Written for the prompts falling and mercy of the PB and the "rivals to lovers" square for trope_bingo. The title comes from "The City" by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Thanks go out to ailelie for the hand-holding and beta-reading and awesome suggestions that made this story much better in the long run. Also, for putting up with my flailing as the story went from 2,000 words to a much larger story.

A note on how I use thou versus you in the story: I read Hopgood's translation on Project Gutenberg, where her translation emphasized the use of the informal thou versus the respectful you. (Although since then, you has become the informal, regularly used one and thou has become archaic- don't you love changing semantics?) Since the translation made it a point to mention both Javert shifting from a rude thou to a more polite you when speaking to Valjean, and Cosette being forced to call Valjean you instead of thou, I decided to continue that in the story.

This will have three more chapters. I hope you enjoy!

Javert took off his hat and held it in his hands for a moment. He was not hesitating; even with his thoughts flying apart, even with the stone he now knew as a heart in his breast cracking into pieces, he was not a man to waver overlong once he had made a decision.

He set the hat down carefully upon the edge of the quay. Why leave the hat behind, you might wonder. If you had questioned Javert then, he would have been unable to give you a proper answer, only offer up a vague explanation that getting his hat wet had seemed unconscionable to him. Exceedingly strange are the final thoughts and decisions of a man who has sentenced himself to death!

Javert straightened.

The vapors chilled his face, stung his bare ears as the Seine murmured a soft jeremiad in his ears, a bitter lament which made that already breaking heart splinter further. He touched his chest and wondered briefly at the pain there, like a man shot who cannot quite comprehend the red staining his shirt.

He stepped upon the parapet, bent a little to peer through the mist. There was nothing to be seen. The vapors obscured his vision as though he stood in the midst of clouds, an angel about to plummet to hell instead of a man about to condemn himself to oblivion. He straightened once more, drew in a breath that chilled his lungs.

"Inspector." The voice was quiet but sudden, and a tremor of shock and bewilderment ran through Javert's frame. He had heard no one approach, had thought himself out of sight of any passerby. "Inspector," the voice said again in a queer tone, speaking in a half-chiding, half-coaxing way.

Javert turned and recognized Valjean.

"You," he said, and the word fell from his lips like a stone, colorless and without inflection. He stood frozen like a statue, staring with bewildered eyes at that familiar face, which bore marks of weary strain and a hasty attempt at cleaning the foul muck of the sewers from Valjean's features. After a moment of silence in which Valjean merely watched him, Javert forced himself to speak. "Has exhaustion left you addled? You were meant to remain at No. 7."

Valjean did not smile. In fact, it seemed to Javert that Valjean looked almost reproachful. "Permit me an old man's curiosity, but I believe youwere meant to arrest me. I wished to learn why you hadn't."

Javert stared at him. An emotion was stirring in that broken chest, but this being the familiar feeling of anger, he embraced it. "I do not owe you an explanation," he declared. For the first time since he had quit No. 7, he sounded like himself again, curt and unmovable.

"Perhaps not, but I would be glad of one nonetheless," Valjean said. The gentleness of his words was not meant to hurt, Javert knew, but it did nonetheless. Valjean spread his hands, the gesture beseeching. "Step down from the parapet and we can speak on it."

He wished for Javert to step down and talk of his thoughts of the past few hours, to give voice to all his anguish and uncertainty, to unburden his soul as though Valjean were a priest and Javert his parishioner!

Javert did a strange thing, then. He laughed. The sound was terrible even half-swallowed up by the mist, but Valjean didn't flinch. He regarded Javert steadily, with all the appearance of patiently awaiting an answer.

Javert's lips parted, revealing a grim smile that had no trace of mirth whatsoever. "No," he said. That was all, a flat denial in a tone that declared there would be no further discussion. He turned away from Valjean, back towards the edge of the parapet. If he must have a witness to this terrible act, then so be it. He would not endure another minute longer for the sake of Valjean's curiosity.

Valjean seized his arm, that strong hand clamping tight around Javert's elbow. Was this how a convict felt as the restraints snapped tight upon their wrists? Javert tried to shake Valjean's hand away, but the other man held tight. "Come down," Valjean repeated.

"Unhand me," Javert snarled. Most might have trembled at the fury in Javert's voice, and any other man would certainly have turned tail and fled into the darkness of the street and left Javert to his fate. Valjean remained unmoved. Javert continued thickly, "You have no right."

"No!" Valjean said, and Javert felt a thrill of bitter satisfaction at the first hint of anger in Valjean's voice. "No, Javert, it is you who has no right. I did not save your life at the barricade for you to discard it like a worthless old rag!"

Javert laughed again, unconscious of the fact that he trembled violently in Valjean's grip, that his expression had taken on a bewildered, agonized cast. He could not have known that his look was similar to the one Valjean had worn when fitted with the iron collar those many decades past, that his expression moved something in Valjean's chest.

He only knew he must escape Valjean's grasp, must drive him away with words or fists. He chose words as his first weapon, as was his custom. "Do you think," Javert said slowly, in a tone that perhaps meant to mock but trembled with another emotion entirely, "that once you have saved a life, you must also save that man's soul?"

He could no longer make sense of Valjean's expression, but the grip upon his elbow remained firm. "I know nothing of saving souls," Valjean said. "My soul was bought for God, not saved. But it is my belief that you are better than the fate to which you have consigned yourself."

"You know nothing of me," Javert said flatly. Laughter caught in his throat, strangling him for a moment as his mind reeled at the absurdity of this conversation. "I have hunted you like a hound tracks a fox, have treated you worse than the basest of creatures. What can you know of what I do or do not deserve?"

To his astonishment, Valjean smiled at that, the corners of his weary eyes crinkling as though Javert had made a joke. "You helped me bring the boy home when I asked it of you."

Javert opened his mouth to argue that the boy had been a corpse with merely a few breaths left in his body, that he had done nothing particularly kind, but the warmth of Valjean's smile stilled the words on his tongue.

They stared at each other in silence. They made a strange picture, the man in uniform, his expression hunted, and the man still wearing foul clothes streaked with the foulness of the sewers, his expression almost triumphant.

"Enough," Javert said at last, with the air of one admitting defeat. His shoulders slumped, his straight back bowed. "You have made your point. Release me."

Valjean did not remove his hand, said only, "Come down off the parapet."

Javert moved slowly, feeling all the years of his life suddenly pressing down upon him. He found that it hurt to step away from the edge and ignore the siren call of the river, as though the Seine had caught hold of him and did not wish to release him.

He stepped carefully off the parapet, Valjean's hand still warm and firm upon his elbow.

"Your hat," Valjean said mildly, offering it to him.

Javert did not take it. It seemed as though he had used up all his strength in stepping from the parapet. It was all he could do not to let his legs buckle and to sink to his knees in the street. Perhaps that reflected in his face, for Valjean dropped the hat and caught with his free hand Javert's other elbow, bearing him up.

"Easy," Valjean said, and there was that queer tone again, half-coaxing, like one would soothe an upset beast.

If he had not been so overwhelmed with the idea of having to live out the rest of his days in uncertainty and doubt, Javert might have been insulted. As it happened, it took all that was left of his fragmented pride to keep from lowering his head to Valjean's shoulder and weeping in fury and despair at being forced to live.

To spend another day in this world seemed a very bitter thing, a curse rather than a blessing. How had Valjean endured it, those years on the run, flinching at every shadow in case he, Javert, emerged from them to drag him back to the galleys? How would Javert endure it, this horrible future, having to decide for himself what was good or evil, just or unjust, merciful or cruel?

"Give me your address, and I will take you there."

It took a moment for the words to reach Javert through his haze of despair. He raised his bewildered gaze to Valjean's face and said nothing. He had a room where he slept, but there was nothing there to incite longing in one's chest when one was away from that small, cramped room. He thought of the apartment, of the walls closing in on him just as surely as the river would have devoured him, and shook his head.

Valjean's grip tightened. "Let me take you to No. 7 then."

"Very well," Javert said. He did not bow his head in defeat, but that was only because he doubted he would be able to raise it again if he made the gesture.

He and Valjean stood face to face now, close enough that Javert could see every line on the other man's face, all the marks etched there by years of grief and toil. He wondered which lines he could lay claim to, and which were the fault of the galleys and years on the run. He had the absurd notion to touch Valjean's jaw and ask, but the idea was fleeting, disappearing into the mad whirl of thoughts that was his despondent mind.

Valjean said nothing more, maneuvering them so that he stood between Javert and the parapet, as though he thought Javert might still change his mind and go leaping off the bridge as they walked towards Valjean's apartment.

"You need not be so careful with me. I will not do it," Javert said, hearing a bit of irritation break through the hollowness of his voice. "Did you not say as much that my soul has been bought?"

Valjean's expression tightened, consternation and surprise on his face. "I have not bought your soul, Javert," he said, almost comically alarmed by the notion.

This time it was Javert's turn to look steadily at him. "If you have not, then I may do what I please with it."

Valjean's eyes narrowed. Something flickered across his face, this emotion too fleeting for Javert to decipher. His gaze darted away from a moment towards the sky, as though calling upon heaven for an answer that would not send Javert to the fatal embrace of the Seine. "Very well," he said slowly. His grip tightened again on Javert's arm, then eased a little. "Your soul is bought."

At witnessing his old enemy so disconcerted, Javert felt a bit of his humor return. For yes, Javert did have a sense of humor, although it was often buried so deep in wry remarks that no one was the wiser when he made his jests. "And what have you paid for my soul?" he asked. He made a show of gesturing with empty hands. "I see no Napoleon in my palm."

Valjean's lips twitched in either a smile or a frown, it was impossible to say. "My soul was bought for two candlesticks worth far more than a Napoleon," he said. "I think yours would cost a little more still."

As before, he had probably not meant the remark to sting, but sting it did, burrowing like nettle under Javert's skin. He frowned. "And what do you know of the worth of a soul?" he said. "Your price seems rather high to me."

There was a long pause in which Valjean did not seem to breathe, his expression carved in stone. "The bishop did not think it so," he said after a moment, and his tone was such that Javert knew he had overstepped.

Javert kept silent, the passing fit of humor banished in the wake of Valjean's response. Instead he stepped forward, and Valjean followed. They walked in silence for a time, moving slowly, Valjean's hand never leaving Javert's arm. If Javert felt that they leaned somewhat into each other's grasp, he told himself that they were no longer young men, and the past few days had been wearying beyond endurance.

When they arrived at Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7, the front window was ablaze with light. Beside him, Valjean stiffened. When Javert turned to see what was amiss, Valjean's expression was one of deep alarm.

Valjean whispered something under his breath. It might have been a prayer, having been spoken with such tenderness, if not for the fact that Javert recognized it as a name.

"Cosette." Valjean turned towards Javert, and now some of the hunted look of the convict returned to his features. "Inspector, please, do not tell her-"

"Papa!" A girl flew from the entrance of No. 7, flinging her arms around Valjean's neck and then just as swiftly retreating a step and wrinkling her nose. "Papa, where hast thou been? I was about to wake Toussaint and sound an alarm! And what has happened? Thou smells of-" She stopped abruptly, alarm banishing the youthful blush from her cheeks as her gaze fell upon Javert. "Papa? Has something happened?"

Valjean said nothing, but when Javert met his gaze, Valjean's look was beseeching. Javert comprehended the matter in a flash of startled enlightenment; the girl knew nothing of her "father's" past, and Valjean wished for her to remain innocent.

"Papa?" Cosette repeated, uncertainty making her voice waver.

It would take only the simple sentence to destroy this strange family Valjean had created. I am Inspector Javert, here to escort this criminal you thought your father to jail. The words rose to Javert's throat, caught there. He could not say it. He reached instead for his hat, his hand halfway to his forehead before he remembered it was still back at the quay. He dropped his hand back to his side. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said with a brief bow. "I am Inspector Javert. Your father is...your father is an old acquaintance of mine. We were caught up discussing old times, and I am afraid I have kept him from you. I apologize for any alarm."

"Oh," Cosette said, puzzlement giving way to delight. She offered him a dazzling smile. "You'll pardon me for being surprised, I am sure, Monsieur Inspector! Father speaks so little of his past, I sometimes think he sprang fully formed from the sea like Aphrodite. I am very glad to meet you, monsieur." She laughed, a merry little sound. "Perhaps I can coax a story or two from you. Please, come in!"

Javert, who had been unable to fight the sardonic smile that curved his lips at the girl's innocent remarks, looked to Valjean, who nodded slightly. "Thank you," Javert said and started to follow her inside.

Valjean's hand, still on his arm, made him pause. He looked back. Valjean wore a dazed look, like a man who has just emerged from a nightmare and is uncertain of what has just happened and what is reality. "Thank you, Javert." This was said in a low murmur, Valjean's voice thick with gratitude.

Javert shifted in place, unfamiliar with the emotion tightening his chest but certain he did not care for it. "I am no thief," he retorted softly, his voice twisting strangely on the final word. "I will not steal my soul back by destroying the girl's trust in you."

Valjean's hand dropped away from his arm at that; he blinked slowly, his gaze lingering on Javert in a way that made him suddenly wish for his hat or, at the very least, more space between them. "I see," Valjean said.

"Papa! Inspector!"

They both turned at Cosette's call. "After you," Javert said with an ironic bow. Valjean wore an unreadable expression at that but entered the apartment, apparently trusting Javert to follow.

The girl, chattering a seemingly endless stream of words that Javert only half-listened to, forced Valjean to wash and change. Once she had deemed Valjean presentable, she then plied them both with cheese and a bit of wine. It was only once they had both eaten their full that she leaned forward and favored Javert with a winsome smile and hopeful look. "I wonder if you might tell me a story, Inspector," she said.

"Cosette," Valjean said a little hastily. His hands, which had been resting loosely on his knees, tightened into fists, his knuckles white with strain. Javert found himself watching Valjean as the other man's instinctual alarm was slowly replaced by consternation as Valjean remembered Javert's earlier promise not to harm Cosette's opinion of her guardian. "I am certain the inspector doesn't-"

"Please? I know curiosity is a sin, but I fear I am filled to the brim with it," Cosette exclaimed. She had the air of someone resisting the urge to wiggle with eagerness as she fixed her expectant gaze upon Javert. "Tell me a story of your acquaintance if you would, good inspector."

Javert cleared his throat, discomforted by the intensity of her focus. "I am not a storyteller," he said.

"Oh, neither is Papa."

That expectant gaze didn't waver, and after a moment Javert cleared his throat again. "Very well," he said, and watched from the corner of his eye as Valjean tensed. "I witnessed your father rescue a trapped man from a terrible death beneath a cart."

"What!" The exclamation escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Forgive my interruption, monsieur. I didn't expect a story of Papa being a hero." She turned a fond smile upon Valjean. "Although I am not surprised."

To Javert's astonishment, Valjean colored at Cosette's warm regard. "I am surprised he remembers it," he murmured. "It was a long time ago."

"It was not something I am likely ever to forget," Javert said dryly. He remembered the rattle in the old man's throat, the way the mud had squelched beneath the onlookers' boots as they stood and stared, the perspiration on M. Madeline's face as he emerged from beneath the cart a hero. "Your strength is unforgettable."

Valjean said nothing.

Javert found the silence disquieting, particularly when he noticed Cosette's queer look. She was glancing between him and Valjean, a strange, thoughtful gleam in her eyes. He found himself resisting the urge to rub at his elbow where Valjean had grasped him so determinedly earlier. If he had been standing, he would have clasped his hands behind him; being currently seated, he smoothed down the front of his uniform and kept quiet instead.

"And how did he save the man's life?" Cosette asked when neither man had spoken for a minute.

"The man was caught under the wheels of his cart. If your...father had not intervened, either the mud would have swallowed him or the wheels would have crushed him. I suspect it would have been the latter, but your father lifted the cart off the man long enough for others to leap in and pull him to safety."

Cosette turned to Valjean with shining eyes. She seemed speechless for a few seconds, and when she did speak, at first she could only murmur, "How amazing!" After another moment, apparently no longer overcome by the thought of her guardian as a hero, she added, "I cannot quite picture thee lifting such a heavy cart, Papa, but then, I suppose thou wert much younger then."

"Not that much younger," Valjean said, a strange look on his face. It was, Javert realized when Cosette laughed and bobbed her head in apology, an expression of mock rebuke, a father's tenderness belying the admonishment.

Javert's mind, which had calmed somewhat in the reassuring formality and familiar social cues that came with sitting down to wine and cheese, began to whirl again, cast adrift once more by the devotion Valjean and Cosette obviously felt. They were not related by blood and yet their affection for each other was sincere. Certainly there was more warmth between them than Javert had ever felt for his own mother and father

He stood without realizing he had decided to rise to his feet. After a moment, Valjean and Cosette stood as well. "Are you leaving so soon?" Cosette asked, a trifle anxious. "Perhaps you should stay a while longer. The streets might still be dangerous."

"All the barricades are gone," Javert said, and watched Valjean flinch a little. "I will be as safe as one can be on these streets."

"Then perhaps you will visit again?" Cosette persisted. "We have so few visitors." Then her expression fell. "Oh, but I forgot! We are leaving soon."

Leaving? Javert turned to demand an answer of Valjean, only to find the other man shaking his head in denial. "No, Cosette. I have changed my mind. Thou-we are remaining in Paris."

In the next instant, Cosette had flung her arms around Valjean's neck. Her expression was one of ecstasy, shining so bright with joy that Javert had to look away once more. "Papa!" she exclaimed. "If thou art teasing me, I shall never forgive thee! It is true? We are staying?"

"We are staying," Valjean said.

Cosette buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her exclamation of delight.

Javert wondered at the pain that crossed Valjean's face once Cosette was no longer looking at him, at the tender way the other man cradled Cosette's head, almost as though he wished never to let go of her.

When Cosette lifted her head from Valjean's shoulder, the girl's face was wet with happy tears. "Thou art marvelous, Papa," she said, and then turned a beaming smile upon Javert. "And that means you must come and visit again!"

Javert wished for his hat once more, if only so that he had something to do with his hands. He clasped his hands behind his back, shifted uncomfortably in place. "Perhaps I shall," he said without any particular inflection, not looking towards Valjean. "Have a good-" He realized, belatedly, that he did not know Valjean's latest nom de guerre, and finished with a rather awkward, "Have a good evening."

"I will show you to the door, Inspector," Valjean said, reluctantly stepping out of Cosette's embrace.

"Thank you," Valjean said again once they had stepped out onto the street. Javert's confusion must have shown on his face, for Valjean hesitated and added, "I know that you said you would not tell Cosette of my past, and that you are a man of your word, but I wished to think you for your kindness towards her."

Javert had not thought himself particularly kind but Valjean seemed sincere in his gratitude. "I did nothing out of the ordinary," he said. "I simply told the truth."

"The truth," Valjean echoed. There was an odd expression on his face. "Yes, I suppose you did." He hesitated once more, opening his mouth to speak and saying nothing for a long moment as Javert watched him. "Tomorrow," he said slowly, as though choosing each word carefully, "I will go to Rue des Filles-du Calvaire to see if the boy lives. If he does, you will be able to find me either there or here. Should you should have need of me."

"Ah, yes," Javert said. "The boy. Another soul the man of mercy decided to save, and for only the cost of a single journey through the sewers this time." The words soured on his tongue, came out harsh and a little bitter as he thought again of the drudgery of living.

Something tightened in Valjean's expression. "When I saved the boy, it was for Cosette's sake and not in an attempt to achieve sainthood," he said tartly. "She loves him. If he lives, they will be married."

Javert, still certain that the boy would not survive the night, found himself glad that he would not be here to watch the joy go from Cosette's face when she learned of the boy's death. "If he lives," he repeated. He straightened. He was not one for farewells, especially not ones that promised as much awkwardness as this.

"Farewell," he said brusquely, hoping Valjean would have sense enough not to belabor the parting. He turned back in the direction of the Seine.

"Javert."

Javert stopped and didn't turn.

"If you return, I am known as Monsieur Fauchelevent."

"Fauchelevent," Javert murmured, frowning. The name had a familiar ring to it. After a moment he laughed, a sharp bark of honest mirth. "The old man under the cart! I suppose it is good that I didn't mention the man's name."

"That would have been somewhat difficult to explain," Valjean agreed wryly.

If Javert had chosen to glance over his shoulder, he had no doubt Valjean would be smiling. He didn't look back. "Very well, Monsieur Fauchelevent, farewell," he said. He felt the pressure of Valjean's gaze against his back as he walked away but Valjean did not call after him.

He retraced their steps back to the parapet where he had stood. The mist still shrouded the area and turned it otherworldly, the chill air biting once more at his face. It took him a moment to realize his hat was gone. Stolen or blown over the edge by the malicious wind, Javert supposed. The river kept up its murmuring, but it did not enthrall him as before. When he peered down into the misty gloom he saw only water and deep shadows. The Seine no longer called out as an escape from the bleak thoughts and newly formed conscience that troubled him.

Weariness and a strange sense of loss weighed upon Javert's shoulders. He felt acutely conscious that he stood alone staring into the river, a tired old man in a disheveled uniform who was beginning to shiver from the chill. He pressed his hand against his elbow where Valjean's touch had steadied him. It felt colder than the rest of him.

He stood there for another moment, gathering what little strength he had left. He would go to his apartment and rest. The small, cramped room's fireplace might banish the ache that seemed to have settled into his bones and in his chest.

Javert was halfway to his apartment when memory stirred of the letter he had left for Monsieur le Prefet. He paused in mid-step, torn between consternation and something very much like hope. Would Monsieur le Prefet contemplate any of his suggestions of improvement? Perhaps Javert could be of service there. At the very least, there was the possibility of tasks, the promise of order.

He continued onward, unconscious that his expression had smoothed out into an almost calm look, his brow furrowed in contemplation. His back was nearly as straight as before, his arms once again folded against his chest as he muttered to himself. Any passer-by close enough to make sense of his quiet utterances would have heard the following:

"You see, monsieur, the prisoners called barkers, who summon the other prisoners to the parlor, force the prisoner to pay them two sous to call his name distinctly. This is not only theft, it is cruel, and I believe we can eliminate this by….."