Javert sat at his desk Thursday morning, shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows as he picked at his paperwork. The stolid air panted, depositing puffs of heat upon his exposed skin. Rivulets of moisture sinuated down his neck and collected in the folds of his shirt.

But Javert did not notice.

The week had been one long continuum of disappointing colleagues, unfinished leads, and unwarranted problems.

During his routine beats, some men under his command were slow on the uptake, delivering reports a day late. Some often missed essential information or lacked in professionalism. Javert was not a man who procrastinated or became neglectful. It was something that he took pride in. Because of his exacting nature, many of his fellows disdained him for his diligence.

Which was why he was methodical in his choice of confidants and informants.

As always, Almanzo sent him a timely update on his examination of the handwriting. No advancement. However, a small note was written on the bottom: ~Monsieur A. has not stopped by. Last account: May 15th.

Monsieur Alain had not been sighted for more than three weeks now.

His absence bothered Javert. It niggled, this new anomaly worming its way in the recesses of his mind. Alain was never missing from his daily street corner. Though homeless, he was habitually punctual man: a trait that Javert appreciated and relied on.

Logic dictated Javert consider other possibilities. Perhaps he retreated to outlying townships or more plausibly, a more profitable district. His quarter wasn't very populous nor was it of a generous nature. A working class neighbourhood, most people worked hard to scrape by, every sou saved. Charity was luxury they couldn't afford.

Despite this, disappearance of M. Alain became another case in which Javert decided to look into.

Even worse, René had fallen into one of his sullen "moods", the kind of which Javert had learned never to address outright. Like a newspaper serial, there was always a new instalment in René's life revolving around household problems. Diatribes and tears were two things that Javert avoided whenever possible.

Instead, Javert kept him occupied with extra work, both men often working in the cramped office past midnight. He also distracted the boy by asking him about his thoughts on work-related matters and past cases. René had a knack for remembering random minutia, ranging from exact dates to the location of specific housing.

Still Javert managed to receive the gist of René's problem: his sister was in desperate need of work. René, the oldest son, was expected to help out even though he was younger than his sister by nine years. A stressful event for any child, even without the handicap of the person in question being a spinster sister.

But to top the week off, Handel Coypel did not show up for his assigned appointment that morning at nine o'clock. It was already ten. This grated upon Javert, as the man wanted to be kept updated on any sort of leads in regards to his son. Correspondence initiated between them confirmed that Monsieur Coypel understood the time and date, but no one came by. Not even a missive cancelling the meeting.

Javert toyed with his whiskers where they rested on his palm. Quickly calculating the time before his afternoon shift, he came to a decision.

He stood up, shoving his chair back. Grabbing his elbow, he stretched his arm behind his back, relishing the pull of muscle after sitting for hours. He rolled his shoulders before removing his grey coat from the back of his chair and slipping it on.

Tugging his coat lapels taut, he fastened the brass buttons up to his throat. Fingers ran along the inside of his collar, smoothing the wrinkles. Fingers combed and smoothed his hair forward, laying the strands upon his forehead and over the tips of his ears. His sideburns received the same treatment, resting neatly on his cheeks and jaw.

Bending, Javert retrieved his scabbard from where it rested on the bottom shelf along with his belt. He quickly pushed the strip of cured leather through the structured loop and wrapped it around his waist, sword settling on his left side. Though heavy, the weapon was a constant support, bolstering his authority with its unspoken presence.

Gathering a folded packet of penned parchment, he placed it into one of his voluminous pockets. His identification card soon followed. He patted his left breast pocket. Feeling the presence of his wallet, Javert turned, shut his window, and jerked the thick curtains shut. Instantly, the room fell dark, a single broken strip of light dividing his office in half.

Before leaving his office, he snagged his top hat off the corner chair and placed it on his head. With one hand, he clicked the door shut and with the other, he locked it. Testing the security, he turned the knob. The door refused to budge.

Satisfied, Javert marched out the dim corridor, and halted by the front desk. Sergeant Grosz bleared at him through hooded eyes. He rubbed them with the heel of his hand before leaning back in his chair and addressing Javert with a gravelly "What do you want?"

"I'm off to check with a case." Javert tapped his chin before adding, "If anyone should ask."

Grosz yawned. His slim boyish face stretched, stressing his large teeth and sharp cheekbones. It ended in a huff as he regarded Javert. He scratched his head.

"Understood. Anything else, Inspector?" Grosz threw him a look that dared him to say more.

"That is all, Sergeant," responded Javert. He turned to leave, but not before issuing one final rejoinder.

"But, I hope you noted that your assignment changed. You are now on my beat for this weekend."

Grosz's eyes bugged. Grumbling curses sputtered forth.

Tipping his hat forward, Javert left the Prefecture, its brass double doors shutting behind him.

Arriving at the Rue Plumet, Javert was instantly reminded of exactly how quiet Paris could be, if one either had the means or looked hard enough. After dismissing his hired coach, the street was abnormally silent save the chirping of unseen birds and the buzz of bees as they darted over the stone wall to Valjean's rented property.

Javert walked over to the massive gate, its sinuous bars a direct contrast to the ordered stonework of the wall.

Belatedly, Javert pondered how to call upon Valjean. The house was nestled deep within the enclosed landscape.

He peered into the yard. Unlike other well-to-do properties, where Nature was controlled and pruned into order, the garden upon the Rue Plumet was full of riotous growth. Webs of creepers draped over bushes of holly and gardenias with a modest veil of tiny white blossoms. A variety of trees stood watch, interspersed at intervals throughout the well-tended yard. Their budding leaves were overwhelmed by thick piles of pale flowers. The petals dabbed the French grey stonework of Valjean's home with pastel colours of pale pink, lavender, and yellow, effectively hiding most of the structure from view.

Leaning closer for a better look, Javert gripped one hand around the iron wrought bars.

The gate creaked.

Frowning, Javert wrapped his other hand around the bars and pushed.

A loud squeal resounded, dwindling into silence.

Javert stood, staring at the small opening. He crossed his arms, chin in hand.

Despite the loud noise, no one came down the path.

Javert stomped to the gap. Frown deepening, he squeezed inside, not bothering to open the gate any wider. He shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering to himself. The gate stayed mute as he shut it with the heel of his boot.

Javert trudged up the pathway, noting the lack of weeds between the evenly laid stones. The grass was trim, held at bay so it wouldn't obstruct the path. Strangely, random holes dotted the yard, the dirt tossed aside as if an animal foraged there.

A weeping willow trailed invitingly over the winding pathway, the serpentine branches awash in absinthe leaves. Pushing the smooth tendrils aside, Javert made his way to the entrance.

The front door was set with four clear panes closed off with a heavy brocade curtain on the inside. It was painted a plain shade of sage and embedded with an unpretentious display of wainscoting. Though the property had once belonged to an entitled and wealthy gentleman, it wasn't overly lavish or obscene as most tastes belonging to that class of people. Valjean had chosen well.

Wrapping his fingers tightly, he brought his fist to the door—

It swung open.

Valjean lunged forward, bare feet gripping floor. Froth clung to his cheek. Strands of wild, dishevelled hair stuck to his damp beard and face.

His wide eyes snapped to Javert.

Javert took a hasty step backwards, both hands instinctively going to his side. Fingers touched upon his sword hilt before Javert restrained himself.

His gaze shifted between Valjean's open-eyed stare and his fist.

Screwed tightly in Valjean's grasp was a shaving razor, held at an angle. White foam dripped down the lacklustre blade and over his knuckles. Bits of it plopped over the threshold, dotting the area near Javert's polished boots.

Javert opened his mouth. Catching himself, he closed it. He motioned towards Valjean's hand.

"If this is your manner of greeting, could you at least wash your blade first?"

Blinking slowly, Valjean followed Javert's gesture. He stiffened. Comprehension burst upon his face, a pinkish hue staining the tips of his ears.

Javert lifted a brow, loosely crossing his arms.

Not looking at Javert, Valjean half-turned his body, hiding his tinged face with the broad expanse of his back.

Then he began to meticulously clean his razor. He wiped it free of the soap, with one swipe of his thumb. He repeated the action on the other side. Fingers flicked free of the lather into the nearby cypress tree. He rubbed the razor against his breeches, polishing it dry. Finally, he snapped it closed and pocketed it.

Still avoiding Javert, he scooped the foam off his face with the back of his hand, and whipped it into the tree as well. He patted his uneven beard, smoothing the hairs down, before turning back to Javert.

One side was completely trimmed and presentable. The other, patchy.

Javert bowed his head, clenching his eyes shut. His fingers lightly brushed his hair from his forehead. Breathing softly through his mouth, he uttered a single word: "Merde."

Smiling sheepishly, Valjean rubbed the back of his head, mussing his hair further.

"Sorry. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Javert pinched the area between his eyes.

"Obviously."

"You did state that you would come by in the early afternoon," tried Valjean.

"Plans change."

Valjean toed one of the spots left by the soap.

"How did you get in?"

Slowly, Javert unfurled his arms, fingers slack against his coat. He stared at Valjean. The man shifted upon the stoop and bent his head slightly. He rubbed his arm before glancing at Javert, a faltering smile on his lips. An idiotic smile, like a child caught in a misdeed, unaware of his transgression.

Javert itched to knock that look off Valjean's face.

"Your gate was unlocked, Valjean! I did not think you so stupid!" cried Javert, punctuating his statement with a stomp of his foot.

"One would think you were expecting visitors with that sort of negligent security!"

He took a step forward, forcing Valjean to look upwards until they were eye-to-eye. "Or do you have an open door policy to any sort of streetwalker that decides he wants to come and visit? Are you trying to invite criminals to your home? Do you leave your windows open at night as well for easy access? Are you thinking ahead, saving yourself the cost of broken windows andbusted doors?"

Javert laughed silently, shaking his head.

"Continue this carelessness Valjean, and you are going to wake up one morning to find that they took your silver and kidnapped your child."

Valjean blanched as he took a step back. His hand gripped the door jab tightly.

Javert sighed and looked off to the side. He ran a hand across his cheek, fingers combing his sideburns.

"I am constantly mystified at how well you oscillate between ingenuity and a complete lack of common sense." He tilted his chin towards Valjean. "Luckily for you, the only danger you've encountered is myself," finished Javert, his tone even.

Valjean lips opened slightly, as if to respond, but a soft click stole his attention.

A small figure had shut a hallway door and made her way to the front. The girl stopped, toes bordering the swatch of sunlight that cut across the floor. She stared unabashedly at Javert, angling her head to the side. When she finished her perusal of Javert, she walked to Valjean.

She tugged on his shirt. "Father, your face is strange."

Valjean rubbed a hand across his jaw.

"Ah, yes, well." Valjean cleared his throat. "I had to answer the door."

"With a most unusual greeting, to be sure," muttered Javert.

"Are you going to finish? It really is strange," repeated the child.

"I must, if two people have told me; so it shall be done. Now, if you will excuse me." Valjean made to shut the door, but stopped. His hand hovered over the handle. He turned, features unreadable.

"Would you like to come inside?"

Javert tensed.

He moved to dismiss the invitation, except, except his coat instantly constricted in protest. His collar, usually a comfortable snugness, now dug into his chin. The material chafed against his neck, and Javert had to resist the urge to tug at it. He was not sure if the sensation would lessen even if he were to do so. The coat's bulky material weighed on his arm, now too heavy, and the folds bunched around his elbow like bands of iron. He dropped his hand.

Valjean's eyes wavered, following the movement.

Javert gave in and rubbed the back of his neck.

Then he removed the hat from his head, the air cool against his exposed scalp.

The tentative smile returned to Valjean's face. Then he directed his attention towards the child. Hand pressed against the small of her back, he lead her into the house.

Javert stepped over the threshold into the cooler air of the dwelling and shut the door.

Before heading upstairs, Valjean offered him a drink and use of his parlour, both of which Javert replied in the negative. He would wait in the foyer since they would be leaving the moment Valjean was finished with his morning toilette. The little girl, Cosette, did not follow Valjean but instead re-entered the room she came from.

Alone, Javert examined the tiny receiving hall. It comprised of a small staircase to the right of the door with the hallway continuing around it to the back of the house. The stairs led up to a tiny upstairs balcony, protected with a cherry bannister. The edge of the steps were burnished a honey-gold where years of feet had habitually tread.

The hall itself was bare, with a few exceptions. A table and a floor rug of woven material lay in front and to the left of Javert, where he stood near the door. Upon the table was a lone wooden candlestick, clean of wax. Flanking the table was an ordinary hat rack, adorned with a child's coat.

Suddenly, the child popped from the doorway on the right. She looked around. Not finding what she was seeking, she withdrew a bit into the other room. Plucking at the sleeves of her shift, she glanced at Javert from underneath her lashes.

Biting her bottom lip, she made a decision and walked resolutely up to Javert.

Looking down at the girl, he waited.

Like the stronger-willed street gamins, she stared right back, mouth set in a grim line.

Javert quirked a brow and inquired, "May I help you?"

Her cheeks puffed outwards for a second before doing an about face. She reached and patted her back.

"Can you help me take off my clothes?"

Javert crossed his arms, his hat dangling from his hand.

"No."

She abruptly spun around.

"Why not? I want to get dressed." She shoved her fists onto her hips.

"You are not my child. Even more, I am a complete stranger to you."

"Well, then," she replied, "I'm Cosette. What's your name, Monsieur?" She thrust out a rosy palm.

Sighing, Javert accepted her greeting. His fingers almost encased the entirety of her miniature hand.

"I am Javert."

"Good morning, Monsieur Javert," she chirped. She swirled around. "Now can you help me?"

Javert took his chin in his hand, a finger resting atop his lip. He waited a moment before replying once again.

"No."

Immediately her hands curled into fists, but before she could respond, heavy footfalls echoed above them. Valjean came into view, neatly shaved. He was clad in a burgundy waistcoat and his shirtsleeves were pulled down to his wrists, the cuffs crisp.

When she saw Valjean, Cosette hopped up and down a couple of times, snagging his attention with her liveliness.

"Father, can you help me unbutton my nightgown?" asked Cosette, fingers groping the small buttons as she tried to reach them again. "Monsieur Javert won't help me."

With a huff she gave up, and crossed her arms. She shot Javert a disgruntled pout.

Valjean laughed. "Come here, child. I will undo your buttons."

Cosette skipped over to her adoptive father. He sat on the bottommost step, beaming as he helped her.

The child threw Javert one of those looks worthy of her sex, full of mischievous guile. The strong dimple in her cheek enhanced her features as she smiled happily, content that her wish was attended to.

Javert snorted as he shook his head. Woe to Valjean in the upcoming years!

Valjean turned the child around.

He spoke softly to her. "My child, I will be going with Inspector Javert. He will be helping me find where I am needed for work."

Cosette turned her head to Javert, cerulean eyes bright in the dim foyer. She returned her attention back to Valjean.

"Yes, Father," replied the child, hands clasped in front of her, bunching the fabric of her nightgown. "Can I play outside then, when you get back? I want to plant some more flowers."

Valjean untangled her hands. He dropped a fleeting kiss to the back of one: the tiny hand a pale pearl in the rough shell of Valjean's palm.

"Of course. We should not be gone long," Valjean glanced in Javert's direction. He gave a curt nod.

"I'll be back in time to prepare our repast."

A fleeting grimace passed over the child's exuberant features. She picked at the hem of her dress.

"Father, can we have vegetables with our meal? I know we should wait until ours grow in our garden, but…" She trailed off hesitantly, turning her gaze to the floor.

Valjean leaned back, attempting to look into the child's face.

He smiled faintly, removing her hands from where they worried the fabric.

"Cosette, you understand that all you have to do is ask. There is no need to fear expressing your needs here. You are a good child."

She smiled in kind and replied with a whispered, "Thank you Father."

"Go and get dressed," grunted Valjean as he stood up too quickly from the floor. "We're leaving now, and—" Valjean threw a look towards Javert. "I will be locking the door."

The two men exited the house, with Valjean securing the entrance. He placed the ornate key into his vest pocket. The procedure was repeated with the main gate, though Valjean refused to look at Javert he did so. Preventive measures complete, Javert took the lead and began walking eastwards.

"We aren't going to the Prefecture?" questioned Valjean, as they strolled through the affluent properties.

"No need to. We are going to your new workplace to obtain your work orders. Also, Commissaire Lautrec states that this process only requires three signatures: the employee, the employer and the parole officer."

Valjean studied the ground.

"What is it then?"

"What do you mean?" asked Javert.

Valjean waved his hand vaguely. "What is my occupation?"

Javert scoffed. "If you must even ask that of me, I suggest you wait."

Lips thinning, Valjean kept his gaze to his left, suddenly interested in the working class neighbourhood that now flanked the roadway.

His snowy brow lowered, and a contemplative look fell upon his unrefined features.

For a man, Valjean was an odd one. He was unexceptionally plain; the kind of man that moved unnoticed and forgotten quickly. Yet, he exuded a sort of memorable presence that lingered in one's conscience.

Like a current, he had remarked once, long ago, in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

One can see the effects left behind by a river's current, whether it is good or bad. However only when one looks beneath the surface, or if the river itself falters, can one see its true face. But even then the current flows, constantly changing. Small details are lost. What once was true before was no longer.

Our Mayor is like a current upon which this town relies upon.

That statement certainly proved itself true, scoffed Javert inwardly. He remembered how easily the town collapsed. Selfish men tore into the Mayor's profitable enterprise like buzzards upon a carcass. Everything that man had built fell to ruin, ripped to shreds by the very people he had helped.

Javert scowled to himself.

No amount of free charity could ever scrub the faults of tarnished men. Only through one's own personal endeavour and fortitude could that be achieved.

Javert glanced back to Valjean. He was paying no attention to Javert, instead noting his surroundings with unmitigated interest.

Despite years of observation, Valjean persisted as an enigma. Who was Jean Valjean? The criminal from Toulon had emerged that one night, nearly thrashing a stranger with his ferocity. Then there was Monsieur Madeline, the paragon of charitable initiative and humble rectitude. The man who single-handedly erected a bustling town from its backwater roots.

Yet, here was this man. This man who wanted to keep to himself and raise a dead prostitute's daughter. Who kept his doors unlocked yet refused to reveal the inner workings of his mind.

Where were the lines drawn between truth and fiction in regards to this man, this Jean Valjean?

Silently, he two men continued eastward through winding roads that contracted until they were no more than pedestrian passageways. Javert lead Valjean into a littered alley with a single black streetlamp at the end. When they exited, a modest church façade greeted them, the plain whitewashed walls blending effortlessly with the surrounding structures. A small engraving was pinned to it, revealing it to be the church of the Saint Fidelis.

The chapel perched immediately on the crooked street. A solitary stair held back the burgeoning façade as it overlooked the street. The massive door was comprised of slats of refined wood, fit snuggly against each other and bound by bands of iron. A small ditty reached their ears as the steeple bell rang out a noonday welcome.

Javert knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by a leathery priest. His angular face was capped with short grey hair. The man broke into a wrinkled smile when he saw Javert and Valjean and welcomed them both into the sanctuary.

Getting straight to business, Javert conversed with the man regarding Valjean's position. They stayed in the antechamber, near the short receiving table. Meanwhile, Valjean wandered the chapel, examining the unadorned pews and intricate stained glass windows. When Javert was finished with his discussion, he called Valjean over.

Javert relayed the information to Valjean: he was to work for Father Sérusier as both a gardener and groundskeeper for the cemetery. Valjean gave him a peculiar look before introducing himself to the priest. The two men began speaking animatedly about plans for future groundwork and upkeep.

Having prepared the paperwork beforehand, Javert motioned the two men over. Both studied their prospective documents, which outlined Valjean's tentative work schedule, hours needed, and stipulations required. Afterwards, each man signed their papers with Javert's name embellishing the end of both.

Next, Father Sérusier offered Valjean a tour of the property. Valjean agreed and thanked the man with a slight bow of his head.

The church was the cornerstone of the property, flanked by the unevenly distributed land around it. On the left obscured by brick wall, was a half-acre garden, accessible only by a wrought-iron gate. A bent placard hung from the blackened metal with the inscription: Available from dawn to dusk. Inside, a multitude of weeds and plants fought for territory in the scant space provided.

On the other side of the land was the cemetery, also protected by the same steadfast wall. This acreage was larger, as a majority of the property was reserved specifically for the purpose of housing the dead. Overarching branches and gnarled trunks of yew rose over the wall, guardians for the departed. Their dense collection of silvery leaves bordered the cloudless sky. Neglected headstones were bedecked with tall grasses and swatches of clinging ivy. Like the garden, a matching gate provided entrance to the cemetery, though it was proportionally larger.

As the heat began to settle upon the trio of men, they retreated into the meagre shade of the recessed entranceway.

Taking their leave, Valjean grasped the priest's hand in a firm handshake, emphasizing his gratitude.

A very jolly man, even for a priest, Father Sérusier laughed richly, clamping a thick hand on Valjean's shoulder.

"Oh ho! As much as I appreciate the sentiment, and believe me, I do, I am not the one that deserves your appreciation." Father Sérusier gave Valjean a loud pat on his shoulder before stepping back.

Javert stiffened where he stood off to the side. His fingers tightened around the brim of his hat.

The priest continued. "You understand the earth, my friend. As do I. But these hands of mine, they can no longer cultivate the stony soil; only stony hearts. You have seen it. Our grounds are untamed, rife with weeds and thistle. And being a small church, funds are hard to come by, so we rely on the goodwill of our flock. But folks only have so much they can spare."

"Given this," he continued, drawing Valjean's attention to Javert with a sweep of his arm, "you can certainly imagine my surprise and delight when the good inspector came by, asking if I was in need of a gardener!" Father Sérusier chuckled.

At the mention of Javert, Valjean's brows edged his eyes. Covered in faint shadow with the slant of his forehead, his eyes tilted towards Javert. Javert studiously ignored this, and did not meet Valjean's gaze, directing his attention to his coat sleeve instead. Then Valjean returned his attention back to the priest. He promised to start his duties the following Monday.

Together, Javert and Valjean left the Saint Fidelis and headed back towards the Rue Plumet. Javert took the same path as before, to ensure that Valjean would be able to navigate the streets as well as he.

After a mile of traversing the dim, constricted streets, the pathways became wider, thus allowing more of the unwavering noonday sun to beat down upon them. A couple of carriages rumbled past with horses snorting heavily and covered in sweaty lather. Other than that, many of the inhabitants on this residential street remained indoors, out of the heat.

On their left, they walked past a tiny alley between two apartments. The entrance was nearly obstructed by a multitude of stacked clay pots; the uppermost were layered with an overgrowth of grasses and dandelion weeds.

Javert's skin prickled. A faint movement edged his vision.

He halted and threw out his arm. Valjean's chest lightly brushed against his bare hand. Javert dropped it.

Eyes trained forward, he could see Valjean's questioning face through his peripheral vision. But that was not what interested him. It was the figure that stumbled into the cramped passage, as if returning belatedly from a night of revelry. When the figure straightened and rose to an obscenely lofty height, Javert resumed walking, but at a faster clip.

Valjean jogged to catch up, his bulky frame creating an unwanted racket. Javert strained to listen past his stomping footfalls.

His ears picked up on a sharp crack! as the man toppled a pot, followed by the grating sound of pottery scraping across stone.

An empty passage revealed itself to their immediate right.

Javert's hand flew outwards, lightning quick, snatching up Valjean's wrist.

Valjean's eyebrows jumped at the touch, but by some providence he did not make a noise. Javert had no time to be grateful for this small mercy. Tugging Valjean into the tight alleyway was an easy task, though he kept trying to look back.

Once inside, Javert quickly scanned the small space. It was devoid of both people and property.

Javert pressed against the wall, peering around the corner. In the space they had just left, a wavering figure could be seen, emerging from the barricade of abandoned pottery. Valjean came close to the opening, edging his head forward to peer out. His head was too far out, an inch further and-

Snatching a fistful of Valjean's waistcoat, Javert yanked him back.

"Wha—"

Javert instantly clapped a hand over Valjean's mouth. Soft facial hair grazed his skin. Javert forced his eyes to the opening.

"Be silent Valjean."

Javert wrapped his other arm around Valjean's shoulders and backed both of them against the wall, pushing Valjean down until they were both crouching. Once assured that they could not be seen, he breathed, then detached his hand from Valjean's shoulder. He removed his hat. Valjean did not make as if to stir, but Javert rested his arm on Valjean's shoulders again as a precaution, the hat clenched tightly in his hand.

The small space was closed, hidden from the sunlight that wasn't able to extend into the alleyway. Javert's iron coat melded effortlessly into the slate and stone. Fully enveloped in grey shadow, they waited.