The conclusion to the fic! Thank you so much for reading and for your patience. I hope you enjoy it.

Thanks goes out to my miseres friends who encouraged me to finish it.

"...love, lay your burden down, here, tell me how
to make this body a safehouse and not
a prison..."

-"Marrying the Violence" by Marty McConnell

Javert awoke in pain, bewildered. He couldn't think of what had happened, his memory out of reach. All he knew was that his entire body ached. Even breathing brought about a dull, throbbing discomfort in his side. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain in his left eye flared into stabbing agony. He groaned.

"Monsieur Javert?" A soft voice cut through the haze.

He had heard the girl speak only briefly, yet he still knew that clear voice. Bewildered, he recognized the concerned tone, a paler echo of her worry when she'd made Valjean promise to have some tea. But what was Valjean's daughter doing here? Wherever here was, he added to the silent question, his thoughts still muddled.

"Monsieur Javert?"

Javert opened his right eye carefully. The girl leaned over the bed. His vision wouldn't focus; her hair was a dark halo around the vague outline of her face, dazzling him. He resisted the urge to close his eye against it. When he tried to speak, he found that it hurt even to whisper. "Mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur Javert!" The girl sounded relieved. "Do you know where you are, monsieur? What happened?"

He attempted to think, but his memory, slow in returning to him, seemed full of holes. He couldn't remember how he'd come to be here, only knew that somehow his body had taken a beating. The strange haze that had settled over his thoughts cleared a little, edged out by alarm. Surely she would only be here if something had happened to Valjean. Anxiety tightened his chest. "No, mademoiselle, I..."

"From what Madame Bonnet told Father, and Monsieur Chabouillet has told me, you were injured during an arrest last night. You're in the hospital."

The words didn't make sense, and then they did. His memories were still in fragments, but that didn't matter, not when Javert knew enough to fear. He still had no memory of the arrest that had brought him here, but that didn't matter. What would he do, he wondered, if Valjean and Chabouillet met face to face? Of all his fellow officers, Chabouillet was the most likely to recognize Valjean. What would Javert do if Valjean was apprehended?

He struggled upright, ignoring the pain in his arm and ribs. The girl's face blurred further and became a smear of color, but he kept his gaze fixed in her direction. "Monsieur Chabouillet spoke to you?" he repeated hoarsely. "And your father, mademoiselle? Tell me that he isn't here."

"Please, monsieur, you're hurt," the girl said quickly, alarmed. "Lay back down. Father isn't here. He's visiting Marius on my behalf, as I am visiting you on his." She paused, and then laughed a little, a quick, nervous giggle. "That is to say, I'm certain he wishes to be here. He has been very-"

"He mustn't come here," Javert said. The thought of Chabouillet arresting Valjean and of Valjean in chains was worse pain than his ribs. Panic clawed at his chest and made it impossible to breathe. "Mademoiselle, swear that you will keep him away from here, swear-"

"Monsieur Javert!"

Her startled, strained tone brought him back to himself. The rest of the haze lifted from his mind at last, and he could think clearly despite the constant pain. He realized that he had clutched her arm in the midst of his alarm. Even through her glove Javert could feel the delicate bones of her wrist and the bewildered tension in her stillness. He was gripping her too tightly. He released her and sank back against the pillow, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I-"

The girl interrupted him, her words filled with gentle concern. Her mother's voice had never sounded so. But then, Javert thought, guilt like bile in his throat, she had only ever been afraid of him, desperate and frightened for her child, and then sweet-voiced with relief when she, confused and dazed by her illness, had thought that he had ordered her release rather than Madeleine.

"Please, monsieur," the girl said. "You aren't well. The doctors and Monsieur Chabouillet wouldn't tell me everything, only that you were hurt very badly and have been ill with fever from your injuries. You are clearly not yourself. If you'll rest, I swear that I will speak to Father and tell him of your wishes." A puzzled note entered her voice then. "Though I don't see why you wouldn't want him to visit..."

Relief touched him briefly, but still the thought of the child encountering Chabouillet worried him. He didn't know the girl well, but he could imagine all too easily her innocently inviting Chabouillet to her apartment and unknowingly bringing her father's doom upon him. His throat tightened. "A hospital isn't fit for him, or for you, mademoiselle. Please, a hospital is no place for a young lady-"

"Excuse me, monsieur, but that won't do at all! If Father cannot visit you, and I cannot visit you, how will we know when you are well? Must we go begging for scraps of news from your landlady?"

"I," Javert said, and stopped. "Mademoiselle."

Her hand rested very lightly upon his and then swiftly withdrew before he could protest the impropriety. "I will make my father promise, monsieur. You'll have to content yourself with that."

He had to persuade her not to visit, and yet he couldn't think of a decent reason for her to stay away. There had been laughter in her voice, but a ring of steel beneath the amusement as well; he half-imagined Valjean's stubborn look transposed upon the girl's young face. He wouldn't win this argument, not half-stupefied by his injuries. Still, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, surely your father would worry if you visited a hospital so often. These places contain people with all manner of sickness-"

"No, no, monsieur," the girl said. Her tone was resolute. "You are wasting your breath. Let us talk of something else. How are you feeling? Shall I fetch some water? Perhaps you wish to see your doctor?"

The rapid-fire questions made Javert's head pound. He thought about arguing further, but it seemed pointless. Perhaps later, when he could think clearly, he could argue more eloquently. He leaned back against the pillow and repressed a sigh. He knew that the girl wasn't Valjean's by blood, and yet she seemed to have inherited his exasperating stubbornness somehow. "I'm somewhat thirsty, mademoiselle," he admitted.

A memory stirred of one of the thieves, the cruel amusement in his voice as he spoke of Royer, the troubling stains on his shirt-sleeve, how he had laughed. Javert's stomach soured. "Is Monsieur Chabouillet here? I need to speak with him-" He coughed. It rattled his frame, his injured ribs flaring from a dull ache into agony.

He gasped for air, aware that the girl was speaking. Despite the roaring in his ears, he made out some of her anxious words, something about going to fetch help. Her hand fluttered against his shoulder and then was gone. He pressed a hand to the worst of the pain; the pressure seemed to ease some of the sharp agony, enough that he could breathe a little.

He sank back against the pillow, exhausted by the pain. He tried not to think of how he must have looked, what the girl would report back to Valjean. He was too weary to do more than twitch in surprise as a new hand settled upon his shoulder and squeezed. It was a man's hand, and for a second Javert's heart twisted in his chest and he thought, terrified, Valjean. But Valjean was visiting the boy, wasn't he? It couldn't be him.

Javert forced his good eye open, but couldn't make out the man's face hovering before him. "Monsieur?" he whispered, trying not to set off another bout of coughing.

"Javert."

Relief filled him. He knew this voice too, recognizing the mildly exasperated way that Chabouillet said his name. He imagined Chabouillet's expression, that half-concerned, half-frustrated look. With the side of his face that didn't feel swollen, he attempted a smile. "Monsieur Chabouillet."

Chabouillet was silent for a moment. "Well," he said at last, almost roughly. "It seems that the thieves did not beat you permanently senseless. That's something, I suppose." Despite the harshness of his words, Javert could hear the relief in Chabouillet's voice, and his hand was gentle upon Javert's arm. "How much do you remember?"

"Only a little," Javert admitted, still whispering. "My memory is in pieces... The arrest went wrong, somehow." He remembered again the glint of the knife. "Is Royer...?" Chabouillet's silence was answer enough. His throat tightened. "Damn. Monsieur, I- you must need-"

Chabouillet squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "Don't think on it, Javert. You must focus on getting yourself well. Your report can wait."

Javert wanted to argue, for surely he owed Royer's widow an explanation, but weariness dragged at him. Even the thought of penning a few words of sympathy seemed beyond endurance. He shook his head, very carefully. "But Madame Royer-"

"Is being taken care of, I assure you," Chabouillet said. "Some kindhearted gentleman, apparently moved by the tragedy, sent her money for the funeral and paid her landlady for six month's rent. She and the children won't starve."

Something like amusement touched Javert then, a strange mix of affection and exasperation and gratitude welling in his chest. He swallowed down a laugh. He had no doubt who this 'kindhearted gentleman' was. "I suppose this gentleman didn't give his name."

"No. The letter that accompanied the money was unsigned."

"Of course," Javert said, and laughed. He regretted it a second later, his ribs aching. He fumbled with his good arm, pressing his hand once again to where the pain was worst. He grimaced. It was not the agony of earlier, but still it hurt to breathe. "I think I'll try to rest, monsieur."

"Good." Chabouillet squeezed his shoulder one last time, and then released him. His voice was quiet. "I'll keep Moreau and Comtois away for a few more days."

Javert repressed another laugh, imagining how the sergeants would pile into his room and exclaim over his injuries. He would get no rest then. "Thank you, monsieur." Weariness dragged him without resistance towards what he hoped would be a dreamless, painless sleep. He closed his eyes and slept.

Nausea woke him this time.

Bile rose in Javert's throat, its sourness wresting him from sleep. He rolled over, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the throbbing of his arm as he groped for the edge of the bed. He forced his good eye open, and for a second feared the dimness. Had his head injury done him permanent damage? Javert had heard of such things, men receiving a blow to their heads and then losing their sight slowly over the ensuing weeks. Then he blinked and realized that it was night, the room lit only by a single, sputtering candle.

His stomach twisted unpleasantly, an unkind reminder of why he'd awakened. He started to drag himself closer to the side of the bed, hoping that the doctor had had the foresight to leave him a chamber-pot in case of illness. Then, as though by magic, there was a bowl in front of his lips and a cool, steadying hand upon the back of his neck. Javert didn't question the doctor's good timing. He gave in to his body's demands and retched, gagging against the burn in his throat and the pain in his side.

At last his stomach was empty and the nausea diminished to something manageable. Javert started to lift his head, but a wave of dizziness swept over him. He clutched tighter at the sheets, closing his eye and trying to ignore the way the bed lurched beneath him.

Something was pressed lightly to his mouth. When Javert's lips parted a little in confusion, he tasted tepid water. He drank with care, just enough that his throat felt less sore. Then he pulled away, the man's hand dropping from the back of his neck. "Thank you, monsieur," Javert said, voice hoarse, and opened his eye in time to turn his head and catch Valjean's flustered smile.

Astonishment and alarm jerked him upright. He grabbed at Valjean's sleeve and felt the rough workman's fabric beneath his disbelieving fingers. Yes, it was Valjean, his familiar grave features illuminated by that single candle; Valjean, who should be asleep at his Rue de l'Homme Arme apartment and far from here. "What the devil-" Javert's ribs protested the sudden movement and he caught his breath in a harsh gasp. Concern passed over Valjean's face, but before he could speak, Javert held up his free hand. When he could breathe again, he growled, "Valjean, tell me that you did not break into the hospital."

Concern still filled Valjean's expression, but it was touched with sheepishness as well. He looked away from Javert, seeming to weigh his words. "Very well," he said at last, and smiled lopsidedly, as though tentatively inviting Javert in on a jest. "We'll talk of something else."

"Valjean." The name escaped him as a frustrated groan. Valjean's smile wavered, as though he didn't know whether to look amused or apologetic at Javert's exasperation. When he made to shift and sit back in his chair, Javert tightened his grip on Valjean's sleeve, keeping him where the candle shone clearest upon his features. "It's my head that took the beating, and yet it's your wits that seem addled! Why are you here? I told your daughter to keep you away."

Valjean's expression changed at the mention of Javert's injuries, his mild amusement vanishing as though it'd never existed. His gaze traveled slowly over Javert, who realized uncomfortably how he must appear. He had no mirror at hand, but one side of his face felt swollen and stiff, and he couldn't open that eye no matter how he tried. He had little doubt that his injuries looked as terrible as they felt. Possibly worse, he thought with an inward grimace, remembering the last time a thief had blackened his eye, the shocking color of it. Before he could try to wave off Valjean's concern or make some vague assurance, Valjean spoke.

"So Cosette said. But I-" Valjean hesitated. There was a crease between his eyes now. His intent look felt like a touch to Javert's face, keeping him silent. His gaze lingered upon Javert's features and upon his arm, studying where bandages swathed the cut Chaput's knife had made. Something that looked like pain deepened the lines on his face. He said, so quietly that Javert had to strain to hear, "I needed to see you for myself."

Javert had expected Valjean to dissemble as he had before. He didn't know how to answer this soft-voiced honesty, or how to respond to the obvious concern in Valjean's expression. His face warmed. It was only the dull, persistent ache of his cracked ribs that kept him from clearing his throat. He realized that he still held Valjean's sleeve. He let go, flustered further, and looked down, half-studying his bandaged arm as he thought.

What could he say? Valjean had witnessed him being violently ill minutes earlier; he surely wouldn't believe any assertion that the injuries weren't as bad as they appeared. Besides, any claim to such would skirt too closely to a lie, for his entire body ached. Dizzied even by resting against the pillows, he found his memory still in pieces. It was a struggle to remember his conversations with Valjean's daughter and Monsieur Chabouillet, and still harder to remember his fight with the gang.

A fragment of his desperate thoughts as he'd knelt before Chaput's knife struggled to the forefront of his mind: Let me live, if only for Valjean's sake. He lived, but still Valjean looked pained, as though each bruise was his own. Javert resisted the urge to press a hand to where his head hurt worst, for that would only make Valjean frown more. He tried to think despite the pain. "Don't look so," he muttered at last, settling on as much of the truth as he could bear to say. "I won't claim that my injuries are minor, but I will heal, unlike- well." His stomach soured, not with nausea this time, but unsettled by the memory of the men he had killed, and of Royer and his grieving family.

He recalled Valjean's kindness then. "Thank you, for what you did for Royer's widow." There was silence. Javert looked up at Valjean's flustered expression. Amusement briefly touched him, something like fondness catching in his throat. "Did you think I wouldn't guess? An anonymous gentleman paying for the funeral and Madame Royer's rent! Such generosity has your mark all over it."

Valjean flushed. "It seemed the least I could do."

"Most would say that the least you could do is nothing," Javert said dryly, "but still, thank you." The candle flickered; the sputtering light hurt his head. He closed his eye for a moment and added, "I understand your concern, but, Valjean, you cannot visit. What if someone found you here? How would we explain it? I told your daughter to keep you away."

"So she said," Valjean said.

He might have meant to say more, but Javert kept talking, desperate to make Valjean see sense. "It was bad enough during the day when you might have met Monsieur Chabouillet, the only other officer likely to recognize you, but-"

"Javert," Valjean said gently, and Javert flinched.

He grimaced, or at least tried to; the swollen side of his face proved no more cooperative than before. He thought of Valjean being caught entering or leaving the hospital and being arrested. Again he considered Chabouillet recognizing Valjean. The same alarm that had made him grip the girl's wrist too tightly rose in him once more. His hands clenched into fists; the knife cut throbbed. Harshly, he demanded, "God, what will it take to convince you to stay away?"

Valjean said nothing for a moment, but this time Javert didn't open his eye to try and decipher the look upon his face. "I won't visit, if that's truly what you wish," he said slowly. "But will you at least let Cosette return?"

Javert almost snorted. "As though I have any choice in the matter when it comes to your daughter." He forced his eye open in time to catch a fond smile flit across Valjean's face before his expression resettled back into solemnity. Unbidden, Javert remembered the fleeting, blindingly bright smile Valjean had worn before. It suited his face better than his customary grave lines, came the traitorous thought.

He groped for the right words, but everything he said came out clumsy and halting. "It isn't that I don't- that is, I am glad for your company, I want- ah, but you must know that by now! All I can think is how dangerous it is for you to be here. To see you again in chains-" He laughed without humor. "How have you withstood it all these years, enduring the thought that someone might recognize you?"

If he hadn't been watching so closely, he would have missed the look that crossed Valjean's face then.

Valjean had disavowed sainthood, but still, in that instant, his expression seemed better suited to the carved saints that looked down with weary, patient suffering upon the people of Paris. The years were stark upon Valjean's face. He looked suddenly, terribly old. And then the look was gone as though it had never been, replaced by one of those damnably vague smiles of his. Valjean straightened in his chair, one hand tapping out a slow beat against his knee. He spoke quietly, his gaze focused upon Javert. "Then you will let Cosette visit?"

Javert opened his mouth to repeat his question and demand an answer. But perhaps Valjean's exhaustion was contagious, for Javert felt only tired at the thought of a potential argument. Instead he said, "Yes, Valjean. If you promise to keep away from the hospital and Monsieur Chabouillet, your daughter may visit me."

The corners of Valjean's eyes crinkled. "Thank you."

Javert waved off the words, flustered by the pleased undertone in Valjean's voice. "Now, will you please go before someone-" He stopped as Valjean tensed. "What is it?" he demanded, and then heard it: the sound of approaching footsteps. Panic seized him. He imagined the doctor's bewilderment, the misunderstanding that might follow, the possible call for an officer despite Javert's objections. He peered around the room, but there was nowhere for Valjean to hide.

The footsteps seemed to grow louder the closer they came; they drowned out Javert's pounding heart. He imagined Valjean in prison again, and the pain was worse than his ribs and his head combined. He held his breath, foolishly, as though the slight sounds might betray Valjean to whoever walked down the hallway.

The footfalls proceeded to his door, and then onward, moving without hesitation further down the corridor. For a second Javert could not believe their good luck. Then he let out his breath in one explosive rush. "Now will you please go?" he muttered. Relief softened his words.

A breath escaped Valjean as well. He said, words warm against Javert's brow, "You will have to release me first." There was a strange note in his voice, one Javert didn't recognize.

Puzzled, Javert opened his good eye, only then realizing he had closed it. Then he flushed hot. In the midst of his alarm, he had clutched at Valjean, one hand tight upon his elbow and the other arm flung across Valjean's broad shoulders, as though that would have somehow concealed him from view had someone entered the room. His arm rose and fell with Valjean's breath. Their faces were very close together, for Javert had half-dragged Valjean towards the bed.

Embarrassment pricked at him, worsened by Valjean's incredulous look and the flush creeping into Valjean's face. "Sorry," Javert muttered, releasing Valjean and sinking back against his pillow. His face still felt warm. He knew that even the flickering candlelight couldn't conceal his blush. He repressed the ridiculous urge to cover his face with his hand or to wave Valjean away. "I-" But what could he say that didn't sound foolish? He grimaced in irritation, and then grimaced in pain, for the movement made his split lip sting. "Well! You should go and rest."

He flinched in surprise when Valjean touched his cheek. Valjean's fingers were careful as they examined the damage done to Javert's face, skirting the edges of the worst bruises. Javert couldn't make sense of it. Did Valjean need reassurance that he wasn't injured beyond repair? But Javert had told him so earlier. There was no need for this queer study of his injuries. Valjean put his hand lightly to Javert's jaw then, his thumb brushing where Javert knew his pulse beat too quickly, and Javert repressed a shiver.

Javert had never been touched so before. Valjean's touch was so gentle that it hurt, a strange new ache growing in his chest. Each press of those callused fingers against his skin deepened the discomfort until it was impossible to breathe. He clutched at his blanket, dizzy and bewildered. He wished that Valjean would stop. No, he wished that Valjean would never stop. His lips parted without conscious thought, a sigh escaping him.

Valjean's hand stilled. His fingers shook, a minute tremor that Javert nevertheless felt as acutely as a blow, and then lifted away. When Javert looked at him, Valjean's expression was almost comical; he stared at his hand with an astonished air as though he didn't recognize it. He curled and uncurled his fingers slowly before he dropped his hand to his side. Valjean swallowed, his ears turning pink, and rose. He nearly knocked over the nearby water jug in his haste. He fumbled with it before he set it closer to the bed, within easy reach.

"You should- you should rest as well," he said. He didn't look directly at Javert. He passed his hand over his face, avoiding Javert's gaze. Even the back of his neck was flushed. "Good night, Javert."

Still strangely dizzy, Javert found his voice too late. "Valjean-"

But Valjean was already at the door. The last Javert saw of him was his boot, the leather catching the light. The door closed with a quiet, firm click behind him, and Javert was alone.

He ran wondering fingers along his jaw. Valjean had touched him gently, there could be no bruises left behind, and yet Valjean's touch seemed to linger upon his skin. A hoarse laugh escaped him. He dropped his hand to his lap and curled it into a fist that strained at the stitches in his arm. He ignored the discomfort, lost in thought. Would Valjean ever cease in confusing him, or would Javert spend the rest of his days like this, constantly bewildered by the other man? Well, at least Valjean was headed back to his apartment, away from the nurses or doctors who might call for the police.

Again the thought of Valjean arrested came to him unbidden, like a blow. He realized that Valjean hadn't answered how he had survived all these years despite the fear of the law worrying at his heels. Though perhaps that worn, weary look had been answer enough. He remembered then, like another blow, Valjean's bowed shoulders and lowered gaze, the strain in his voice as he said, I was tired of hiding, of constantly looking over my shoulder, of answering to the name Fauchelevent and never my own. For the past eight years, I had- have endured it for Cosette.

Pain caught at his chest again, a strange tenderness that was both like and unlike the ache of his abused ribs. He pressed his hand to this new pain and grimaced. God! He was half-mad with worry after only a few days of concerning himself for Valjean's safety and freedom. Meanwhile Valjean had spent years looking over his shoulder and fearing every policeman who walked past. Valjean had said that he'd endured it, but he didn't deserve to undergo such a trial. No, not Valjean, who'd rescued an old enemy from death, who was the embodiment of goodness, who strove to lessen everyone's sufferings except perhaps his own.

"I must do something," Javert whispered. He laughed again, hollowly. What could he do? He was only an ill, old inspector, he couldn't wave a hand and absolve Valjean of his old crimes-

He straightened, ignoring the spike of pain in his ribs. A pardon! It wouldn't be easy, but he latched onto the idea with desperation. Javert knew very little of pardons. Before, he had turned a blind eye to them, for the idea that no man once fallen into crime could be redeemed had warred with his conviction that the king wouldn't pardon someone who didn't deserve it. The conflict had made him uneasy, and so he had not let himself think much of them. He grimaced, remembering. Perhaps many of those pardoned men and women had deserved a second chance. Perhaps they all had.

How blind he had been! How foolish! He didn't know how to obtain a pardon, but surely of all men, Valjean deserved one. He closed his eyes, a terrible hope rising in him. Chabouillet would know how to get a man pardoned. Javert would have to be very careful, for he couldn't reveal Valjean's identity to Chabouillet until he knew the pardon was a certainty, but-

The candle sputtered and at last went out.

"Please," Javert whispered into the dark, not quite a prayer but just as desperate as when he'd begged God to let him live. "Please, let me do this for him."

"You have visitors, monsieur," said the doctor the next morning.

Javert wondered at the amused twitch of the man's lips. Even as the doctor had examined him earlier and seemed satisfied that the blows to the head hadn't done any permanent damage, he had been solemn-faced. This strange hint of humor was promptly explained by Lazare and Bernard tumbling past the doctor like overeager pups. Before the boys could venture further into the room, the doctor caught hold of them. He said, "Monsieur Javert is still recovering from his injuries. You are not to excite him, understand?"

"Yes, monsieur!"

Javert winced as the boys' clear, high voices rang too loudly in his ears. He was less consumed by pain today, his arm hurting only when he moved it and his ribs protesting only at deeper breaths, but his head still ached where he had been struck, his eye still swollen completely shut, and loud noises and bright lights continued to pain him.

The doctor, spotting Javert's grimace, added firmly, "Which means speaking softly."

"Yes, monsieur," came the subdued answers.

As soon as the doctor was gone, Bernard approached the bed, staring at Javert with wide-eyed interest. "You look awful, monsieur." His whisper was filled with a ghoulish relish.

"Well, no one will fetch me a mirror, so I'll trust your judgment," Javert said dryly, as he might have answered one of Comtois's more inane remarks. Since the night Madame Bonnet had welcomed the boys into her house, Javert had conceded that he knew nothing of children, especially not how to actually converse with them. He had settled upon treating the boys as he would one of the sergeants- that is to say, as someone prone to foolishness but ultimately goodhearted.

This manner seemed to suit the boys well enough, for Bernard only grinned.

Then Javert frowned. "Shouldn't you be at school?" Valjean had secured both of the boys a place at one of the schools he assisted, and the boys had agreed to begin attending classes once the Montmartre case was over.

Lazare, looking unenthusiastic at the prospect of learning his letters, shrugged. "Monsieur Duval has classes in the morning and afternoon. We're working this morning, and going to the afternoon class." He fished out a well-worn watch and looked at it with satisfaction. "Monsieur Fauchelevent is letting us use this today so we won't be late."

Javert repressed a snort. The watch looked like something one would find from a pawn-shop. Surely even Valjean, despite his apparent attachment to his workman's clothes, would have a better piece. He suspected that Valjean had purchased it for the boys and, knowing Lazare's pride, had made some pretense of letting them borrow it.

"Monsieur Chabouillet said he'd come around eleven o'clock," Bernard added, still peering in fascination at Javert's black eye. He had his hands on the edge of the bed, straining his small body to get a better look at Javert's injuries. "Did you really kill all those thieves, monsieur? Monsieur Moreau said—"

Javert's expression must have changed, for Lazare grabbed Bernard's shoulder and drew him away from the bed. He frowned at his brother and said in a whisper that carried to Javert's ears, "Doctor said no excitement. Talking about the thieves will get him upset, Bernard."

Bernard looked apologetic. "Sorry, monsieur!"

Javert waved off the apology with his uninjured arm. He focused on the first part of Bernard's remarks. He felt an unaccustomed nervousness at the thought of seeing his superior. He remembered Chabouillet's voice, rough with relief, and the firm press of his hand upon Javert's shoulder. He had known Chabouillet for decades and yet he wondered how well he really knew him. Would he listen to Javert and agree to help, or would he feel betrayed that Javert had aided a fugitive?

He wet his lips. "Monsieur Chabouillet will be here around eleven, you said? Did he say anything else? Perhaps he is expecting a report-"

"He didn't say nothing about that, monsieur," Lazare said. "Just when he'd come."

Javert, still thinking of Chabouillet, absently reached for a nonexistent pocket. Then he made a face. When he'd asked a doctor about his belongings, he'd been told that Moreau had taken what could be salvaged back to Javert's apartment, which included his purse. "Remind me when I am back at Madame Bonnet's that I owe you payment for the message."

"Monsieur Chabouillet already paid us," Bernard said. He had drifted closer to the bed again, staring at Javert's bandaged arm. His eyes were wide. "Did getting stabbed hurt, monsieur? What did it feel like? I bet it-"

Lazare seized hold of his brother once again and propelled him towards the door. "Enough stupid questions. Course getting stabbed hurts! And we've got other messages to deliver, remember? Stop bothering the inspector." Almost at the door, he paused and turned. "Oh! Did you have any messages, monsieur?"

"No," Javert said, and then reconsidered. Again nervousness and anxiety touched him. He thought of Chabouillet's potential aid, of Valjean being pardoned and safe. An unbearable hope tightened his chest. He wet his lips again. "But I may have some for you tomorrow."

Lazare nodded as Bernard grinned and said, with baffling sincerity, "Hope you feel better soon, monsieur!"

As the door closed behind them, Javert sank back against his pillow. It was frustrating how much even that short conversation had wearied him. The doctor had said he would tire easily while his body recovered from the shock of the thieves' abuses, but this was ridiculous. Exhaustion weighed upon him so quickly and heavily, it was all he could do to keep his good eye open. How would he ever manage the conversation with Chabouillet?

He spent the rest of the morning alternating between napping and fretting over how he would ask for Chabouillet's help. A familiar knock roused him from a half-doze, and Chabouillet called his name softly. Javert attempted to answer, and found his throat was too dry for speech. He fumbled for the water jug someone had left while he'd slept. He sipped hastily. Then he called for Chabouillet to enter, straightening and trying to look as though he hadn't been caught dozing.

"Good morning, Javert," Chabouillet said. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, studying Javert with narrowed eyes as Javert muttered a polite hello. His round face was lined with strain and bore the marks of sleepless nights. Javert felt a pang of guilt—here he was sleeping away the morning while Chabouillet dealt with the aftermath of his failure! He could well imagine the amount of paperwork and the number of questions from Monsieur Gisquet that Chabouillet must have undergone these past few days.

Chabouillet approached the bed and sank into the nearby chair with a quiet sigh. He took off his hat and rubbed at his jaw, frowning. He studied Javert for another moment. More guilt soured Javert's stomach. Before he could make his apologies, however, Chabouillet spoke. "The doctor says you're much improved, but we'll put off your report another day. One of the surviving thieves has told us everything. Hoping to escape the noose with his honesty, I suspect." A snort showed what Chabouillet thought of the thief's chances. Then his intent look returned. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Javert said. At Chabouillet's raised eyebrow he muttered, "Well, I still have headaches, but they're bearable, monsieur." His mouth had gone dry again. He resisted the urge to reach for the jug. "I actually need to speak to you about, well, another matter. As the secretary to Monsieur le Prefect, you must have some experience with, ah, with pardons…." The last word stuck in his throat and came out hoarse.

Chabouillet stared at him as though he'd gone mad. "You want a pardon for that thief?" he asked, incredulous.

For a second Javert's breath caught. Then that he realized that Chabouillet meant Chaput's man, the one who had turned informer. He shook his head, ignoring a wave of dizziness at the gesture. "No, not him, monsieur! No, he'll hang for Royer. I-" His throat tightened. He dropped his gaze to the blanket. All of his carefully thought-out phrases had fallen out of his head. He muttered, "I haven't been entirely honest with you. My friend who discovered how the Montmartre gang was breaking into houses unseen, he—" He was doing this all wrong, he thought, despairing, and stopped.

"Your friend," Chabouillet said quietly. "I take it he knows someone who needs a pardon?"

When Javert forced himself to look up, Chabouillet wore an unreadable expression. He couldn't even begin to guess at Chabouillet's thoughts. He swallowed and gave in to the impulse to drink from the jug again. It didn't help, his chest still tight with anxiety. He cleared his throat. "No, monsieur. He deserves one."

Astonishment twisted Chabouillet's expression, but he said nothing, just stared.

Javert's face warmed. God, he wished that he could get up and pace! He'd always thought better on his feet. "I know it must seem mad," he said into the silence. "I know what I have said about pardons in the past. Perhaps you wonder if the blows to my head have- but, monsieur. You must believe me when I say that this man deserves a pardon more than anyone I have ever known."

Chabouillet spoke slowly, still looking strangely at him. "If this man can change your mind about pardons, Javert, he sounds—" He paused, as though choosing his next few words with care. "—interesting. He has not committed any outrageous crime, I take it?"

"No. He broke parole and—" Javert hesitated. He flushed again and shook his head. He clutched at the bedspread, ignoring the pain of the knife-wound and how the fabric bunched beneath his anxious hands. "Forgive me, monsieur, but…until I am certain of a pardon, I dare not tell you everything. That way you won't have to compromise yourself if it turns out that my friend can't be pardoned."

Chabouillet's eyebrows rose. His gaze studied Javert's face, intent and searching. He opened his mouth and then hesitated. Frowning, he settled back in his chair. "Javert," he said. "What would you do if I couldn't grant this friend a pardon? If I ordered you to bring him to the station?"

Again the thought of Valjean arrested hurt, like an old wound reopened. The pain bloomed in Javert's chest. He thought of the exhaustion in Valjean's face, the way he had looked as he'd said that he would have come willingly with Javert to the station. He'd thought Valjean an apparition then, some conjuring from his fevered brain. Now his head ached, dully, but he knew that Chabouillet was just as real as Valjean had been that day.

Javert didn't blink. Instead he fixed his good eye upon Chabouillet. "I would refuse, monsieur. It would be an injustice to arrest him."

"An injustice!" The words were almost a shout, and this time Javert winced. Still he didn't look away from Chabouillet, whose expression was one of astonishment. The man's eyes were wide behind his spectacles, his mouth half-open. After a second, Chabouillet shook his head. His mouth twisted. "An injustice," he repeated, softer, and Javert couldn't guess at his tone. "Javert-"

"You do not know him, monsieur," Javert said. He grimaced, for surely interrupting Chabouillet would do him no favors. He passed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the bruises. He tried to remember all the convincing phrases he had thought up over the past few hours, but he couldn't. The only thought that filled his mind was what might happen if he failed. He laughed humorlessly. "He defies description. He would scold me if I said to you that he is a saint, and yet to say that he is a good man doesn't do him justice. He is the best man I have known, and if he deserves prison, then we all do. Please."

When Javert dared to look at Chabouillet again, he didn't know what to make of his expression. His eyes were unreadable behind his spectacles, his expression reserved. Javert opened his mouth to continue, and then closed it. He'd run out of words, save one. Licking his lips, he repeated, "Please."

Chabouillet looked down, his hands resting quietly on his knees. "It isn't easy to obtain a pardon," he said after a long moment, and Javert's heart twisted painfully in his chest. Then Chabouillet looked up and smiled. It was faint and had an air of bewilderment to it, but still it was a smile. He shook his head. "But this man- the way you talk about him... Well! I can't promise that we can get your friend this pardon, but I'll help you however I can."

That terrible hope of before rose in Javert again, so sudden and strong that he found himself breathless. For a moment he even thought that his body might betray him further, the prickling of his eyes threatening tears. He blinked once, twice, until the feeling passed. It took another second to trust his voice. "Thank you, monsieur. I am indebted to you."

"Yes, well," Chabouillet said, looking a little uncomfortable at Javert's gratitude. "You should thank me once we've succeeded." Then he leaned forward, a familiar glint in his eyes. "Now, I know you don't want to give me too many details, but I do have a few questions..."

Javert answered what questions he could, though he stumbled through several of them. He hadn't considered that Chabouillet would need details- what type of charity he performed, who would be willing to speak on his behalf besides Javert. He knew so little of Valjean and what had become of him in the years between taking the woman's child from the inn in Montfreuil and saving Javert's life at the barricade. He didn't even know if Valjean and the girl had lived all these years at their apartment on the rue de l'Homme Arme!

Frustration made his head pound. He resisted the urge to press a hand to his brow. "I'm sorry, monsieur," he said through gritted teeth after he failed to answer yet another question. "I will have to speak to him." Though how he would get such details from Valjean remained to be seen, he thought dourly. He dared not tell Valjean of his plan in case it failed, but coaxing such information from Valjean seemed a tricky task.

"That's fine, Javert," Chabouillet said. "Just get me the information when you can and I will see what I can do."

The door opened and Javert squinted towards the entrance. His vision proved too blurry to make out the person's features, his sight worsening once it reached past Chabouillet's shoulder. His chest tightened. He hadn't thought to ask Valjean when the girl planned to visit him. Had he warned Valjean that she seemed to be on speaking terms with Chabouillet? He couldn't remember.

"Good afternoon, messieurs," came the firm command. Javert, relieved, recognized his doctor's voice. Though he wondered at the man's tone, which had a slightly exasperated edge to it. "Monsieur, I believe the inspector has had enough company today. If you could return tomorrow..." It was a command, Javert realized with growing astonishment. A polite one, but a command nonetheless, to the secretary of the Prefect of Police! But perhaps his doctor didn't realize to whom he spoke, and believed Chabouillet to be some common officer taking Javert's statement.

Before Javert could speak, Chabouillet looked at him with narrowed eyes. A grimace pulled at his lips. "Ah. Yes," he said. He rose to his feet, taking up his hat from the table. "I didn't realize. I'll come again tomorrow for the report." Before Javert could protest, Chabouillet patted his shoulder and said in a brisk tone, "Get some rest, Javert!"

The doctor pursed his lips once Chabouillet had gone, studying Javert with a sharp, assessing gaze. Whatever he saw apparently displeased him, for his frown deepened and he shook his head. "Monsieur, you do yourself no favors. The more you rest, the sooner you'll recover. I've half a mind to forbid you visitors for a few days. The police can surely continue without your assistance for a day or two."

"Monsieur!" Now Javert really did protest. He imagined Valjean's reaction to the girl being turned away, and winced. Would Valjean try to break into the hospital once more? He looked at the doctor and attempted an earnest look. He wasn't certain he succeeded, for he still didn't have much command over the swollen, bruised portion of his face. "Monsieur," he said, aiming for a conciliatory tone. "Please let me have visitors. I swear that I'll be more careful in the future."

The doctor stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Very well."

"And might I have some paper and a pen?" At the doctor's look, Javert hastily added, "After I've rested, of course."

"Of course," the doctor said dryly. He studied Javert again. Apparently coming to a decision, he nodded. "I'll send a nurse with some writing materials later this afternoon. Now get some rest, monsieur."

Javert didn't go to sleep immediately, though his body would have thanked him for it. He ignored the pounding in his head and the way his stitches ached. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until Chabouillet was gone. Now he half-collapsed against his pillow, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. That had gone better than he'd hoped.

Yet how the devil was he going to get the necessary information from Valjean? It had never occurred to him to ask about Valjean's life, other than to scoff at Valjean's adoption of that woman's child and at his charity towards churches and schools. Surely Valjean would find it strange if Javert now expressed an interest. But then again, perhaps he wouldn't. Perhaps he would think it some awkward attempt on Javert's part to be friends.

"Friends," he murmured, laughing soundlessly, and grew warm remembering the touch of Valjean's hand upon his cheek.

He pressed his face against the pillow and closed his eyes tighter, but the memory wouldn't leave him. When he did sleep, his dreams were strange and restless. He was almost glad to wake and find that the doctor had held to his promise, and that someone had left pen and paper upon the table.

Doubtless your daughter has told you how I am faring and what particular colors my bruises have turned this morning. I assure you that they look much worse than they feel. Still, they do cause the occasional headache. The doctor says that I am not allowed to read any of the books Bernard and Lazare brought from my apartment.

I would twiddle my thumbs, except that I suspect the doctor would forbid that as well, claiming I might strain my stitches. Even M. Chabouillet refuses to let me discuss work, now that I have given him my report of the Montmartre case.

Please save me from boredom. The doctor says I may write and receive letters so long as they are brief. I doubt that your daughter will mind being our messenger until I am well enough to return to my apartment. Tell me a little of yourself, if it pleases you. I realize that I know little of what you have done these past few years. Since coming to Paris, have you always lived on the rue de l'Homme Arme? Had you any occupation besides father and philanthropist?

If you don't wish to speak of such things, only say so and I shall think of something else to discuss.

-Javert

I am happy to answer your questions, only I suspect that you will be disappointed. My life since coming to Paris has been fairly uneventful.

For the first five years, Cosette and I lived at the Petit-Picpus convent. The nuns educated her while I worked as a gardener with my late brother. You might remember him from before we came to Paris. After my brother died, Cosette and I left the convent and moved between a few apartments. We spent some time on the rue Plumet. We have only lived at the rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 for a short time. Since retiring as a gardener, I have, as you so aptly put it, been only a philanthropist and father, but I admit I am very satisfied with such work. And of course, as you know, I am a volunteer for the National Guard.

That was kind of Bernard and Lazare to bring you books. Monsieur Duval tells me that they both show promise, though he adds that Bernard is more enthusiastic about learning his letters. Do you think it would help if I gave Lazare a book he might enjoy? I have a few books from when I taught Cosette how to read, though he might think himself too old for fairy tales.

-Fauchelevent

Yes, I remember your brother very well. To think you spent all that time with him at the convent! Well, I am certain that the nuns of Petit-Picpus were sorry to lose you as their gardener. Y ou have always had a way with plants.

Have you visited the Luxembourg Gardens? Admittedly I have only frequented the place a handful of times and always for work, but it seems like something you might enjoy. And I have heard that the Jardin des Planetes is quite something as well. Though I suspect that you have probably been to both places often and are laughing at me as you read this.

I don't know why you are asking me advice about Bernard. If you think I know anything about children, you do me too much credit. You would do better to ask Madame Bonnet, for she has all but adopted the boys. She might know more of Lazare's interests, if he has any besides caring for his brother and eating three servings at every meal.

_Javert

Javert stood before Valjean's apartment and willed himself to knock.

He couldn't have said how long he had been standing there, dithering like a fool. It might have been mere minutes or hours since the landlady had escorted him to the door and then retreated down the stairs with a curious look.

If only his hands wouldn't shake! If they would stop, then he could knock. He swore under his breath. There was no reason to be nervous, he told himself, for what was at least the fifth or sixth time since he had nearly cut himself shaving that morning. It proved to have just as little effect as the last few attempts.

Perhaps Valjean would be angry that Javert had pursued a pardon without asking him first, but surely the joy of knowing himself safe at last would outweigh that transgression. No, there was no reason to be nervous, but still Javert's hand trembled as he touched the folded paper in his pocket. Strange, that so small a thing could be so important, he thought. Strange, that a piece of paper could decide a man's future.

He squared his shoulders, bracing himself for Valjean's possible rebuke, and knocked firmly.

A few seconds later, Valjean opened the door. He was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his head bare- but of course he would be, Javert thought after his initial surprise. Why wouldn't Valjean relax so in his own rooms? Still, Javert found his gaze drawn to Valjean's broad shoulders, distracted by the power dormant in Valjean's arms as his hand rested lightly on the doorknob.

Valjean said cheerfully, "You have good timing. I'm almost finished making tea."

Javert blinked and raised his gaze to Valjean's face, seeing the small smile there. For a second he feared that Valjean had caught him staring, but there was no blush upon the other man's cheeks, nothing but sincere welcome. Javert cleared his throat. "Ah," he said, his lips dry. "That's good." In another second, he feared that he would begin to prattle on about the weather and how hot the morning had been. He attempted a smile, suspecting it looked awkward, but Valjean's expression didn't change.

As Valjean stepped back, Javert entered the room, stooping a little to avoid striking his brow upon the door-frame. He took off his hat and cleared his throat again. "Your daughter-" He paused, uncertain how to ask if the girl was here. He had said in his note that he wished to speak with Valjean privately, but there was still a chance that the girl and their servant were still in the apartment.

To his relief, Valjean said, "Cosette and Toussaint are at the Luxembourg Gardens. After you mentioned it in your letter, we have visited several times, when she needed a rest from making bandages for- for the boy." His voice faltered on the last, his expression clouding briefly before he smiled again. "Please, sit down. The tea will be ready in just a moment."

Javert made a small sound of agreement but didn't immediately sit. He imagined sitting in one of Valjean's chairs, watching Valjean do something so queerly domestic as preparing tea for him. The thought made him restless and even more ill at ease. Instead he prowled the antechamber, peering at the books upon the shelves. He was frowning at one of the spines, trying to read the faded title, when Valjean touched his sleeve.

"Sorry," Valjean said when Javert startled, his smile turning crooked and apologetic. His hand dropped to his side. He held a steaming cup of tea and its saucer in his other hand. "I didn't think to ask how you take your tea, but we have some sugar and honey in the cupboard." His smile grew stronger as he added, "Cosette has a sweet tooth, you see."

Javert stared at the cup. He imagined sitting down and enduring banal, polite conversation. Doubtless Valjean would ask after Bernard and Lazare, whom Monsieur and Madame Bonnet had adopted in spirit if not legally. Or perhaps he would study the fading bruises that were still yellow and green upon Javert's face and ask after his health.

"I take it plain," he muttered, and then shook his head, pursing his lips. His stomach twisted with nerves. "But I'm not here to discuss tea."

"No, I suppose not," Valjean said quietly, after a moment. When Javert looked up from the tea, Valjean's expression was unreadable. "What did you come to discuss?"

"I," Javert said. He stopped. Before he could stop himself, he ran a hand down his whiskers and caught his lower lip between his teeth in a nervous grimace. "Will you sit down? Please?" The request fell awkwardly off his tongue.

Still studying him with that reserved look, Valjean obeyed, setting the cup next to its brother on the table and then sitting in the arm-chair that faced Javert. His lips parted, as though about to speak, and then he closed it, frowning faintly.

Javert quelled the urge to clasp his hands behind his back. He licked his lips. "I told you a half-truth in that first letter," he said. The words came out stilted and sharp, sounding more like an accusation than an explanation. "It was true that the doctor wouldn't let me read my books and I was bored, but that wasn't why I wrote to you."

He paused. Still Valjean said nothing, his expression neither discouraging or encouraging. Trying to soften his tone, Javert continued. "I needed to know more of your past, what you'd done all these years since you drowned, well, since it was thought you drowned at Toulon. You may be angry with me for not asking you first, but I couldn't offer you false hope, so I- but it wasn't false hope after all-"

"Javert," Valjean said. There was a crease in his brow now, his reserved look giving way to bewilderment and a touch of worry. "What did you do?" It wasn't an accusation, nothing like the way Valjean had looked at him when he thought he'd told the girl the truth of Valjean's past, but still Javert suppressed a wince.

He had imagined revealing the pardon with a flourish and detailed explanation of his trials in speaking with the Mother Superior at the convent. Looking at Valjean now, the way he clutched at the arms of his chair with whitened knuckles, the absurd desire to smooth the lines from Valjean's brow and assure him that he was safe rose in him. This wasn't the time for speeches, not when Valjean looked so anxious.

He fumbled clumsily for the paper in his coat pocket. "A pardon," he said, thrusting it at Valjean, all eloquence lost in his urgency to chase the worry from Valjean's face. "Monsieur Chabouillet helped obtain it, for he understands politics and pardons far better than I." He nearly laughed, remembering Chabouillet's astonished look and wondering, That convict-mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer? Him, Javert?

He hadn't dared to hope that Valjean would smile that dazzlingly bright smile at him in gratitude, had half-resigned himself to Valjean's anger, but he hadn't expected Valjean to recoil from the paper, staring at it as though it was a serpent poised to bite. Javert frowned. "It's genuine, I assure you. Look-" He offered the paper again.

This time Valjean took it, though his hands shook so badly he almost dropped it. He looked stricken as he read, the color draining from his face. "Javert." The name was a whisper, and Javert, baffled, bent closer to hear Valjean's strained words. "Javert, you- you shouldn't have- I do not deserve..." Valjean's voice caught on the last word and dwindled to silence. Rather than relieved, he looked anguished. He covered his face with one trembling hand. "I don't-"

A convulsive shudder moved through him, his shoulders flinching as though he'd been struck, and Valjean wept.

Javert stared. In all the scenarios he'd imagined, he hadn't thought that Valjean would cry. Each heaving sob cut deeper than Chaput's knife. He thought then of Valjean's disquiet and flustered look whenever Javert praised him, and thought bitterly that he was a ninny. Hadn't he learned that Valjean saw good in everyone but himself?

He dropped to his knees before Valjean's chair. Prying at the crumpled pardon in Valjean's hand, he muttered, "Come, you will tear it! How would I explain to Monsieur Chabouillet that we need another copy?" Tears trickled between Valjean's thick fingers and onto his beard, but his grip loosened upon the paper.

Sticking the pardon hastily back into his pocket, Javert stared at Valjean's bowed head and tried to think. What could he say? Panic clawed at his stomach as Valjean continued to weep. He didn't know how to be gentle, in word or in action, how to root out this anguish and undeserved self-hatred. He grabbed Valjean's free hand and squeezed it desperately, trying to get Valjean's attention.

"Valjean," he said. The name scratched his throat, but Valjean's tears didn't stop. Javert closed his eyes in frustration, pressing his cheek against Valjean's knee and grasping tighter at his hand. Against the rough fabric, he said, half-pleading, "Valjean, listen to me. Please. Please. Of course you deserve this pardon! How could you not? You are a good man. You help others even when it would be safer and easier to do nothing. You give money to schools and churches. You pay six months rent for a widow and her children so they are not thrown out on the street. You saved my life when I would've arrested you. You sought to ensure me a measure of happiness when I deserved nothing but rebuke and would have thrown my life away-"

"Stop," came the hoarse whisper above him, as much a plea as Javert's request for Valjean to listen had been, but Javert clutched stubbornly at his hand and continued.

"Your own daughter is a reminder of every mistake I have made, how many people I have hurt over the years, and still you think I am not beyond redemption. Still you think I deserve happiness. You- If you can want so much for me, how can I not wish the same and more for you? If a fool can deserve happiness, why not a good man?" His chest tightened. He was grateful that his expression was hidden against Valjean's knee, for it surely would have betrayed him. Roughly, he said, "You saved my life and then made it a life worth having. Let me do this for you."

He paused as Valjean's other hand, wet with tears and still trembling, settled upon his head. "Enough," Valjean said quietly. Something in his voice kept Javert momentarily still. Valjean laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound, just a weary confusion. "I don't understand what you see when you look at me. I'm no saint."

"Did I say you were?" Javert muttered. "A saint would not be so maddening." He was still holding Valjean's hand, he realized. Feeling like an idiot, he pressed it again. "I see a good man. I see someone who has suffered long enough. I see-" That unbearable tenderness swept over him again and he laughed noiselessly. "I see the man who saved my life twice over, and I want him to be happy. I would have offered my throat to Chaput and been glad for it, if not for you. Must I repeat that you are a good man a thousand times before you believe it?"

Valjean said nothing. Slowly, his hand smoothed over Javert's hair. "A thousand times?"

Javert risked lifting his head. There was the faintest crease at the corner of Valjean's mouth, a shadow of a bewildered smile. He ached to touch his fingers there and make the smile grow. Perhaps his face betrayed him, for Valjean flushed, his red-rimmed eyes widening. Javert licked his lips, watched Valjean's eyes dip to his mouth. Tenderness caught at him again. "If I must." Greatly daring, he pressed a kiss to Valjean's knee, and then, as Valjean shivered beneath his touch, another to the thick muscle of Valjean's thigh. "If that will convince you."

Valjean's hand tightened in Javert's hair. Javert had a second to wonder if he'd overstepped before Valjean sighed, "Javert." The name was a question, something soft and wondering in his hoarse, tear-roughened voice.

That ache in his chest threatened to overwhelm Javert again. He pressed a kiss to the knuckles of the hand he still held, made clumsy by the need coiled hot in his stomach. Distantly, he was certain he looked a fool, kneeling before Valjean and clutching at him so desperately. Against Valjean's knuckles, he said, "You are a good man. One. You are a good man. Two. You are-"

Valjean laughed helplessly, a swell of rough laughter that washed over Javert and swept away any misgivings. Valjean's hand slipped from Javert's hair to curl along his jaw, stroking a shaky thumb across Javert's mouth to silence him. "Enough," he said again, his voice still touched with bewilderment, but also a new sentiment, one that Javert prayed was belief. "Enough, Javert."

Valjean's thumb touched his lips again, and Javert almost bit at callused skin. His breath shuddered and hitched in his chest. He searched Valjean's expression and found only a flustered eagerness, all disbelief quelled or at least well-hidden. Slowly, he said, "Are you convinced that you deserve your pardon then? That you deserve happiness? I had thought you would need at least a hundred repetitions-"

Valjean slid his hand to the nape of Javert's neck and bent down to kiss him. He kissed with a hot urgency, smiling against Javert's lips. "I still don't know if I deserve it," he said when they ended the kiss, his breath rough against Javert's cheek. His fingers fluttered against Javert's neck and stroked the ruffled hair there as he added, soft like a confession, "But I- but I am grateful for it nonetheless."

The slow, quietly pleased smile that spread across Valjean's face was irresistible. Javert kissed him, drank down Valjean's sighs until he grew lightheaded. A thought struck him. It was his turn to laugh helplessly. He shook his head at Valjean's questioning look. "You are more potent than anything I drank at those wine-shops," he said, and wished to bite his tongue at Valjean's expression. Warm with embarrassment, he muttered, "That is- I mean-"

"Javert," Valjean said. When Javert looked at him again, Valjean's eyes were warm, his expression aglow with unfeigned happiness. Valjean touched his cheek and smiled so sweetly that it hurt. "Thank you." Then a crease furrowed his brow and he flushed. "But oh, you've been kneeling all this time! Surely you can't be comfortable."

"I'm fine," Javert said. At Valjean's frown, he sighed and stood, one hand on Valjean's knee for balance. Valjean's hand slid to cup his elbow. When Javert straightened, there was a heat in Valjean's eyes that dried out Javert's mouth. He was acutely aware of his hand still on Valjean's knee, and the strength in Valjean's hand where it lay upon his arm.

He swallowed, thickly. When was Valjean's daughter due to return from the Luxembourg Gardens? Javert found he didn't care. He kissed Valjean again, kissed him until they were both breathing roughly against the other's lips and Valjean clutched at his elbow.

When he drew back, Valjean's face was flushed, his expression wiped clean of anything but desire. Javert looked at him, marveling. It seemed a miracle that he had gone from the gutter to this moment. He still didn't understand how Valjean could want this, only knew with a bone-deep certainty that Valjean did. Incredulous joy welled so sharp and strong in him that he nearly couldn't bear it. He caught his breath, overwhelmed.

"Valjean." How often had he spoken that name in bitterness? How often had he cursed that name? Now it was sweeter than any wine.

Again he said, "Valjean," tasting it, and then again, "Valjean," until at last Valjean laughed and kissed him silent.