This fic is remix of Carmarthen's "Top Model".

Valjean suspected it to be a joke at first, but when Javert outlined his arguments in succinct points, he was forced to take it as a serious suggestion. Somehow, without ever quite recalling how he had agreed to it, Valjean now found himself modeling for Javert's life-drawing exercises about twice a week.

It was, his friend insisted, to improve his ability to sketch criminals in a quick and moderately competent hand. A skill which would support order; in other words, to help him improve was a good deed. And Valjean was free to spend the time reading or gaze upon his garden while Javert trained his skills; surely it was not such a chore?

No, Valjean was forced to admit, no, it wasn't exactly a chore... however, he did find it distracting to have Javert's concentrated stare aimed his way. Despite seeing Javert dutifully destroy the sketches after each session, he still felt nervous; these images were meant to look like the ones going into police records!

He was not Javert's only subject, though he was the only one so frequently depicted. More and more frequently, he saw Javert take out a small sketch pad and unwrap a stick of charcoal when they were out and about. He would sometimes sketch children playing, women walking and men conversing; but the less aesthetic subjects were more likely to catch his eye. Carters unloading their wagons, beggars sitting with their hands out, layabouts ambling past with their eyes trained on fat purses and soldiers marching by. In fact, Valjean realized that most of Javert's attempts seemed focused on the male form. When he enquired about it, the Inspector shrugged him off and pointed out that all statistics were in agreement: male criminals far outnumbered females. It made far more sense for him to concentrate his efforts there.

They had known each other for decades at this time, and been friends for some two years. A friendship grown mostly peaceful after those turbulent days when they had both needed to re-evaluate their place in the world and Javert had wrestled most ferociously with his conscience.

Javert had been drawing him for almost a year, his hand growing surer each month; yet he had not shown Valjean anything beyond detail studies, if one excluded the very first images. Those, he had used to convincingly argue that he needed training. And while the first months seemed to have been a steady progress, Valjean occasionally being shown a particular evocative likeness when they visited a café together, Javert's mood during their artistic sessions had declined lately.

Finally, one sweltering August eve, when they had already had a minor quarrel about Valjean's habit of loading his pockets with coins (in Javert's opinion, he was both ruining the fabric and exposing himself to cut-throats) Javert was at his usual sketching when without warning, he made a frustrated sound nearing the growl of a beast, and threw his charcoal and the entire sketch pad into the fire grate.

Valjean stared in amazement: though the fire was out, he had never imagined that Javert would handle his supplies so carelessly.

"What in the world is the matter?" he asked. "I have not moved, have I?" He had been reading a slim volume of poetry and though the small type sometimes had him squinting, he thought he had behaved quite properly for a model.

"Of course not," Javert said. "You are as always an exemplary subject of study. No, it is my skills that keep failing me..." Feeling the weight of Valjean's silent enquiry, he rose and began to pace back and forth. "I can manage faces, somewhat, but the lines of the body continue to elude me."

"Are they then so important for your work?"

Javert gave him a tired look from beneath his grey fringe. "A man's face he will try to change and disguise, but it is far harder to transform the stoop of a back, the gait, the scars and callouses on his hands..."

He did not mention how he knew this, and Valjean pretended not to hear the silent rebuke in it; still, an awkward silence fell between them. When it only lenghtened, and the past seemed to grow far too close and large Valjean mumbled something about preparing a drink, then escaped to the kitchen.

They did not speak further of drawing a man's likeness that night. Indeed, the next Saturday, when Javert habitually came to him after his shift had ended, he did not mention anything about modelling, nor did Valjean see a sketch pad.

The silence continued for another week, until Valjean caught himself looking at his own face in the mirror while shaving; he had been considering asking Cosette to cut his hair again and suddenly recalled the barely contained hilarity on Javert's face when he had not dried his hair properly before going out in the wintry night some months ago. Only when Valjean felt a drop of water fall onto his nose did he realize a few tufts of hair must have frozen, probably in an amusing position. He had tried to wrestle those drawings away from Javert at the end of the session, but with the quick fingers of a police spy he had made them disappear up his shirtsleeves before Valjean could more than a peek at them...

How odd. The evenings that had been awkward at first, had become pleasant with time and so gradually that Valjean had never noticed before. Now, he missed them. They still walked together, talked together, but the silent comfort of feeling Javert's concentration rest wholly on him without having to reciprocate with thoughts, when he was free to relax in the nearness of his otherwise prickly friend, or simply look at him in turn; when he could see that fierce brow knitted in concentration and knew he did not have to worry about some poor unfortunate caught between the law and mercy...

They had not seen each other as much in these last weeks, had they? Javert was too restless to remain for hours without something to occupy his hands. Valjean found it tiring, after so many years in silent contemplation, to engage someone in entertaining dialogue and conversation for an entire night; it was different on the streets, where they could silently point out sights to each other, where there was a constant stream of new images and sounds to speak of; but conversation for the sake of conversation? No, neither of them was skilled in that area.

Nevertheless, he missed the peaceful hours with Javert.

The next time they were taking coffee together, a man of a singular build entered the café: He was so large that he must bend beneath the spacious door, and the cup looked like a toy in his hand, almost disappearing when he walked over to his table. Valjean was not at all surprised when Javert's lips crinkled in a familiar way, the minute suggestion of a smile which was all he would allow himself in public. He reached for his pocket – only to halt, glance at Valjean, and placidly return his hands to his lap instead.

"I do not mind, you know," he said in his most friendly tone. "I know you recognized my back before my face; and while it caused me considerable difficulties, I think it would be a shame not to put your talent to its best use."

Waving him off, Javert replied. "I should give up this conceit. My dabbling is good enough to produce an image to pass around at the station. Further training is nothing but a waste of time and money." Upon glancing at Valjean, perhaps noticing his displeasure, he added, "I have grown lax in my reading, however. Perhaps we could attempt that together?"

Valjean smiled non-committally; though he did in truth find it interesting to discuss his reading matter with Javert, it was not something that made for peaceful evenings. They had wildly differing tastes and their debates could grow quite heated, even discounting the times Javert would aim his complaints at the author as if he were there with them to be lectured. However, the last time they read together had been months ago. Perhaps they would find a better equilibrium now that they both knew they could remain peacefully in one room for a length of time?

A young lady passed, her blond hair peeking out beneath a pale blue bonnet, and Valjean was reminded of another girl, far fairer to his eye; she was growing into a beautiful woman, but a father's eye will always miss looking upon the time flown by. "Shame. Here I thought to ask you to create a portrait of Cosette for me," he murmured, scarce noticing that he had spoken out loud.

"Your daughter?" Javert pulled at his whiskers, then shook his head. "I would not dare. I have only worked in the small scale – and women, no, they are hard to draw. The lines become too rough."

"Oh, but it would not have to be a grand picture," Valjean protested, seizing upon the hint of interest in Javert's voice. "Only a little thing, for my writing desk perhaps. Would you not consider it? For this, I freely offer myself up if you need to practice further."

Javert tapped his finger at the table, following the girl with his eyes. "I would need to make some attempts first..." he said. "But I suppose... Though honestly, it is the – Ah, never mind, this is foolishness."

He returned to his coffee with a certain sulky determination and Valjean chose discretion for now. The drawing evenings were not taken up again, though the little sketch-pad made an occasional appearance on their outings. However, when Javert accompanied him to Mass about a month later, and they encountered Cosette and her husband, he took a moment to remind the other man of his request.

This time, Javert seemed more inclined to give it a try, and a few days later, he arranged Valjean in the armchair in one of his usual poses, a book in his hand.

"I believe my skills have rusted," Javert said as he worked. He frowned down at the paper, and stuck the stick of charcoal behind his ear to move his seat. "It is not only the angles that are off this time," he continued to complain, "your arm is – no, no, for God's sake don't move it!"

"Pardon me," Valjean said, flexing the muscles slightly. "It seems as if I too have gone out of practice, for I am feeling unusually stiff tonight. And my cravat is itching."

At that, Javert's charcoal stopped it's light movement. "Well. You might as well loosen it then. This attempt is rubbish either way. In fact..."

"Yes?"

If his eyes did not deceive him, Javert was almost squirming with discomfort in his seat. "I believe one of my problems with drawing body lines... You recall how we discussed this before?"

Valjean nodded, then turned the movement into an exaggerated roll of his head, wincing at the crackling sounds produced.

"I believe it is because I have problems drawing the, ah, male form."

"But you have practised on me for over a year?"

"No," Javert corrected him, "I have practised on the male emface/em for over a year. I do not quite have the space to fit your whole profile onto the small sketch-pad," he complained. "And even if I had... To put it bluntly: it is hard to draw clothes covering a body properly, when one does not know how to draw the body beneath."

Valjean raised an eyebrow at the insinuation. "Well!"

Javert pulled at his whiskers again and looked down at his drawing with a pitying look, very much the owner of a little pup that could not, despite much coaxing, learn how to properly behave. "I regret to admit that my assumption regarding why art students insisted on having young ladies lying around might have been somewhat in error."

Happy to leave the topic of drawing the male form – especially his male form – unclothed, Valjean properly put away his book and regarded Javert more openly. "Only somewhat?"

"If you had been at the disturbance in Rue des Ursulines, you would understand." Seeing Valjean's curious look, Javert leaned back in his chair and gave a heavy sigh. "I have never told you this? It is practically a legend in the precinct..."

"You are the only policeman I regularly find myself in conversation with, Monsieur Javert, so if I have not heard of this legend, the blame must lie at your feet."

"Ah, well, true enough. And I suspect you would not be satisfied if I revealed that it began with the neighbours complaining of odd noises, and ended with three policemen chasing half a dozen naked students down the street? While the fourth, and most unfortunate, officer was attempting to take the names and addresses of an equal number of insufficiently dressed grisettes? Oh, laugh at me, will you! I shall have you know that those women were among the most unhelpful and rude witnesses I have ever had the misfortune to interrogate."

"Worse than the time the widow Chevalier thought you were the burglar who had come back to steal more of her pots and assaulted you with them?"

When Javert buried his face in his hands Valjean laughed loudly, and they spent the rest of the evening swapping tales and anecdotes. Only later did it hit Valjean that they had spoken about the time in Montreuil-sur-Mer without allowing the dark memories to poison the evening, or even feel a need to remark upon the injuries they'd committed towards each other in any particular way.

Next week, Javert brought with him a large roll consisting of several sheets of drawing paper. The sheets were still not of the size of a full portrait canvas, but must have cost a fair sum even so. When Valjean enquired about them, Javert refused to reveal the cost, and his estimate of the prize doubled.

"I shall give you a full receipt for the sketches done in preparation of Cosette's portrait," was as far as Javert was willing to bend on that matter. "These, however, are for my personal edification, and as such their cost is none on your business. Now then; off with the waistcoat and shirt, please."

Valjean blanched. "If you need to train on drawing more elegant lines," he began, but Javert shook his head sternly.

"I cannot learn to draw the human form by painting flowers or other such silly things," he insisted. "The skeletal structure is similar between the sexes. I found half a book of anatomy on sale recently, and it has taught me a great deal – it is no wonder your shoulders would never come out right before! However, drawings are flat, still, lacking in shadows and vitality... If all you wish is for a generic image, which a doting eye might imagine to be Cosette if squinting a little and turning ijust so/i –" Here, Valjean could not hold back his laughter from Javert's mocking impression of a dandy attempting to see the good in the portrait he had just bought from a hungover student in the park. "– go hunt down some starving artist. Lord knows they litter the city like flies! No. My lines may be rougher and my attempt less flattering, but I will not draw your daughter so that she becomes indistinguishable from a hundred other female illustrations made and discarded in the artistic schools."

"Then I shall simply take my embarrassment and attempt to put it away," Valjean said, and he hurried to remove his shirt before his shame won over his good cheer.

Perhaps Javert had expected some more resistance from him; perhaps he was not as unaffected as he made to be. Whatever the reason, he stood staring at Valjean for a moment – not with his observing eye, measuring angles and planes, counting pen strokes and trying out lines in his mind. No, this was a far more open view, curiously unguarded, and it made Valjean conscious of his body: old, still muscled and wiry, but wrinkled and sagging in places. Scarred too. And worn, so very worn, badly used by time and life. He clutched the shirt in his hands and wished he might pull it over his body and eyes to hide himself completely within.

"Do not," Javert said, a roughness in his voice. "You are..." His hands drifted out, he stood too far away to touch, but Valjean could almost feel the ghosts of his fingers tracing him and he shivered and clenched the shirt until he could feel the fibres give around his fingers. "I have always drawn," Javert said, his words easy and unaffected, but his voice too rough, too intense by far. "In the sand, with pieces of coal... It helped my memory, where writing lists took too long and was too much an effort for many years. But the drawings of a policeman easily become caricatures. You have a description: a tall man, a scar over his eyes, large nose twice broken. How is his jaw? The witness knows not. The shape of his face? Round, oval, they do not recall. How are his eyes – sunken, large, squinting, pig-like, jaundiced? Perhaps they were brown, the witness says, but most decidedly, they were evil. Yes, evil; a policeman learns to see evil and he must try to draw evil. Is it the swarthy face that the old woman robbed considers evil, or is it the thick drunkard which evokes this image in her? How looks a villain or a scoundrel? Impossible to tell, and so I gave up my attempts to capture these likenesses; I drew the caricatures and reminded my colleagues to look at every face with equal suspicion, to tease out the traces of evil in all men they passed. But then..." Javert made that gesture that Valjean had seen so many times in these last two years. Something invisible thrown away, he had first thought; something unfathomable taken hold of, he later amended it to. The night of the barricades, the convict forgiven and let go, the life not quitted – all that, and a little more.

It was not something Javert could name, nor was it a topic Valjean could speak of and so, between them, it had become only this formless movement of a hand: the night of "but then".

"You could not be captured," Javert said, and Valjean felt the memories of shackles and chains upon him; oh, he could, he had been, and that he had escaped was Providence and nothing more. "No caricature was enough to take you in; Jean-the-Jack perhaps. Or the mayor without a past, he might be divined from such an image, but you? No, no, and so I took it up again. I was restless – I still am, you'd say, but it was worse when we began, and I had drawn you for a month before I realized why. It feels right to hunt you, it felt good to fail to capture you again, even if it was only with my pen and in my lines. But the longer the hunt went on, the more frustrating it became. Let me, now." He walked up to Valjean, his hand held out, as if he was a man attempting to tame a hesitant beast, and when he put the stump of pen against Valjean's arm, it was like a galvanic shock passing between them. Valjean found his face snap up, turn towards Javert, meet the dark eyes beneath the dark brows, saw the hunter who dared not approach his prey. Javert wet his lips, and Valjean thought to see hunger in the gesture, and felt a replying wave rising within him; he knew it not, could not name it, and so he only stood trembling while it swept all possible replies away. "Let me attempt it," Javert said again.

Nodding, Valjean let the shirt fall from slack hands, turned like a sleepwalker and almost collapsed in the armchair. He was in his trousers. Javert's eyes were on him, he heard the sound of the charcoal upon paper and the tremors coursed through him again and again, before he fell into complete stillness. He could not take up a book; the words would have made no sense. He could not speak, not turn, wished nothing and knew only occasionally this shapeless hunger within – he thought first it would tear him apart, then realized as the stillness grew and the cold sweat dried upon his nape that it was being fed; not sated, not yet, but fed and growing more and more tolerable the longer Javert's eyes were on him.

The charcoal upon paper, the rustling of Javert rolling up his sleeves, the beating of his heart so wild within the stillness – to these sounds, Jean Valjean drifted off to restless sleep, with dreams full of hunts and shapeless struggles.