Author's Note: Well, this was originally intended to just be a quick little one-shot, but then I started writing it and it just kept getting longer and longer, so I ultimately decided to break it up into six or seven short chapters, and I'm pretty pleased with the result. This is sort of fluffy (okay...VERY fluffy) in some places, but I did my best to keep Javert in character, and I think I more or less succeeded. Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it, so please leave a review if you get the time. Enjoy the story! :)

~CaptainHooksGirl~

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis, and I'm not making any money off of this, so please don't sue me! (You wouldn't get much anyway...)

Chapter 1: Javert's Suspicion

The raucous laughter that echoed down the halls seemed strangely out of place, more befitting of restless young men in a tavern full of scantily clad barmaids than the officers of the Paris Prefecture. Javert walked with his head down, cheeks burning with shame. He was right! He knew he was right. And yet they had the gall to laugh at him!

Just because I've yet to find any definitive proof doesn't mean that it does not exist.

Instinctively, he gripped the head of his cane a bit tighter. He hadn't felt so humiliated since the days of his youth back when he was the gypsy whore's son who bore the brunt of all the prisoners' jokes. He felt the anger rising and tried to shut it out, hands trembling with rage. He dared not turn around for fear that if he did, he would impale every one of those insolent young officers upon his cane and give them a beating they'd not soon forget. He was old enough to be their father, had been in the force longer than some of them had been alive, yet they were technically his superiors. It made no sense practically speaking, but one glance at the bronze skin peeking out between the white gloves and dark sleeves was all he needed to remember why.

He took a deep, steadying breath. This was the part of himself that he always feared—the burning hatred that bubbled up from time to time that made him want to commit acts he knew would see him thrown behind the very bars he'd been trying to escape since he was born. He was a convict by nature, he supposed—it was in his blood, the rebellious spirit of a gypsy mother and the hot temper of a father who was an unrepentant thief—and sometimes it took everything within his power to prevent succumbing to such criminal urges. But he had learned, over time, how to control it, and so once again—with great effort—he managed to swallow back the bitterness and shove all feeling aside. To feel emotion of any kind was to be weak, and to allow it to cloud his judgment—to act on impulse—when he had come so far would make all of his hard work amount to nothing. It was anger that led to murder, jealousy that led to adultery and theft, love and poor decisions that led to children on the streets. Javert had reached such a conclusion long ago, and it was that conclusion which had driven him to the belief that to be beyond reproach he must learn to harden his heart—to feel nothing at all. But he had not been entirely successful; his heart was no longer flesh yet neither was it stone. It was wood—still alive yet inhuman; still capable of growth and subject to wounds yet unable to rejoice or cry. And this state of in-between is perhaps the most tragic of all.

Javert recognized this flaw and wondered whether perhaps it was his inability to completely detach himself from the situation that was ultimately to blame for his embarrassing predicament to begin with. Could it be, he wondered, that he had allowed his anger over Monsieur Madeleine's harsh reprimand concerning Fantine to let him see what he wanted to see? Something that wasn't there? His thoughts turned to the conversation he'd had with the Prefect a few hours earlier….

"You can't be serious, Javert! Monsieur Madeleine? A convict? The notion is absurd! The man wouldn't hurt a fly! I've heard nothing but good things about what he's done for the city of Montreuil-sur-Mer."

Javert bowed respectfully. "Be that as it may, I have reason to believe that he Jean Valjean—a thief who broke his parole. I saw him nearly every day for nineteen years during my stay at Toulon and was involved with his capture for two of his attempted escapes. Forgive my boldness, but I doubt if anyone is more highly qualified to recognize him than myself."

The young Prefect stood, turning to face the window, hands clasped behind his back. "And why, then, are you only just bringing this to my attention?" He glanced back over his shoulder. "Could it have anything to do Monseiur le Maire exercising his authority regarding a certain prostitute?"

Javert blanched.

"Oh, yes, I'm well aware of that little fiasco. News travels faster than you may think."

"The woman was guilty of attacking a citizen. I had every right to arrest her."

"And I am inclined to agree with you—if, in fact, the woman was not provoked as the mayor seemed to think. At any rate, if Monsieur Madeleine wants to waste his money on the hospital bills of dying harlot rather than letting her infect the prisoners before dying on the streets, what is that to you? Either way, the girl had not long to live. He is your superior, and unless you have proof that he is guilty of deliberately undermining the law, you have no right to denounce him."

"I needed time to assess him—to be sure that he was what he seemed to be."

"And?"

"I witnessed him lift a heavy cart off of a man with very little assistance. It should have taken a jackscrew to perform the job, but he was able to do it with the mere strength of his arms."

"So the man is strong? I see nothing illegal about his actions. If anything, I would think that such a heroic act would go against the very nature of most convicts."

"Jean Valjean was a man of incredible strength. He could lift a load it would have taken ten ordinary men to carry. There is no other man who could have accomplished such a feat."

"Perhaps, but I cannot arrest a man for possessing superhuman strength. Have you any further proof?"

Javert bit back a rather insulting remark and forced himself to reply calmly. "Madeleine greatly resembles Valjean. Further, there are no official records of his life prior to his work at Montreuil."

"Perhaps the man simply likes his privacy. Or perhaps he was born in poverty and there are no records to show. As I recall, there are very few official records concerning your background, Inspector."

Javert glared, and the Prefect unconsciously took a step back. There was something distinctly canine in those silver eyes, something feral. He recovered himself quickly, sighing in frustration.

"Listen, Javert, you're an asset to the police force and one of the most dedicated men I've ever met."

"Thank you, monsieur."

The Prefect raised a hand for silence. "But that being said, I think you're reaching for facts that simply are not there this time. You're grasping at straws. No convict would be foolish enough to put himself in such a place of power and prestige; the risk of being recognized would be too great."

"Which is why no one would ever expect it. It's the perfect cover."

The young man sighed again. "I understand your desire to apprehend this criminal, Inspector, but you cannot allow your personal feelings of distaste for the mayor of your jurisdiction to interfere with your work. And I cannot bring a man in for questioning simply because you think he MIGHT be Jean Valjean."

"But—"

"Go home, Javert. Get some rest. Or better yet, go out and get a drink. Police work is a high-stress job and can be tiring—particularly for a man your age. You're not as young as you used to be, Inspector, and there is less shame in admitting that you made a mistake for once than making yourself look like a fool by insisting otherwise. LET IT GO."

Javert spoke through clenched teeth. "With all due respect, monsieur, suppose I do discover the real Valjean in Montreuil-sur-Mer? I have no way of delivering him to you without a warrant of arrest. It would require me to either dispatch a letter or to travel all the way to Paris and back again, giving him more than enough time to escape."

"Very well. I shall give you what you have asked for, Javert. But understand this: unless you can provide concrete evidence—some indisputable proof—that the man you arrest is Jean Valjean, you had best not arrest him at all or I will be forced to terminate your position."

"Of course, monsieur."

"Good." The Prefect nodded once. "You're dismissed."

Javert felt his blood boil, the tapping of his cane against the marble floor the only sound in the deserted hall as the officers' laughter faded into silence.

So you think I'm an idiot, do you? We shall see, monsieur. We shall see. This game of cat and mouse has gone on for far too long. You may have fooled them, Jean Valjean, but you don't fool me.