A tall, dark and sinister man stood on the step of my flat. I laughed to myself at this clichéd description, watching him, the way he moved, the way his hair and coat fell. I had never seen him before. He was beautiful, if one appreciated the fallen angel appearance. I adored him from first sight. It wasn't until some minutes later that I realized I hadn't spoken, had only been staring. With the faintest of irritated smirks, he stared back.

I smiled, self-effacively, moving aside to invite him in. He entered, also without speaking. After another awkward moment, I spoke. "Monsieur? Would you be here for a fan, or a tattoo?"

He nodded, and it was obvious that he wanted the latter. He removed his hat, and I idly pointed to my shaky stand, already gathering my materials. Trying not to be distracted by the glory of his bound hair. I wanted to paint him so badly, my hands ached. I began mentally sketching him, starting from his feet. Worn, practical boots, black and polished; somber, practical pants, also black, with several minor reparations; gunmetal grey greatcoat mostly covering a dark waistcoat and cravat; silky, wild, shoulder-length auburn hair, ferocious even when captured in a fiercely meticulous ponytail; full lips that had never been on the receiving end of anything even spoken of as a kiss; strange and enormous sideburns to hide behind, smoldering blue eyes, capable of great mirth and great devastation, and here was my man. My customer. He towered over me, so I quickly urged him to my threadbare stool before I became too intimidated and flustered to continue.

After a spot of rummaging, I had gathered my inks, needles, and cloths, everything I needed. In my excitement, I had forgotten the time. It was nearly 11:00, I had already worked all day, and I needed to be up early the next morning. However, a customer was a customer, beautiful and mysterious or not. I hoped he wanted a small tattoo, however.

It was again up to me to instigate conversation. "Ah, Monsieur? Where would you be wanting your tattoo?"

Still without speaking, he removed the formidable coat, glanced at me as if gauging my reaction, than peeled off his jacket, waistcoat, cravat and shirt, leaving his chest bare. I gasped, slightly, in admiration, during the pause while he arranged these neatly on the floor, regaining control by the time he looked up. He smoothly thrust a tattered sheet of paper into my hand, without a hint of abashment at his near nudity…the bareness of his chest merely accentuated the slight duskiness of his skin, paleness of his eyes, and strength of his body. I shivered, ever so slightly, and watched him turn his back to me, inclining his left shoulder just enough for me to realize this was where the tattoo was to be placed. Carefully, I unfolded the sheet, slowly as to savor the suspense. It was a simple enough pattern, but would be excruciatingly beautiful on this radiant being's back. It was a series of plain, four pointed stars drawn on a lifelike shoulder, trickling down like a silent waterfall. There were no colours specified; it was done with a bit of charcoal, perhaps even ash from a fire, and I dared not ask. I decided it was up to my discretion. My breath caught in my throat. This man understood art, and beauty, and…was getting more and more impatient.

Several hours later, during which the man hadn't so much as flinched, and he had a cascade of brilliantly coloured stars cascading down his shoulder. I stood back slightly, admiring, dabbing occasionally at the small, enhancing trickles of blood. I sighed softly as I realized I was done, presenting him with a pair of mirrors so he could see. He nodded, turned to me, and passed me a Louis d'Or. I tried to pass it back, it was far too much, but he had already stood and begun dressing. I placed it on the table behind me, and leaned against it to watch him.

Just as he was leaving, I couldn't resist asking him one final question.

"What is your name, monsieur?"
He chuckled softly, smoothing his coat over the tattooed shoulder. "Don't you know, boy? I am Inspector Javert."

He swirled, and was gone.

(AN: after some confusion, I moved this bit: "There were no colours specified, it was done with a bit of charcoal, perhaps even ash from a fire, and I dared not ask. I decided it was up to my discretion." Just to make it clear that it's the drawing done in coal, not the tattoo. Also, because it is from Feuilly's POV, we really can't know Javert's motives. So, I don't know why he didn't, but I have a feeling it was on impulse. And I know the stars motive is terribly corny and clichéd, but…as a wise drama teacher once told me "Ya can't teach a Heinz Pickle nothin'". Or the plot bunnies…thanks! I don't mean to sound ranty, just clarifying a few things)