Author's Note: I'm a bit nervous about the rating. I don't believe it's "explicit" but the themes are adult, so if it's inappropriate for this archive, please drop a line in the reviews letting me know and I will remove it.

Marie came awake slowly. The heavy warmth at her side momentarily startled, then pleased her.

She rolled onto her stomach, reveling in the satisfying ache of well-used muscles. Lifting her head, she studied the man beside her.

He still slept, his silver-streaked hair tangled on the pillow. In sleep, the deep lines of his disapproving scowl were a faint memory. His jaw slack, mouth slightly open, he breathed in soft snores. His eyes, that had always looked so fierce and cold to her, trembled beneath their lids.

The Inspector dreams.

The absurdity of the morning crested over her in a wave, and when it broke she buried her face in her pillow to stifle her laughter.

Never in a thousand years would she have expected, no, imagined, she would have done such things as she'd done last night, let alone with him.

She didn't even know his first name. Oh, he had known hers, whispered it against her neck and moaned it over and over. But she knew him only as Inspector Javert, the man who nodded curtly and bid her good morning when he stopped to buy bread at her father's boulangerie.

"That policeman, he likes you," her father had teased, wiping flour from his hands. "It would be a good thing to have an inspector for a husband."

She'd hushed him. "That man is as old as you are. He has a wife by now."

Besides, she had not liked the serious look of him. She'd much preferred the sweet young men who'd waved at her through the windows as she'd worked. They'd smiled and winked as they'd passed, affirming her appeal far better than a simple, "Bon matin, mademoiselle."

But her father had persisted, as though she had not realized intent when the jokes became more frequent, as though she had not noticed how he'd disappeared, leaving her to tend the sales, every time the Inspector had come through the door.

The Inspector had noticed it, as well. He'd commented on it one morning as he'd glanced around the room for the missing baker. "Forgive me, but is your father ill?"

"No." Her face had flamed with embarrassment, her fingers had gone clumsy as she'd accepted his coins. His fingers had brushed hers, not an unusual occurrence when money changed hands, but she'd felt his touch long after she'd withdrawn her hand. "He is... busy."

He'd nodded in understanding, but no emotion had showed on his face. "I am glad he is not ill. Bon matin, mademoiselle."

Then, he'd left.

Their first conversation, short though it had been, had unsettled her. She'd blamed it on her father's incessant suggestions, but an uneasy feeling had gripped her. By the end of the day, she had burned her fingers on the oven, ruined a batch of dough with too much yeast, and spilled a cupful of flour.

"Perhaps I should not leave you alone with your lover anymore," her father had teased. "You are useless for the rest of the day."

She'd ground her teeth at the comment, and the next time Inspector Javert had come into the bakery, she'd called her father from the backroom to help him.

Still, she'd found her attention wandering, her thoughts filled not with the boys who'd waved at her through the windows, but the man who'd only spoken to her in strict formality.

On days when he had not come to buy bread, she'd fretted every moment, wondering if she would see him again. When she had seen him, she'd acted coolly to him. She'd scolded herself nightly for her foolishness. After all, he was not the hero of romantic daydreams.

Her father had been right. The Inspector would have made a good match, for many practical reasons. But as long as she had her youth, she'd decided she would sneer at practicality a little longer.

They'd continued through the winter with their custom of polite "good mornings." In the early days of spring, she'd fallen ill with a fever and taken to her bed.

When she'd been well enough to join her father for supper again, instead of asking when she would return to work, he'd excitedly given her news of the Inspector.

"He has come round every day!" Her father's eyes had gleamed beneath his bushy brows. "And every day, he asks if you are well and sends his regards. He has spent a fortune on bread. If you pretend to be ill a while longer, we could buy Versailles!"

She'd blushed, not from embarrassment. Despite her protestations to the contrary, the information had pleased her. When she'd returned to her work in the bakery, she'd taken special care to look pretty, tying bright ribbons in her hair and pinching her cheeks until they glowed.

The boys who'd passed had no longer waved at her, because she'd no longer waved back. She'd caught herself staring at the door wistfully, startling whenever a customer had entered.

"He has plenty of bread," her father had quipped when he'd caught her chewing her nails and gazing with longing out the windows. His demeanor had changed then, no longer playful. "Good riddance, for now. He has an ugly disposition."

Her father's displeasure at her new interest had only cemented her resolve.

After a long wait, Inspector Javert had come to buy bread again. Some stroke of good fortune had found her alone while her father had worked in the back room.

She'd smiled at the Inspector, and for the first time, he'd smiled back. Though it had been faint, and though he'd only said his usual "Good Morning, Mademoiselle," she'd thrilled to her toes and her heart had pounded in her chest.

When he'd handed her his coins, she'd pressed them back, letting her fingers linger on his a moment longer than necessary. "My father told me of your concern during my illness."

"It would have been callous of me not to inquire as to your well being." He'd tried again to hand over the money, a wary glint in his eyes. "I see you often, and you are pleasant to see."

Though the words had sounded awkward in his flat, dispassionate tone, they'd pleased her. With the winsome smile she'd practiced in her mirror, she'd handed over a warm baguette wrapped in clean linen. "It was very kind of you. Let me return your kindness. Consider it a gift."

He'd shaken his head, face grim. "It is not yours to give."

She'd not expected a refusal. Baffled by his reaction, she'd sputtered, "It's only bread."

Anger had transformed his features. Without another word to her, he'd stalked out, leaving the bread and money behind.

He hadn't come back after that day, and it had seemed he never would.

Her father's mood had lightened considerably. "Better for you he no longer comes around. I heard from M. Grenouille that the Inspector has never been married! Something must be wrong with him."

"A month ago, you would not have said so," she'd snapped.

With a stunned look, for she'd never spoken to him so, her father had bustled across the room, wiping his fat hands on his apron. "Marie, are you well? Your fever isn't returning?"

With a sob of frustration, she'd run to her room upstairs.

Never having been heart-sick before, she'd expected the feeling to never end. But a month had passed, and she'd set her sights on a beautiful young man, a student of medicine. He'd come into the bakery instead of standing on the sidewalk and flirting through the window panes. He'd been upfront about his intentions— he'd confessed he hadn't come in for bread.

It had been thoughts of him that had driven her from her bed one night, long after her father had gone to sleep. She'd tiptoed past his room, through the small parlor and down the stairs to the bakery.

Despite the fact the ovens had burned all day, the temperature was far more pleasant downstairs. The oppressive June heat— that had coupled with her feverish imaginings to keep her awake the long hours since sunset— had not saw fit to linger in the bakery. She'd opened a shutter and sat in dark, enjoying the cool moonlight and dreaming of her charming student.

The shadow of a man had passed the window and halted.

She still did not know if he'd intended to seek her out, or if he'd happened to pass by as she'd sat at the window. In any case, the reason hadn't mattered. He'd come to the door and softly knocked.

For a moment, she'd expected the young student, and she'd trembled in excitement. When she'd seen Javert there, she'd felt the sting of her wounded pride all over again. Despite his coldness when they'd last spoken, she'd wanted it to be him there all along.

"Inspector," she'd said, hoping she sounded as indifferent to him as she'd imagined she would be if they'd met again. She had not invited him in.

He'd spoken with no emotion, stared through her instead of looked at her. "Your father would do well to board his windows and lock his doors tomorrow night. There will be... troubles. In this part of the city."

Even in the heat of the evening, a chill had raised gooseflesh on her bare arms. With some embarrassment she'd realized she'd only worn her thin, sleeveless chemise, and the garment had seemed little protection from the night air and... other things.

She'd moved to close the door. "I will tell him. Thank you."

The Inspector had stopped the door with his foot. She would have interpreted the action as menacing if she hadn't seen the impassive mask he'd always shown her waver for a fleeting moment.

His dark eyes had held the briefest glimmer of uncertainty, and only then had she noticed the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Beneath his dark overcoat she'd seen he'd worn no waistcoat or jacket. She'd wondered how long he'd been out walking, improperly dressed and disheveled.

"You're afraid." She hadn't meant to say it out loud.

He hadn't denied it. "I must go. There will be many things requiring my attention in the morning."

She'd never considered herself a bold woman. In truth, her fantasies of seduction had been innocent and childish. But when he'd turned from her, she'd caught his arm, compelled by some disturbing force.

Confusion, then horrified understanding had sharpened his features as she'd thrown her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.

It hadn't been soft and romantic. He'd resisted her at first, tried to hold her away. Whatever his objection had been, he hadn't been strong enough to follow it through. His arms had crushed her, his whiskers had scratched her. She'd bitten the inside of her cheek as they'd stumbled through the doorway into the bakery, and his boot had crushed her foot and upset their balance, nearly bringing them to the floor.

She'd led him up the stairs, a finger to her lips to indicate they should be quiet, then into her room where they'd made quick work of her thin chemise and struggled with his buttons and buckles.

It hadn't been what she'd expected, though she hadn't really known what to expect. It hadn't been slow and tender. He hadn't seduced her with romantic words. In fact, they hadn't spoken at all beyond a few awkward, mumbled instructions and an occassional, gruff appology.

Only later, when they'd laid in mutual, stunned silence at what they'd done, had she dared to speak. It had been too late then to break the spell, too late for him to change his mind.

She'd asked him his age, and his answer had shocked her, as he'd been older than she'd expected. The rumor that he'd never married had been true, and he'd added with what had sounded like pride that he'd never been intimate with a woman until her.

"Why now?" she'd asked, though she wouldn't have flattered herself by thinking he'd taken her out of love.

He'd sighed deeply, as though he'd not wished to divulge the reason. "I suppose I am afraid of what might happen tomorrow, and you seemed... comforting."

She'd asked him if he'd ever been interested in her, and he'd informed her with brutal honesty that though he had desired her, he would never have seriously considered pursuing her.

"My duty is the law, to the exclusion of all else. A wife and family would be unfairly neglected." He'd said this with a casual shrug. "You're better off with your young doctor."

It had pleased her, oddly, that he'd known about her suitor. She'd laid against him, and though the heat in the tiny room had been such that they'd stripped the bed of it's coverlet, he had not pulled away.

"Do you ever regret living this way? It must be lonely," she'd whispered sleepily against his shoulder.

He'd replied without hesitation. "There are many things I could regret. But it would be an insult to God to presume I knew better how to manage the opportunities he's given me."

She'd twisted a lock of her hair around her finger, not sure how to respond, and when she'd released the strands, he'd taken them up.

"Why did you refuse to take the bread?" She'd turned her face to study his expression, and had been surprised to see amusement in his usually emotionless eyes.

He hadn't answered her. He'd covered her mouth with his, her body with his body, and there had been no more talking.

She hadn't asked him his name.

Now, in the light of morning, she wished she knew.

The light of morning.

She hadn't risen to help her father in the bakery.

Bolting upright in the bed, she looked to the door. She had closed it the night before, she was sure. Now, it was slightly open. Her father had come in to wake her.

Humiliation burned in her face. Of course, he had to have known. He would have heard. In her naiveté, she'd assumed love making would be quiet and gentle. She squeezed her eyes shut tight at the memory of how she'd cried out, how the bed had rocked and creaked. Hot tears of shame escaped her closed lids.

Beside her, Javert stirred.

"Bon matin, mademoiselle." For a man who claimed no regrets, he did not sound so sure of himself now.

He rose from the bed like a thief fleeing the scene of his crime and grabbed for his clothes. He dressed to his shirt before he turned, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Look at you. You're not much more than a child."

Suddenly too exposed, she reached for the discarded coverlet and clutched it to her chest. "I am not a child."

"Not after what I've done." He shook his head and reached for his coat. After much fumbling, he withdrew a handful of franc notes and thrust them at her. "Take this."

When his meaning became clear, the humiliation that had weighed heavy on her doubled, crushing her. She looked on the money in his hand with distaste. "No."

"Take it," he demanded, and though he raised his voice she did not hush him.

Blinking back tears, she shook her head. "Would you make a whore of me?"

He paled. "Not a whore. It is not recompense. It is a gift."

Her own words, like a slap in the face.

"You needn't pay me for the pleasure of my company, Inspector." She rolled the word out like an accusation. Bitterly, and with as much mockery as she could summon, she stood and managed an awkward curtsey. "It was no trouble at all."

"It may be, yet." He tossed the bills onto the mattress.

She turned away from the sight of her virgin blood on the sheets as the full import of his words sank in. He'd made it clear he had no more than a passing interest in her. He'd said he did not want a wife and family.

She sank to the bed. Her body, that had hummed with life and pleasure the night before, seemed numb and dead, not under her control. She watched as he finished dressing, fixed his hair into a severe horsetail, and went to her wash stand to splash water on his face.

"Is there a back stair?" He turned to her with an impassive expression, sliding his arms into his overcoat as though donning a suit of armor. No trace of remorse showed on his features, as if by the simple act of dressing he'd detached himself from the man who'd been with her in the night.

She nodded, then lifted a trembling hand to point. "At the back of the parlor."

"Thank you." He strode to the door, his boots heavy on the aging floorboards.

"Wait!"

Rather than tenderness, it was a look of worried annoyance that graced his features when he turned back. "Yes?"

"What is your name? Your Christian name?" She fought to keep the tears from her voice.

He hesitated a moment.

Please, she urged silently. Please, you owe me this much.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, as though he hadn't said the name in years and it had rusted in his throat. "Emile."

Then he turned, and he was gone.

Javert's warnings of troubles in the streets hadn't been for naught. Marie and her father had huddled in their rooms while the streets turned into a battlefield for the night.

Her father had not mentioned Javert's presence in their home that morning, and she could not decided what was worse: facing her mistake or pretending it had never happened.

In the days after the barricade fell and the street was cleared, she mourned the Inspector. What she knew of his demise— that he'd been fished from the river with not a mark on him, that it was whispered he'd committed suicide— she learned from the eager rumors passed on by the women who came to buy their bread. They chattered like vultures picking at the bones of the tragedy, and though her father tried to keep their tales from reaching her ears, she would not be prevented.

"Perhaps it was some other gendarme," he'd assured her, patting her hand. The gesture was strained now, as though her indiscretion had built an impenetrable wall between them. "You'll see. He'll be in any day now."

To indulge her father, to humor his hope that his shame would somehow be miraculously cured, she'd agreed with him.

But a month passed, then another, then summer was over entirely. Her father could no longer pretend.

"Your Inspector... he will not come back."

She said nothing, only slipped a hand behind her apron to feel the bump of her slowly expanding abdomen.

"And your student?" he asked, eyeing her with something akin to hope.

"No, papa." She excused herself then, blinking back tears as she hurried from the room. It had been a miracle such a fine young man had taken an interest in her in the first place. It would have been too much to ask of him to raise another man's bastard child, and he'd told her as much when she'd stupidly confided in him.

In the dark of the night, when she lay alone on her narrow bed and the tiny life within her grew restless, she wondered what would have happened if he'd survived. She constructed a tragic story for herself, so she could grieve his loss at the hands of bloodthirsty revolutionaries, rather than silently rage at him for destroying his own life.

Other nights, she painted a detailed, vivid fantasy for their child, so he wouldn't have to know the truth of his father's demise.

At times, she caught herself believing her own lie, imagining that if he'd survived that terrible night he would have returned for her and they would have rejoiced at the new life they'd created. It took away some of the pain of knowing he'd used her body for "comfort."

In the end, the only comfort she had was his name. It helped ease the pain a bit, if only to put a name to her mistake. For a few months in her youth, she had been stupidly in love with Emile Javert.