I Never Should Have Let Them Dance

A bit of background - this takes place in an alternate universe where the barricade fell, but Valjean saved both Marius and Enjolras. Grantaire, not having woken to stand with Enjolras, survived as well, passed by as a drunkard in the wrong place at the wrong time. Enjolras is with Marius, as are Valjean and Javert. Mostly done for the fluff and good feelings, Heaven knows that I need to write more of it.

A hand came up to cradle the back of Javert's neck. It was hot in August, the Autumn winds not having blown in quite yet; but somehow, the amnesiac felt as though the heat were centered in his cheeks, his hands, where the other man gripped them tightly.

"One, two, three. One, two, three."

Jean Valjean was an older man, with pure white hair and sparkling brown eyes. One hand rested at the small of Javert's back, and the other had its fingers twined with his partner's. He led them slowly through the steps, light filtering through the household at the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire. His small adjustments, the presses and the pulls, they were gentle; even as he was, Javert did not respond well to gentility; those clouded grey eyes would look everywhere, apart from back at Valjean.

It was as if he felt the guilt eating at him, even now, once the barricade had fallen and they were safe.

Enjolras stood atop the stairs, watching the pair. He had spoken with M. Fauchelevent at length, thanking the man for saving his life at the barricade; he would have preferred to die for his country, but he chose to see this as an opportunity to serve Patria once more. They had come across Javert in the sewers, bleeding from the head and from the leg; the former injury was from Thénardier, sly wolf that he was - he had struck fast and hard, falling like lightning upon the inspector; the latter was from a stray bullet. Javert had slipped and fallen, there in the muck, and his head had cracked upon the stone.

Enjolras had been incredulous; angry, even, snapping at Valjean for an explanation. The old man, bearing Marius upon his back and now dragging Javert, had explained as best he could: he owed the inspector a debt, having been saved by him at the Gorbeau House from death at the hands of the Patron-Minette gathered there; to watch him die upon the barricade would have been a sin.

The revolutionary had agreed, grudgingly, that Valjean had merely been doing what was expected of him; whether he liked it or not, it was over and done with, and he had planning to do.

He saw it as a stroke of luck, the fact that the inspector had fallen into his hands. Javert had awoken, confused, at the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire; at first, it had seemed as though he was in full possession of his memories; he had balked at the sight of Valjean, and of Enjolras; but now they knew that it had been shock aimed at the room, and at the questions in regard to his health. He had expected to wake in prison, where he had been as a child. What had he done to be freed from that place?

Valjean had opened his mouth, but Enjolras had stopped him. This was what they had all been spared for. The inspector would be taught the proper workings of society, and he would be Enjolras's eyes and ears in the government. After the success at the barricade, he would begin attending more parties, more meetings; he would work his way up in the ranks with a fervor never before seen from him; the other police would think it due to surviving after being held captive, a sudden stroke of self-confidence. After all, the inspector was always standoffish, and, though he wasn't in reality, he could come across as cocky. He was certainly sure of himself; but Javert had never seemed to actually hold himself in high regard. Enjolras would fix that.

For now, he seemed very placid. He gravitated more towards Jean than he did to Enjolras; that deep-rooted part of him which loved the law tossed its head and snarled when the revolutionary came near. Enjolras gave instruction from afar, Valjean carried it out. Why he would touch his lifelong rival was unknown, but there had been a glimmer of something in his eyes when Javert had asked, "Why? Why am I outside? Am I not unfit for society? You should not dirty yourselves, so near to scum as I!"

From that moment on, they had been inseparable. Javert, though wary at first of Valjean, his strength and the other personality that seemed to bubble just below the surface, eventually bent at the kindness shown to him; in turn, Valjean asked a million questions, and while it made Javert uncomfortable, he answered cleanly. Unbeknownst to him, they had been much like this in Montreuil-sur-Mer, but that was in the past; now Valjean's inquiries were personal.

Javert still answered cleanly and impersonally, as if speaking of another person entirely. This seemed to hurt Valjean deeply.

Enjolras couldn't fathom it. The two men surely had known one another before the Gorbeau House. There was a familiarity in Valjean's touch, a pain in his eyes when Javert did not return it; however, in his own way, Javert was adapting to it. When it was quiet, and the sun was setting, the amnesiac would pad silently to Valjean's side, as a dog to its master's, and lean upon him. Valjean would start, then wrap an arm about Javert's waist, holding him close. What had been half for far too long was now whole, due to the strangest of circumstances.

As they moved below him, one stocky and strong, the other tall and healing, Enjolras couldn't help but frown. It was all part of the lessons, all part of the plan; his friends would be avenged, France would be freed; but to do that, he needed a tool - not a man.

Javert could not be anything but a man, judging by the way he was looking at Valjean now. His face was full of the wonder that he had not displayed in his previous life; Jean Valjean was an enigma to him, but, at the same time, he was the only thing that Javert felt safe around. He knew nothing. Valjean knew him.

Valjean, on his part, seemed strangely relieved; it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The Javert that he had never had the chance to know, that he had never expected to have the chance to know, was unfolding before his eyes; and there was a beauty to him, for the inspector, for all of his sharp words and unfaltering devotion to his work, had always been as alone as Valjean was. They were flowers grown in the soil of solitude, watered by hope and fed by potential; their roots were deep, but entirely independent - until they met.

Valjean pulled Javert closer, and the man came willingly, stepping to his chest and resting his head there. A hand in his hair, a kiss to his brow.

Enjolras should not have let them dance.

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