” Javert replied, just barely keeping his composure.

“The problem is me. As long as I'm near her, my presence threatens her very future. Say, my identity comes to light, and I have to face arrest - that is fine-”

“It is not,” Javert drawled.

“...as long as it's Jean Valjean who faces his fate, and not Ultime Fauchelevent. As Valjean, I'm a stranger to her. But the disgrace of Fauchelevent, a man with whom she shares one roof, would always bring shame on her name as well. That is the one thing I fear - to drag her into the depths with me.”

“Neither of these is going to happen! There is no use in wondering about that!” Javert shuddered, more affected by the thought than he would like to admit. 

“Even if it's just the faintest shadow, why would I place it upon her? I cannot put her in danger only for my own happiness,” Valjean shook his head. 

“No!” Javert barked, the last of his nerves snapping. Fervently, he grabbed Valjean's wrist, forcing the man's attention to him. “You will cease this right now! I did not toss away all of my life so that you can muse about maybes and what-ifs! You will go back there, you will keep in contact with that girl, and, for heaven's sake, you will remain a free man! Not a soul in this city has even an inkling about who you are! As long as I live, I intend to keep it that way!”

Silence fell, Valjean too stunned to make an answer, and Javert too surprised by his own outburst to add anything. He had not expected to nearly scream it out, but he meant every word - he had no doubt about it.

“I am going to rest,” Javert said finally. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Valjean repeated, still stumped.

Javert decided it was the proper moment to leave.

He barely managed to toe off his boots before collapsing into bed, still in his coat. Consciousness left him nearly immediately and he slept deeply. For the first time in months he had no dreams of rushing water. 

When something stirred him awake, it was dark.

He found himself in a strangely lucid state of mind. Sitting up and looking around, he recognized his barren room in the faint light coming from the moon and stars outside. 

Finding that light sufficient, he got up and walked up to the water basin on the opposite side of the room. With great care, he washed his face, then reached for a razor and, led more by touch than by sight, shaved the stubble off his face and neck. With the same careful movements, he brushed his hair and tied it nearly at the back of his head, then changed into clean clothes. 

Feeling more like himself, he noticed the undelivered letters he wrote, still laying in wait on his desk. He grabbed them, folding the paper neatly with trembling hands, and stored them safely in the pocket. He put on his boots and coat and left with no further hesitation.

Silent streets and black windows passed him by as he marched forward with certainty, arms folded on his chest. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the sleeping buildings, filling his ears with thumping that matched his heartbeat.

He heard the river before he could see it, the static sound drowning out everything else, filling his ears and his head. He did not falter even for a moment until he found himself on the bridge - the same one he had visited countless times, the one that haunted his thoughts for months. 

He stopped abruptly in the middle of it, and approached the parapet slowly as one might approach a sleeping beast. His hands rested on the cold stone as he took a deep breath of the humid air. Below, the water rushed and beat on the shore, forming whirlpools and mounds of foam, roaring and hissing, more alive than anything else in the dormant city.

He stood motionless, observing the familiar spectacle, his world full of nothing but the swirling water. This time, nobody was around to question or interrupt him. Only him and the Seine.

Time passed - minutes or hours, he could hardly tell. His hand found its way into the coat pocket and to the cold steel resting inside it. He took out the pistol; it glinted in the faint starlight just as the water below did.

He observed it for a moment. Then, he drew his arm back, and in one swift motion tossed the weapon forward, into the mouth of the dark, roaring river. It landed in the water with a stark sound of a splash, then immediately disappeared below the waves.

He reached back into his pockets to find the letters. Without opening them, he tore them in half, then into small pieces. He tossed the scraps over the ledge, letting them float down into the water, only to be snatched by the currents and carried under.

He lifted his head up. He was met with a faint pink glow that already began to hide the stars. It was already dawning, he realized. 

He leaned forward on the parapet and observed the sky.

Was all of this some sort of trial, a duty he had to perform before he was allowed to rest? It felt like the universe itself all but plucked him out of his grave to set him face to face with one he wronged and tell him: look at the damage your hands have done! It will not be washed away! It has not been amended! Will you turn away? Will you admit your misdeeds without taming any of their consequences?

What did it matter if he decided to let that man go free? It was a thought of one cog as the machine marched on. Valjean was right in that matter - he was not, in any way, safe.

Javert was at fault for setting this in motion, for building a trail that could now lead anyone to that man, a trail that would not cease to exist with him. He was not certain if he could do anything to remedy that, with hardly any idea where to start. But he owed that to Valjean to at least try. He could do that - the hunting dog turned to guarding. If he might be of any help, he could not refuse. He had caused far too much damage - to Valjean, to countless others - to ever hope to mend it, but he owed it to dedicate what remained of his life to trying. 

He stayed motionless, in some semblance of peace that a decision made brings, as the city around him slowly came to life. He had not stirred until he heard his own name called - it made him pull away from the parapet, looking around for the person calling.

“Javert!” Valjean repeated, rushing toward the center of the bridge. He looked pale, Javert realized, and rather worried.

“What are you doing here? You were not home and I-” he paused, “I thought the worst.”

“I told you I would not be doing anything,” Javert replied with some confusion.

Valjean looked at him with wide eyes, speechless. He stood there for a moment, unsure of how to respond. It took some time before he calmed himself and breathed out. “Right. You did. My apologies,” he hesitated, then added: “Will you come for breakfast?”

Javert tilted his head at this question, but after a moment nodded in agreement.

Chapter Text

Reality was stranger than anything he could have dreamt up - Valjean thought as they headed on their way back. Days ago, the thought of walking by the side of that particular man might have been absurd. Now, meeting him here, he was more at ease than he ever expected to be.

Each time he considered the situation, he found it improbable, yet he had not a sliver of doubt about Javert's intentions. It seemed that this strange man applied the same unwavering intensity to anything he set himself to accomplish. His aim has shifted, but he still intended to push forward with the full force of a tidal wave, never stopped or stalled by anything. 

As for his aim - he had declared it, plain and simple, yet Valjean could not wrap his mind around the weight of it. To see that attention focused on himself was strange. Yet, if that was how he could keep Javert from the path of self destruction, he would willingly accept it. 

He had thought he knew the man well enough. Despite that, he constantly found himself astonished.

He was drawn by the change he saw and which seemed to still be happening. Javert was painstakingly forging his old life into parts of some new identity, so familiar and yet as distinct as it could be. He knew that path well, every pang of pain the changes brought was intimately familiar to him, and he could not look upon this struggle without the sympathy it entailed. 

Even more strangely, he found himself harbouring some fondness for the man emerging from it. Javert's intense dedication, stripped of the cruelty his severed loyalties entailed, fascinated him.

Valjean was glad for the brief and unexpected companionship brought upon him. Javert knew everything there was to know about his past, in detail. For the first time, Valjean found himself with no secrets to guard or lies to upkeep. The experience was nothing short of intoxicating. He found himself voicing thoughts he always guarded, nothing keeping them at bay. After all, what could this man judge him for? He already knew the worst of it, and somehow he still called him good.

This is wrong - a sharp thought stopped him in his tracks, making him catch his breath as if it had been knocked out of him. He had no right to be selfishly using Javert like this, even more so in the fragile state he was in. To burden him with the companionship he clearly had no wish for, or with his own problems.

He sneaked a glance at the man walking beside him, stone faced with his brow furrowed. How was he so unaffected in this way? How did his heart not try to claw its way out of his chest at the faintest promise of understanding, as Valjean’s did? He wished he could bear his own solitude with such grace, rather than feeling it burn in the pit of his chest. 

He turned his eyes downward, shutting the thought down and continuing to walk in silence.

Cosette welcomed them with a smile and no questions, no hint of surprise. Javert could only guess what Valjean had told her; for all her naivety, this girl was surprisingly good at hiding her thoughts under meaningless pleasantries and politeness - no wonder where she got that from.

This was all becoming strangely familiar, Javert thought as he was once more ushered into the house. How many times has he found himself here already? Far more than he had been in anybody's house throughout the course of his life, he supposed. 

It was worth some relief that he realized that the old Gillenormand will not be joining them this time. He was not accustomed to breakfasting at this hour, Cosette explained, with a shadow of a strained smile.

They were, however, graced by the presence of his grandson. Marius Pontmercy stumbled down the stairs and stopped before them. Javert did not fail to notice that the boy hesitated before offering his hand, his gaze fixed on Javert with some sort of unease.

Soon enough, all four were seated in the same room Javert had visited just a day before, though this time there was no such unbearable tension in the air. Awkwardness, sure, but at least he could breathe. 

The only one of them not affected by the discomfort seemed to be Cosette. 

“I was thinking,” she broke the silence, bright as ever, “the weather has been so lovely lately… I think it's warm enough now to plant some strawberries in the garden! We talked about making a fruit bed in the garden here, like we did at Rue Plumet, remember, papa? Can we start it today?”

Javert observed Cosette intently. The way she spoke, joined with her unwavering cheerful expression, set off his old instincts. It struck him as not quite natural - a bit forced,  too fluid in a particular way, as if she had rehearsed it.

“If you wish to,” Valjean replied, a bit hesitant.

“Then it's decided! We should get some saplings at the market. Marius, Monsieur Javert, will you be joining us?” she asked with anticipation.

“Of course, dear,” Marius returned her smile while wringing his hands.

“I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about plants,” Javert replied.

“That's not a problem,” Valjean interjected. 

“Right! There's not that much to know, really,” Cosette chimed in.

Javert narrowed his eyes. The girl's attitude raised his doubts, but Valjean seemed perfectly genuine - though he could not tell why he would be happy to drag him along on a gardening excursion.

“Very well. I will go.”

Javert had little love for markets - crowded, rowdy places with more pickpockets than merit. He was surprised to realize that what Cosette said to him before about her love of these places had been proven true - she was nearly vibrating with excitement. They could have chosen to go to a plant nursery instead, or send someone for the saplings, but no - all four of them, Cosette and Valjean armed with wicker baskets, arrived at Marché des Enfants Rouges.

Nearly immediately, Cosette excitedly pulled Marius towards some stall and disappeared in the crowd. Not to get entirely lost, Javert minded to stay close to Valjean, who pulled his hat lower over his eyes.

The stalls were littered by saplings of various shapes and sizes, with roots wrapped in paper or rags. To a trained eye, there might have been an incredible variety among them, but Javert couldn't do much more than differentiate between a bush and a tree.

“Oh, now that is one I haven't seen in some years…” Valjean remarked as he stopped in front of one of the stalls.

“What is it?” Javert followed his eyes to what looked like a crate of twigs, with some barely budding leaves on one side and tangled roots on the other.

“These are medlar trees. They give fruits that you eat during winter, after they have frozen and thawed. It makes them look rotten but taste sweet,” he smiled with some fondness. “My family had one of these trees in my youth.”

“You should get one of these, then.”

“No, no, Cosette would probably not enjoy these. They don't look too attractive. Besides, a tree would take up too much space in the garden.”

Javert narrowed his eyes. “What does it matter? There's plenty of space. You like the fruit. Get the tree.”

“There is no need to…”

Javert rolled his eyes. “Just get that damned tree!”

“But…”

“Oh, did you pick something?” Cosette popped out of the crowd, basket filled with what could be assumed to be strawberry saplings tied in bunches.

“Yes,” Javert replied quickly. “We're getting the medlar tree.”

“I don't know that name, what kind of tree is this?”

Valjean had little choice but to explain and forfeit. Soon, they returned back home, the singular tree sapling proudly sitting among the tiny berry plants.

The day was turning out to indeed be a warm one, the sun already high in the sky, filling the garden with warm light, stirring the smell of damp soil. Soon enough they had all the tools ready. The plot of land in the garden, fenced off with neatly painted wooden boards, was already prepared, covered with loose soil.

Javert, with little idea on what to do with himself, observed the others. 

Valjean took note of his discomfort. “There is not much to it, really. You just dig a hole, put the plant in it and cover the roots with soil. That is all.”

Javert considered the spade in his hand and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to save them from the dirt.

Looking up, he noticed Marius paused, watching him intently. When their eyes met, Marius startled, face turning red, and quickly excused himself to go back inside.

The men, armed with spades, took to planting the saplings, while Cosette skipped around with a watering can, thoroughly soaking each one, and removing any dead leaves.

The work turned out to be much simpler than Javert expected. Dig a hole, put the plant in, cover with soil - then move on to the next one. To his own surprise, he found some comfort in that - the repetition, the silence they worked in, the sunlight on his back. It was not all that bad.

“What about the tree?” he asked when they got close to finishing. 

“We need to pick a good spot for it,” Cosette declared. She moved a few steps, outside of the strawberry plot. “How about here?”

“That would be no good,” Valjean noticed. It would cast its shadow over the strawberries right around noon, and they need direct sunlight.”

 “Move a bit north, then,” Javert said, pointing his finger. Cosette skipped a few steps in that direction. “Here? It will cover nothing.”

Valjean considered the placement for a moment. “I suppose it should be fine.”

He grabbed a shovel and went to the agreed spot as Javert and Cosette continued planting the strawberries. They finished soon enough, and Cosette disappeared inside the house to check on Marius.

Javert stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground, watching Valjean with the shovel. 

“That should be enough. Can you please bring the tree here?”

He complied, and carried the plant there. Not sure where to put it, he lowered it into the hole, the same way he did strawberry seedlings.

Valjean nodded, then got down and started pushing the soil into the hole with his hands. Javert followed suit.

He watched Valjean's hands at work, the loose sleeves of his shirt brushing against the soil.

“You're getting dirt all over…” he said, reaching over and pulling up the fabric of the sleeve. 

His breath caught when it revealed a wrist circled by a wreath of pale pink scars, marking the skin well into the forearm, where the edge of another, much darker scar took over.

Valjean, similarly startled, took a moment to react. He pulled the sleeve back down. “It’s fine,” he muttered.

Javert shuddered, suddenly feeling cold. “My apologies. I should go.”

He got to his feet, and, without as much as shaking the dirt off his trousers, he headed inside the house, leaving Valjean alone in the garden.

With the Pontmercys still nowhere to be found, he retrieved his coat and was gone within seconds.

What was he doing, really? Playing civilities, when he was nothing more than an intruder? He had no business there, and no right to insert himself into their lives.

More than anything, he had caused enough harm to that man. Still, he did not know how to do anything else. He had to stand guard, to be on watch for anything threatening this house - but he had to keep his distance, to stop haunting him, to leave him to his gardens and his strawberries, at peace

Chapter Text

Javert went to bed early and slept later than he ever had in his life. Still, when he finally woke, he had to face the unforgiving reality: he had no idea how to fill his hours without work.

His duties usually consumed the better part of each day, and he often worked long past what was expected. Whatever scraps of time remained were spent on chores; a truly free hour was a rarity.

And now? He had no work to attend, nor could he even bear to think of it. As for chores - he scrubbed his room from corner to corner, fastened every loose button on his spare shirts, tidied and mended whatever his hands could find. Nothing remained. A day with not one task to keep him occupied - the enormity of it made him shudder.

What did those without employment do with their time? He supposed they engaged with some idleness - social outings, playing instruments, perhaps gardening - none of which he had any experience at.

He could read, at least. He never found any pleasure in reading, but it was better than idleness. Upon his shelves stool a small collection of books. He picked one up - a large history tome, with pages yellowed with age.

After a quarter of an hour, he grimaced, assaulted by a litany of dates and names. Half an hour in, he was thoroughly annoyed with how dull it proved. An hour of reading left him feeling as though he were losing his mind, and he set the book aside.

He returned the book to the shelf, and walked over to the window. He pushed the glass panes outside to look down upon the street below.

Two familiar figures immediately drew his attention.

Cosette noticed him in the window, and nudged Valjean to look in that direction.

“Monsieur Javert!” she called, waving. 

Javert abruptly shut the window and turned away. 

His empty room looked back at him.

He considered it for a second, then put on his coat and walked downstairs.

“Good day! We're headed to the Luxembourg Gardens,” Cosette announced as soon as she laid her eyes on him. “Would you care to join us, monsieur?”

He did.

He paid no mind to how they ended up alone without Cosette this time. The girl did as she pleased, for her own reasons, and her excuses were growing tiresome.

He drew a steady breath, bracing himself. “I must apologize for my behaviour yesterday. It was… inappropriate.”

“Ah. There is no need,” Valjean replied quickly, shifting with unease. “I understand that it must have been disturbing.”

“What?”

“I know that much of my past is a heavy subject,” Valjean said, his voice strained. “Let us not dwell on it if you do not wish to.”

It took him a moment to respond. “That is not what I was thinking, at all.”

“Ah?”

“It's not ‘disturbing’, or however you put it. I should not have intruded upon your privacy. I am sorry for that. Frankly, I should not have been there at all. This situation has unfolded in strange ways, but it was not my intention to impose. I realize that my presence there is uncomfortable and unwelcome. As for my part, I will take care to maintain my distance.”

The words could hardly be stopped. Valjean tried to cut in with something, raising his hand slightly; Javert grabbed it, and his fingers rested over the scar on the wrist.

“You speak of your past, but it is mine that is the problem. I cannot undo the harm I did to you, no matter if I regret it. I have no wish to linger and be a reminder of… all that. You have no obligation to spend your time around me, you know that. That girl of yours will eventually understand it as well. And if you really are, for whatever reason, concerned with my wellbeing - I will be fine. I keep my word.”

Valjean remained silent for a long moment, stunned. Realizing what he was doing, Javert abruptly let go of his wrist and took half a step back, measuring a proper distance.

“My apologies,” he said, averting his eyes, though his hand burned as much as his face.

“I…” Valjean started after the silence hung in the air for too long, “I do not find your presence disagreeable. Yesterday was… pleasant. Truly.”

Javert furrowed his brow with confusion. “...why?”

“And today was not Cosette's idea. It was mine.”

“I don't understand you,” Javert admitted.

“Well,” Valjean said slowly, “I think I might understand you more than I ever expected to. Will you join us today?”

“I have hunted you. I put you in prison. I ruined you, back at Montreuil. And before- You might speak of forgiveness, but to go that far-?”

“I believe that people can change, genuinely. That is all…” he paused for a moment. “You need not come if you do not wish.  We may leave it here.”

“I will come.”

The same months that passed almost unnoticed for Javert seemed to span a lifetime for a garden. The backyard at Rue Plumet, left to its own devices, was a far cry from the perfectly manicured grounds of the Gillenormand’s mansion. 

He would scarcely call it a garden. Ivy and vines grew unchecked, swallowing the walls of a shoddy building, while the dried out twigs of once-flowering bushes gave the place a morbid aura. All of it was drowned in a sea of weeds, which seemed to consume every remnant of the care once given to this piece of land.

There are no such things as weeds, Valjean claimed. These are plants, just plants. People labeled them when they escaped control, growing where they were not wanted and thriving against all odds. It was not their fault that they were so full of life.

Javert hardly held such charitable opinions when the nettle leaves stung his hands, leaving red marks and an irritating rash.

The nettles were their first task, having already taken advantage of spring to choke much of the garden.

By the end of the day, most were gathered into baskets. A few corners were spared - some edges, the tight passage behind the shed - the unused spots remained the home for the nettles, at Valjean’s insistence. Javert did not understand much of it.

He still had dirt under his fingernails when they dined on nettle soup. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but it felt like one of the best meals he had in his life. The remaining nettles were hung up to dry, destined for tea.

It took another day before the weeds were brought under control. They were not gone - Valjean seemed as willing to spare the life of a thistle as that of anyone. It was enough, in his mind, that space was granted for other plants to grow; the rest were free to live among them.

Next came the tilling and the sowing of seeds - the early ones, hardy enough to survive the chill of the night with what little light the faint spring sun provided. They planted radishes, lettuces and carrots, but also asters and zinnias.

He had assumed that Cosette would be joining them, but instead she only appeared occasionally, leaving the two of them alone for the most part. They worked in silence, broken only on occasion when Valjean spoke briefly of some particular plant, and no more.

When the wind brought storms strong enough to chase them away from the garden, they retreated inside the house.

It looked fairly similar to the apartment at Rue de l’Homme Armé - that is, deserted, almost lifeless. Yet, after rummaging through several shelves, Valjean came up with something to occupy them. 

“I do not know how to play chess,” Javert remarked.

“It’s no matter. We have time,” Valjean replied, already setting the board. “Ah- a piece is missing…”

Javert peeked outside to collect a small, dark pebble from the garden, and set it in place of the missing black knight. 

He then proceeded to lose several rounds, and lose them miserably.

They played until the weather cleared up enough. Stepping outside, Javert caught a slight movement by the fence - something that vanished before he could be certain of it. For some reason he could not name, it made him shudder.

When the sky brightened, Valjean showed him how to identify the dead branches of a fruit tree. The old, dried growth would have to be removed to make space for young twigs. He worked diligently on each of the small trees in the garden - until a rustling sound behind him made him turn. 

“What on- get down from there!”

Valjean, already wedged between the branches of the oldest apple tree - the only one whose topmost branches could not be reached from the ground - turned over his shoulder with a glint of something akin to amusement in his eyes. 

“I know what I'm doing. I was a tree-pruner in my youth.”

“Believe it or not, you are not in your youth anymore!”

The response to this was just a smothered laughter as Valjean moved to the higher branch. Javert realized that he had never heard that man laugh. It was a strange sound, bright and warm, contrasting his usual measured behavior, but suiting him perfectly.

Unable to either convince Valjean to get down or to climb up himself, he hovered around the tree, watching, gathering the branches that dropped down. He had to admit, Valjean's confidence was not unfounded. He moved among the branches as though he belonged there, more at ease than on the pavement itself.

That evening he once again sensed more than saw a presence beyond the gate. To notice it once could be dismissed. Twice was enough to rouse his wariness.

The following day they turned to pruning the smaller plants - work that required no acrobatics. Vines and the raspberry canes were discarded, and the garden slowly started to lose its haunted air. 

Before the week was over, the little plot of land at Rue Plumet had come to life again. It remained a little wild - the plants scattered, overgrown in places, with the nettles and dandelions peeking out of the corners - but it was covered with fresh growth. The fruit trees were heavy with flower buds, and the first shoots were showing their leaves through the dark soil.

And just like that, the work was finished. The garden would need tending, but it was obvious that there hardly was a reason to spend any more afternoons rescuing it.

Valjean suggested they celebrate with a game of chess.

He set out the pieces, and the small pebble that they had been using in place of the missing knight rolled onto the table. At that, Javert reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small object.

“I have a replacement. For the stone.”

“Oh, you found the missing piece?” Valjean mused. “Where was it?”

“No. I, um. Made it.”

“What?” Valjean’s attention snapped to the piece. He picked it up, holding it close to his eyes. It was small and rough, with uneven edges, but unmistakably shaped into a likeness of a horse’s head. It could not compare to the quality of the other pieces, but the care put into it was apparent. “You are serious. You made this?”

Javert shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“How?”

“With… wood? And ink, to stain it.”

“No, I mean…” Valjean turned the piece over in his hand, astonished. “You know how to carve wood?”

“Yes,” he replied, then paused. Seeing Valjean's expression, he added: “I learned it as a child. I had a knife, and plenty of wood to use.”

Valjean rotated the figurine slowly. “It's really good. Were you learning to be a woodworker?”

“No. I was helping in the kitchen. One of the cooks taught me that, with bits of firewood, in spare moments.”

“The kitchen?”

“I worked there, when I was still too young to be a guard.”

At these words, Valjean’s hands froze. It took him a moment to reply. “The prison kitchen.”

“Saint Lazare. I lived there until I was relocated to Toulon.”

Another silence followed. “Since when?”

“Always, I suppose. I was born there. Never left,” he said, moving the last pawn onto the board, eyes fixed on it. “I am ready.”

Valjean's side was still empty. “Could you tell me more about that?” he asked carefully, in a soft voice, as one might address a startled animal.

He did not want to. Memories long kept out of his mind now rose to the surface, tinged in a different light than before. He could not bear to see them this way. “My mother was kept there. That is all.”

“Did she-”

“I do not know what became of her. I have not heard of her since. It is not important.” His voice sounded more rough than he intended, as he pushed the pawns toward him. “Here are your pawns.”

“Right. Right,” he said, arranging the figures on the board. His hands trembled slightly.

They played in silence.

The game dragged on, Javert noticed. He had been defeated far more quickly in the past. Now, Valjean's eyes seemed focused on something beyond the pieces, further away.

“You're distracted,” he remarked, stating the obvious.

“Apologies,” Valjean muttered. He seemed about to say something else, then fell silent, pressing his lips together.

“What is it?” Javert asked with a note of irritation in his voice.

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Valjean said, meeting his eyes. “Prison is no place for a child.”

Javert stopped. He had never thought of his childhood as something to be pitied. He had a roof over his head, a place to sleep, food and work that set him on a path. He was able to break away from his origins. Until recently, he had considered all of this a blessing.

Now, the very mention of that place stirred far more complicated feelings in him. He shuddered.

“It's late. I should go,” he said abruptly, rising from the table.

Valjean started in surprise and rose as well. “Wait- we haven't even finished the game yet…”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” he said, then stopped. The work in the garden was done for now. There was no reason for him to be here tomorrow.

He saw the same thought reflected in Valjean’s expression.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked, reaching over the table to catch his wrist before he could turn away. 

“I will,” Javert replied without hesitation.

The next day Cosette arrived for a garden inspection. She had not been there for some time, Javert realized.

“It's beautiful!” she clasped her hands. “Just as it was before!”

Between admiring the trees and gushing over the sprouts, Javert could swear that she kept casting him peculiar glances.

As soon as Valjean disappeared inside to bring some tea, he was proven right. Cosette turned to him sharply, with the swiftness of a hunting cat, though her eyes remained wide and guileless.

“You are not planning to stop coming here, are you, monsieur l’inspecteur?”

Javert frowned, taken aback. Now that she had spoken it aloud, he realized - he should. The task at hand was finished. Why had he come today at all?

To be fair, his mind has not been working as usual, not for some time.

Cosette seemed to take his hesitation for an answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Papa has been looking better. I think it does him good to have some company besides little old me,” she smiled slightly. “When he's home for too long, he keeps looking at me with these sad, worried eyes. After he comes back from the garden, he stops - for a while, at least. That must be good.”

Javert felt out of place, like he was intruding on something private. “Right.”

“You will keep coming here then?”

So far, he hardly even considered other options. “I suppose so.”

“You will?”

“That is what I said.”

Cosette beamed, clasping her hands together. “Thank you!”

She grabbed a hold of Javert's face and planted a kiss on his cheek, making him flinch abruptly.

Peeking out through the doorway, Valjean caught the scene, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Your daughter decided to assault me,” Javert replied, shaking off the surprise. 

Cosette let out a theatrical gasp of outrage. “I did no such thing! But I might, if you keep speaking like that!”

With a laugh, she skipped over to Valjean. “The zinnias have sprouted already, did you see, papa?”

She lingered for some time after that, perfectly cheery, darting from corner to corner of the garden and loudly announcing any changes she noticed with great importance. 

She ended by noting that several of the currant bushes were still in need of trimming - a task they decided to undertake right after her departure.

“I'm glad to see that you and Cosette get along so well,” Valjean remarked. “Surprised - but glad.”

“I have no business with her. She seems to think otherwise,” Javert replied curtly. After a brief pause, he added: “The relationship you two have is deeply strange, you know that?”

Valjean's smile faded at once. “Yes, I suppose.”

Javert immediately regretted his words. “I did not mean...” he trailed off. “She is a fairly respectable young lady, I suppose. Pity the other one is the very opposite, though.”

“Huh?”

“That boy of hers has never experienced a coherent thought in his life.”

Valjean froze, caught off guard. “He's- I suppose-”

“He is an idiot, Valjean. She married a dimwit. My condolences.”

Valjean made a sound between a coughing and a stifled chuckle.

Javert continued: “You do not know even half of it-” 

He paused, realizing that it was perhaps not the best topic to bring up, with whatever unspoken rules there were between them. Everything that touched on their shared past felt too heavy. He gripped his shears tighter.

“Such as..?”

“No matter. It's not important,” Javert shook his head, and remained silent.

“I suspected he was with the police, at first,” Valjean mused suddenly, breaking the brief silence. “He would watch Cosette and me at the gardens, then follow us home.”

Javert paused, bewildered. “What?” Shaking his head, he added: “Well, no station would hire him if he tried. There are some standards.”

“He is a lawyer.”

“God help his clients.”

Valjean burst with laughter.

Chess became their new pastime. The garden occasionally called for a chore or two, but most of all, it called to be enjoyed. On warm afternoons, they moved the board outside, so that they could play amongst the rose bushes and apple trees.

It put them closer together than gardening did, and prompted conversation to flow. Slowly, they began to talk about the little things - the weather, plants, anything. It came naturally, not born out of the need to break the silence, but of the will to talk about something, however trivial it may be.

It was a sort of peace he was not familiar with, but found himself settling into - much to his own surprise. His days settled into a simple routine: making his way to Rue Plumet in the early afternoon and staying until evening.

Even the time outside the garden seemed connected to it. He got his hands on several botanical books - he was not fond of reading, but the surprise on Valjean’s face whenever he managed to remark on any of the plants made the effort worthwhile. He also resolved on practicing woodworking, the old skill he unearthed to carve the missing chess piece. 

Slowly, against his own nature and decades of habits, he learned to live without his work at the center of his life. More than that - he began to enjoy that.

At the center of all that stood Valjean. Javert learned quickly with his quiet guide, watching those scarred, roughened hands move with unexpected gentleness over the smallest stems. He understood little of this man, least of all why he seemed content with Javert's company. Perhaps it was only mercy spilling over from a heart too full of it - it hardly mattered at this point, he would accept it.

And yet, something tugged at the edges of his mind. At times he felt some strange eyes on himself. Some movement, a shadow disappearing as he opened the gate, a slight rustle where there should be none. The sensation unsettled him. He could not tell whether Valjean noticed it too, and he chose not to ask.

There was nothing to grasp on, nothing solid, but all of his instincts recognized danger in that repeated presence. He kept his guard up. He made sure to accompany Valjean home, to keep an eye on the streets - he could have sworn that someone walked with them, but nothing happened for days, then weeks.

Despite all his efforts, the first person to catch that shadow made human, was Valjean. 

“There is someone at the fence,” he said abruptly, his posture turning tense.

Javert followed his eyes - there he was, a silhouette of a man visible before the bright windows of the house at Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire. If he had followed them, he must have arrived first. His behavior immediately struck him as suspicious; the stranger made little effort to mask the way he observed the house.

Javert’s eyes narrowed. “Let us see who that might be.”

“Javert, no-” Valjean began, but it fell on deaf ears.

Without a second thought, careful not to make a sound, Javert approached the stranger from behind. His hand clamped down on the man's shoulder, holding him fast. “What business have you here?”

The stranger shuddered violently, twisting to look over his shoulder. Javert barely caught his eyes when something else caught his own - a glint of metal, drawn from the man’s pocket-

Within that fraction of a second, a torrent of thoughts passed through his mind. Fool -reckless fool - he had walked straight into it. He would die now, right here, on the street, to a pistol of some common cutpurse. There was still so much to be done, he was not ready-

God, what a pointless, pathetic death. 

He tried to pull back, but it was too late - the crack of the gunshot rang in his ears. A sharp flash of pain struck him as he stumbled back and to the ground. 

In the blur of the moment he saw an arm shoving the stranger away, only a split second too late. Then the stranger took off running. Javert pushed his body forward, bracing on one knee, ready to leap after him-

Suddenly, instead of the man escaping, he was looking at Valjean’s pale face right in front of him. Two hands gripped his shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” Valjean asked urgently, his voice raising.

Javert stared back, somewhat dazed. “He's getting away-!”

“Let him - it doesn't matter! Are you hurt?”

Javert cast one glance over his shoulder, but the stranger was gone. He let out a slow breath.

His hand went to the source of the sharp sensation - his left forearm. Only the forearm. Tugging back his sleeves, he revealed a bleeding groove where the bullet nicked him, tearing through the skin cleanly. “It's only a scratch,” he sighed, not without relief. “It scarcely even reached me.”

Without any warning, he was pulled forward, into warmth. Arms closed around his back, and he could no longer tell which one of them was trembling.

Chapter Text

A doctor was called, despite his insistence that it would not be necessary. This wound was only a shallow scratch, nothing dangerous. It could heal on its own; a roll of bandage would be more than enough.

Neither Valjean nor the young Pontmercys would hear anything of it, deeply shaken by the situation. Their pacing and fidgeting unnerved him to no end.

Finally, the doctor ushered all of them out of the room. The door closed and the fretting whispers were silenced. For the first time since the gunshot rang, Javert managed a deep breath.

He did not understand the way it terrified him - the brief moment, when he faced death. Had he not been willing to die only weeks ago? He had faced the Seine without a shred of fear, without any doubt. He had looked down the barrel of a gun many times before, never flinching as he did today. Now, something was different.

The doctor worked fast and spoke little. In a matter of minutes he was left with the order to remove the stitches in due time, and the necessity to face the inhabitants of the house once more.

He changed into a replacement shirt Marius brought him; his own was beyond saving, the red stain creeping up the sleeve like ivy. He walked back into the drawing room, holding the injured arm up for all to see.

“All is well. The doctor’s visit was unfounded.”

His eyes narrowed as they landed on Valjean in the corner, needle and thread in one hand, the torn sleeve of his coat in the other. Javert opened his mouth to object, then closed it again; the words refused to come.

“I am glad,” Cosette said, though without a hint of her usual brightness. She folded her hands tightly, casting a worried glance toward the window. 

Marius took notice of that. “Perhaps we should notify the police,” he said cautiously. 

From the corner of his eye, Javert noticed that Valjean’s hand froze at these words, though he said nothing. 

“That would be unwise. If that was not some common thief… you don't know what an investigation might reveal,” Javert said, pointedly refusing to look at Valjean.

“That is out of the question,” Cosette agreed.

Marius let the matter drop. “Some of the house staff are already standing guard,” he sighed. “What else can we do?”

“Nothing but wait,” Javert replied. “I will join the people outside.”

“You will do no such thing, Inspector,” Cosette huffed. “You have been shot at - you're wounded!”

Javert looked at her in bewilderment. “What does it matter? It's barely a scratch.”

“She's right,” Valjean spoke with more weight than his quiet voice might suggest. “You should stay here.”

“And the guest room is already prepared,” Cosette added. 

Javert muttered something about being ridiculous under his breath, but surrendered and left it at that, offering no further protest.

Valjean paced in his bedroom well into the night, far too shaken to sit down, let alone sleep. He played the events of this evening over and over in his mind - the sudden flash of metal, the crack of the shot, Javert’s stagger. And the face of the man who shot - he only caught a glimpse of it in the split second when he turned, but that glimpse was enough for recognition to strike. His past had found him once more. He needed to act - something, anything, to ensure that it would no more endanger these dear to him.

For years, “these dear to him” meant Cosette, and Cosette alone. She had been the sole light in his life, the one soul he was prepared to toss away everything for, consequences be damned. Then came Marius, by necessity rather than choice - he had to care for him because Cosette loved him, because he meant a stable, safe future for her. 

Tonight, it came as a shock to him that this small circle now included one more person he wished to protect. He accepted this without question. He did not notice when this strange man had slipped into that place of importance, but now it came to him as naturally as breathing.

As he paced, a plan was slowly forming in his mind.

He left his bedroom abruptly, walked down the hall quietly, careful not to wake anyone, then stopped in front of the one occupied guest room. He knocked.

Javert must have been up as well - he opened the door immediately, still clothed, with an untouched, pristine room behind him.

“Javert. I must speak with you.”

He closed the door behind him, locking them both in the room - which immediately increased his uncertainty. Many thoughts raged in his mind and he had much to say, but no idea how to.

“How are you feeling?” he asked cautiously.

Javert looked back at him strangely. “The same as before. I'm not about to keel over because of a minor scratch.”

“Ah, I mean…”

He could have died. A few inches, a slip of the hand, and he would have been gone. For one terrifying moment, Valjean had thought that it had happened. What went through his head during that second-

“...it was much too close of a call,” he finished. “It shouldn't have happened.”

“Right. I acted without caution. That's on me.”

The fact that the danger was there at all - that was on Valjean.

The way Javert talked about it unsettled him. He barely avoided death, still he seemed irritated more than shaken. This event, and his attitude brought back memories of a night he hoped they could leave in the past - when weeks ago he found him by chance on a bridge parapet.

“The man with the pistol - did you recognize him?”

“No, I did not get a good look,” Javert shook his head. “Did you?”

Valjean hesitated for a moment. “No…” he finally responded.

What he needed to do slowly came together in his mind. But what it would require - it weighed heavy on his heart. But it was the best chance he had at keeping everyone safe. He had to know that Javert would be fine. If he had not been on the riverside that night, if the bullet strayed just a bit to the side-

“Javert, you must promise me - you cannot take your life so lightly. Do not ever threaten yourself like that again. And never return to that bridge.”

Javert's demeanor changed in an instant. His eyes darkened, lips pressed into a thin line, his posture turned rigid. It was like suddenly seeing the ghost of the officer from Montreuil, perfectly composed, perfectly cold.

“So this is what it's all about…” his voice was barely audible.

“Can you promise that?” Valjean insisted.

Javert cast him a look he could not quite understand. For a second he looked nearly hurt - then his features steeled into an expression he used to wear frequently on duty, that of unyielding resolve. “I should head back home,” he announced, already reaching for his coat.

“But- I did not mean…” Valjean suddenly felt a surge of dread cross through his heart. “Wait, please!”

“I will do nothing. But your affinity for taking in strays will not be including me,” Javert drawled.

“Wait!” Valjean jumped up, desperately catching his wrist. “Please stay, I-”

“Have a good night,” Javert added in the same tone, then tugged his wrist free - Valjean let it go in surprise. With a click of the door, he was gone.

In an instant, Valjean was left in an empty room. He stood frozen where he was, breathing heavily. 

After what felt like hours, he returned to his desk and started writing. 

If pressed, Javert would not be able to explain the bitter sense of betrayal he felt. There was nothing wrong with what was said. Was he expecting something else?

Valjean had been keeping him close to make sure he stayed alive. The man had a heart too soft for his own good, after all. He would loathe to see any creature get hurt. That is all there was to it. 

If that shattered some grand perception Javert had allowed himself to hold without admitting to it - well, that was only on him. He was never promised anything else, nor did he ask for it. But the disappointment and anger, though misdirected, was not so easily shaken.

Perhaps he needed this call back to reality, he told himself.

He hardly slept that night.

In the early morning, a letter was delivered to his door. It was not Valjean's handwriting - he suspected Cosette's. The contents beckoned him to come as soon as he could. He elected to ignore it. 

An hour or two later, he received a follow-up in the shape of Marius Pontmercy, in person. 

“Monsieur Javert,” he began, awkwardly hovering in the doorway. “You're here! That's good.”

“I am. What is this all about?”

“Cosette is at the end of her wits. We thought you both might have gone away-”

“What?” Javert stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling his blood run cold. “What do you mean?”

“Monsieur Valjean is gone,” Marius spoke quickly. “His room was empty this morning, he only left behind some letters-”

Gone - the word acted like a spark in his mind. Without dwelling on it even for a second, Javert immediately whisked the boy back into the cab waiting for him outside, to hear the rest of the explanation on the way. Marius spoke chaotically, and there was only one thing that Javert was certain of by the time they arrived - Valjean had vanished without a trace.

Gone- how could he be gone? He tried to keep his thoughts at bay until he knew the details.

The whole house seemed to be in a state of alarm, quick footsteps and whispers echoing through the halls. Without waiting for anyone to receive him, he headed straight to Valjean's room. It was not empty - Cosette sat at the desk, head in hands, over a stack of papers. She jumped up when she noticed him.

“Monsieur Javert!” she smiled faintly, then her face fell back into gloom. “I have been hoping… that you would know something more. It is not so. I can see that.”

Javert's expression only confirmed her conclusion. 

With resignation, she sunk back into the chair. She placed her hand on the pages.

“There is another one, addressed to you.”

“Where is it?”

“I left it as I found it, in the guest room.”

With a nod, he headed out to fetch it. 

The guest room was untouched since last night, save for, of course, the envelope resting on the desk. It was plain, with only the single word “Javert” inked on it, visibly in a hurry. 

He held the envelope as he would hold a dagger pointed at his own heart. It held a single page written in fresh ink.

“Dearest Javert, 

I hope that this letter will not cause you as much trouble as I fear it may, but the dire situation is pushing my hand, and I must ask for your aid.

The day I dreaded has come at last. The man who wounded you the previous evening is known to me - I apologize for deceiving you in that matter. I have reasons to believe that he is aware of my true identity. Judging from his actions, he intends to make use of that knowledge.

I beg of you - Cosette must be saved. She cannot be revealed to be harbouring a man of my past. Nobody must ever know that she, or anyone in this house, were ever aware of anything. They acted with good hearts, let this not be their doom.

Please, reveal my identity to the police before that man does. Tell them that Cosette had reported me as soon as she became aware of the truth, and that at this reveal I made my escape. Let it be known that she is innocent and I, on the run. If it is within your power - please assure that she will be safe and well.

I am truly sorry to ask that of you. I know you despise dishonesty.

As for me, I will put my best efforts into not being found. If the honorable way to resolve this is turning myself in, then I fear I have not enough strength to do it. Now, I can only hope for my name to be forgotten soon. 

I dread that we may never see each other again. Please know that your companionship in the recent months was beyond anything I might have imagined. I hope I would not offend you by calling you my dearest friend. I only wish we had more time. 

Please, I beg of you, remain safe.”

Javert could not tell how much time passed as he stood there, the letter clasped in cold fingers and a dull ache weighing in his chest. The turmoil the message caused in him made it impossible to move, to speak, to think.

Was this what Valjean was trying to say last night? Could he have stopped him, had he stayed? What would have happened? And he stormed out for some petty reason-

What was he to do with all this now?

He folded the letter carefully into his pocket before returning to Cosette. 

“May I see this?” he asked, gesturing at the papers on the desk. 

“Go ahead,” Cosette sighed, gesturing at the pages.

He picked up the one at the top. The ink was faded, they must have been written long before last night. 

Reading the first paragraph, he frowned. He skimmed through the page - and something snapped in him.

“What on… You cannot be serious! I'm not reading his essay on jet bead production!” he shouted, slapping the paper back on the desk, startling Cosette. “This-” he slammed his hand on the letter, “is what he left?! This- this nonsense?!”

His abrupt reaction got a half smile from Cosette. “Among other things…”

He pressed the bridge of his nose with exasperation, letting out a deep breath. “Well-! I have no time nor will to go through the beads for that. I've seen enough beads for a lifetime. Is there any useful information in this?”

“Useful?”

“For tracking him down. I will find him, and he can take his damned bead diaries back!”

His resolve breathed some life back into Cosette. Minutes later, Javert and both the young Pontmercys stood around a map of the region. 

“Do we know anything? Does he have any countryside house?” Javert asked, studying the map.

“No… a few apartments, all in Paris,” Cosette replied. 

“We should check them…” Javert mused, though he was almost certain that Valjean would not choose any of them - not if he did not want them to find him. 

Cosette paled suddenly. “He spoke of moving to England once! What if he…” she gasped.

Their map barely included the coast, much less England. England! How could they ever find him in England? They would need to hurry to catch him before he boards a ship-

“Ah, I- I don't think he would choose England,” Marius spoke up for the first time. 

Javert studied his expression. “Why?”

“He would probably stay somewhere closer. Close enough to get any news from Paris, maybe to visit in secret. I think he would choose to keep an eye on you, Cosette,” he glanced at her, then lowered his eyes back towards the map. “That is what fathers do, I suppose.”

Javert weighed this idea for a while. “You might be right,” he said finally. 

He probably was. If there was one thing he learned about Valjean in the past weeks with no doubt about it, it's that he loved his daughter more than life itself. He would not give up the opportunity to make sure that she remained safe, especially not in a situation such as this. It meant he had to be nearby. 

“That makes it easier. We only need to consider Paris and its immediate surroundings,” he traced his finger over the map, marking an imaginary border of what he would consider to be close enough. “Anything else?”

Silence fell for a moment. 

“No. Not even a general direction. We know nothing,” Cosette said quietly.

“Then we will search in every direction,” Javert replied. 

He tried to display more certainty than he had, but the only image in his mind was Valjean as he found him on the street - weak, frail and barely lucid. He could tell by Cosette's expression that she was remembering a similar sight. How long would a blind search take? Will they find him at all?

“Right. Nothing will come from standing here and wondering. I will ask around, see if I can learn anything. Expect me back by the evening.”

In truth, he had little idea where to even begin. He just needed to collect his thoughts in solitude, without Cosette looking at him as if he was her last hope of salvaging this situation. He had to approach this coldly, like any other case - for now, he could not even get his own hands to stop shaking.

Closing the door behind him, with a deep sigh Javert headed for the gate. He halted abruptly, mid-stride, a prickling sense of something rooting him to the spot. It took him a second to understand the cause. He was being watched.

Right behind the wrought iron gate, clutching the bars with thin, pale fingers, stood a young girl, her wide eyes staring at him with an expression between shock and fear. And most importantly, something about her face stirred a sense of vague familiarity in him.

He frowned, trying to place her. The answer came to him with a jolt just as she spun on her heel and darted away onto the busy street.

Thénardiers’ younger daughter.

Without hesitation, he took off after her.