Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Hello. I’m Inspector Javert. You don’t know me, but our lives have crossed at several points, though not in the most pleasant of ways. First, I played a rather significant role in your mother’s death, not directly, of course, but by utterly crushing her spirit with the devastating notion that she would never see you again. And then there’s the matter of your father – ah, adoptive father. I hunted him down for years like a bloodhound. Every time you had to hide, every time you had to flee from one place to the next, that was on me. Whops. But don’t worry, it’s all come to an end now. Your father, in a truly baffling turn of events, saved my life after I jumped in the Seine. Yes, I know, it doesn’t make sense. And now, for reasons that remain utterly inexplicable to both of us, we’re living together. Yes, living together. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure how that happened, but here we are…”

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point,” Valjean interrupted with a deep sigh, his eyes narrowing. “You could’ve just said you didn’t want to meet Cosette for tea…”

“I TRIED!” Javert shot back, his voice tinged with frustration.

Valjean raised his hands, conceding defeat. For half an hour, he had tried to persuade Javert to accompany him to Pontmercy’s house, and while Javert initially declined with politeness, it became clear that bluntness was the only language Valjean understood. Finally, Javert was allowed to go back to his periodical.

Valjean paced restlessly for the whole time it took for Cosette’s carriage to arrive, which Javert assumed was born from excitement at seeing his daughter again after a long, insufferable two days. However, when Valjean came back four hours later, his restlessness had not abated. The man kept standing up and sitting down in an annoying sequence of disturbances, and most displeasing of all, he kept glancing at Javert, who was now trying to read a book and felt increasingly irritated by the other’s gaze.

“What is it?” Javert finally asked, breaking the silence that had blessed him for four hours of peace.

Valjean hesitated for just a second before answering. “I was thinking… Were you serious before?”

Javert frowned. What the hell could Valjean possibly be referring to? Their last conversation had been hours ago – how could he even remember what had been said? In the end, Javert opted for the absolute truth. “I’m always serious.”

Valjean chuckled, the gesture smoothing the little lines at the corners of his eyes. Javert found himself thinking, not for the first time, that Valjean was incredibly handsome. He quickly dismissed the thought. “Well, yes, that you are. We’ll talk about that too; you do need to cheer up a bit. But what I meant was, did you really think what you said earlier? You know, when you were pretending to talk to Cosette?”

Ah. Now that cleared things up a bit, even though the sudden clarity was hardly comforting. The memories that resurfaced were not pleasant ones, each moment an indictment of his past self. The hospital, Fantine’s face twisted with desperation, his own rigid adherence to a law he had yet to find fault in – all of it felt like a heavy chain around his conscience. Javert wondered, not for the first time, if a different choice back then could have rewritten the tragedy. Had Valjean really never considered that, without his intervention in the hospital, Fantine could have stayed alive at least a little longer? Long enough to see her daughter one last time before dying? Javert shuddered. If Valjean had never considered that, perhaps it would change things between them. Perhaps the other man wouldn’t want to be friends with a murderer. Somehow, the thought was unbearable, but Javert couldn’t avoid answering – not when Valjean was staring at him so worriedly, as though the destiny of the whole world rested on the words he was about to pronounce.

“Well, Jean, yes,” Javert admitted softly. “I didn’t mean it, of course. I was a different man back then, but I obviously didn’t reassure the poor woman, did I? She was already weak and dying, and I fear seeing me like that, threatening her benefactor, was the last nail in the coffin for poor Fantine…”

Valjean, who up to that point had been frowning, immediately brightened. “Oh, that! No, no, I didn’t mean that. Yes, seeing you obviously killed her; that’s not the part I was asking about. What I meant was…” He blushed now, but Javert didn’t notice, too busy containing his relief that Valjean didn’t think him a horrible man. Well, no more horrible than before the conversation, at least. “When you said that you don’t know why we’re living together. Do you really think that?”

Javert blinked a few times, frowning. “Well… Don't you?”

“I suppose,” was Valjean’s reply. “Should we ask ourselves?”

Javert shrugged. “What for? Are you going to throw me out if we don’t find a good enough reason?”

“Of course not. Are you going to leave?”

“Depends. Do you want me to leave?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“What are we even talking about?”

“I don’t know!” Valjean stood up and began pacing nervously. “I mean, in the beginning you were sick and obviously couldn’t go home. Then you felt better, but you still needed someone to keep an eye on you due to your compulsive inability to take care of yourself and inexplicable desire to take a dip in the Seine. But now? If there’s no reason for you to stay, why are you still here?”

Javert could hardly breathe. Well, that was it. He had said too much, and Valjean had realized that he was but a parasite in his house, an unwanted guest it was high time to throw out. It wasn’t the end of the world. He had lived alone before and could very well do the same now. He saw Valjean trying to speak but stopping a couple of times, and he braced himself for the news he was about to hear, absently wondering how it could be that suddenly the idea of living alone was more than he could bear.

Finally, Valjean let himself fall onto the sofa, looking at anything but Javert. His shoulders trembled slightly, a betraying quiver that hinted at the storm beneath. Was it anger? Sadness? Embarrassment? Javert couldn’t tell. Valjean’s voice emerged muffled from behind his hands. “If you have no reason to stay, what’s stopping you from leaving me?”

Javert blinked once, twice, three times. Had he completely misread the situation? Was it possible Valjean wasn’t trying to tell him to leave but instead didn’t know how to ask him to stay?

His suspicion was confirmed when Valjean’s fingers parted to reveal a blushing face and a slightly trembling lip. “I guess I just need to know you’re not going anywhere. Yet. I just found myself suddenly alone after years of Cosette’s company, and… I don’t think I could bear the loneliness again. Not if it’s sudden. Not if you were to leave from one day to the next. Please, just… just give me a little warning, will you?”

Now that he knew what the problem was, Javert wanted to put the poor man’s mind at ease, but he found himself unable to speak. What was he supposed to say? ‘Valjean, to be deprived of your presence would be a torment I am unprepared to endure; therefore, I won’t leave until you kick me out’? No, too revealing. ‘Valjean, I’ve been here for months; I’m fairly certain my possessions have been destroyed and my house let to someone else’? True, but that would only prompt Valjean to buy him a mansion just like he had bought him a whole new wardrobe when he had discovered Javert possessed no clothes but uniforms. The longer he thought, the less sure he felt, and the more Valjean grew restless and anxious. In the end, fearing Valjean would mistake his silence for a goodbye and unable to think of something sensible to say, Javert simply blurted out one word. “Taxes!”

Valjean frowned, fear and confusion replaced by disbelief. “Taxes?” he repeated, as though the word itself was a foreign concept. His brow furrowed theatrically, and he tilted his head, trying to grasp the logic in Javert’s declaration. “You’re staying here because of… Taxes?”

“Well, yes!” Javert clapped, as if he had just had a stroke of genius. “You see, by sharing a household we’ll reduce not only taxes, but all expenses! Bread, coal, candles – It is far more economical to sustain one fire than two. When I secure a new job, I’ll help you pay for the upkeep of the house, and all things considered, since we clearly tolerate each other’s close proximity, living together is the most sensible thing to do. Don’t you think, Valjean?”

Javert was rewarded with the most dazzling smile he had ever seen.

A few weeks had passed since the two men had come to the decision of living together for tax purposes, and even though no economic advantages had been actively found, neither of them brought up the topic again. However, another topic was brought up suddenly and without warning on a Tuesday afternoon, one for which Javert had not prepared, though in retrospect he probably should have.

"Javert, tea with Cosette and me at four?" Valjean called cheerfully from the other room.

Javert, who was drinking a glass of water, promptly choked on it. As he was coughing, Valjean peeped out from the other room, worried. “Are you okay?” he inquired.

Well, time to take advantage of the unfortunate choking incident, Javert decided. Coughing again, louder and more theatrically, he shook his head. "Cough, cough... I can’t come. I’m... terribly sick."

The silence that followed was far too long. Javert dared a glance toward the door, only to find Valjean standing there, his face pale, his expression a mix of terror and worry. "Sick? Javert, are you unwell? You didn’t say anything this morning!"

Before Javert could protest or clarify, Valjean was at his side, a hand hovering uncertainly near his forehead. "You’ve been coughing? You’re not feverish, are you? Could it be your lungs? The Seine... oh, mon Dieu, the pneumonia!"

Javert barely managed a splutter of denial before Valjean had whisked him toward the bedroom. "You need rest. Bed. Now."

"Valjean, really, I…"

But Valjean wouldn’t hear it. "Not a word. You’re going straight to bed.” With surprising efficiency, he pushed Javert onto his bed, and all but tucked him in, fussing over the blankets. “I’ll call the housemaid to prepare some chicken broth. It’s nourishing and gentle.”

Javert sighed heavily, sinking back into the pillows and regretting all of his life choices up to that moment. “I’m not dying, Valjean,” he muttered, but the other man only frowned more deeply and shushed him, announcing he’d be back soon.

As Valjean’s footsteps retreated down the hall, Javert had the time to process the fast-paced events of the last minutes and found himself suffering a strong wave of shame. He hadn’t truly appreciated, nor even paid attention to, Valjean’s care during those harrowing days of pneumonia. But now, as he laid there, he remembered. The cool, steady hand that soothed his fevered brow. The tireless attention to every small need when he had had neither the strength nor the will to care for himself. Valjean had been unyieldingly patient, transformed into a nurse without complaint or expectation of gratitude.

Javert clenched his fists against the sheets, guilt building in his chest. Valjean had done all of that, and not once, Javert realized, had he apologized for the worry he had caused during those weeks of recovery. And now, he had done it again – only this time not even for a real illness. Just his selfish desire to avoid tea.

The shame deepened as he heard Valjean’s steps approaching once more. By the time the door opened, Javert had resolved to confess. He couldn’t do this to Valjean – not again. He would apologize, even if it meant enduring tea with Cosette, the girl who most reminded him of his darkest mistakes.

“Here’s some soup, Javert,” Valjean announced softly, entering the room with a tray. Before Javert could utter a word, Valjean added, “If you’re too weak to eat on your own, I’ll gladly feed you.”

Javert’s mouth opened, then closed. He stared at Valjean, utterly dumbfounded. If asked later, he wouldn’t have been able to explain what had prompted him to continue the charade for a few more days.

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, sunlight streamed through the window as Javert hunched over a piece of paper, furiously scribbling notes with the intensity of a man on a mission. It wasn’t anything elaborate; not a letter nor an article, just a few jotted-down thoughts with a specific goal in mind. The goal was prevention: since Valjean had lately been insistent on getting him to drink tea with Cosette, Javert had decided to prepare for the next attack with a list of excuses. Up to now, the list read:

• Rare astronomical phenomena to observe. Pro: V. knows I like stars, so very believable. Con: He’d just suggest having tea earlier so we could be home by nightfall.
• Dinner to be cooked. Pro: V. might appreciate the gesture and lay off my back for a while. Con: I’d have to cook dinner.
• Previous engagement with a friend. Pro: He’d never suggest I skip a previous commitment. Con: I have no friends, he’d call me out on it.
• Neighbour in need of help. Pro: Helping a neighbour is a kind gesture, V. would approve. Con: He knows all our neighbours and would likely offer to join me.
• Harsh weather. Pro: V. would insist I stay home to avoid getting sick. Con: Can only be used in harsh weather conditions.
• Fresh bread in the oven. Pro: V. gets incredibly awkward when I mention bread and would not ask further questions. Con: I don’t know how to use the oven.
• I lost my hat. Pro: V. knows I’d never leave without it. Con: He also knows I’d never lose it.
• Allergy to tea. Pro: He’d never put me at risk. Con: Can’t recall if I’ve ever had tea in front of him.
• Fasting to atone for a sin. Pro: V. wants my soul to be pure, he’d approve. Con: He’d fast with me, and he needs to eat. He’s already lost too much weight on my account.
• Old knee injury acting up. Pro: V. wouldn’t want me to walk. Con: He might offer to carry me.
• Lost in philosophical pondering. Pro: V. respects deep thought and reflection. Con: He might join in with his own musings, and we’d never get out of it.
• Working out. Pro: V. always says I need to build back some muscles after my illness. Con: V. might join me, and we’d have to actually work out.

Rereading the last point, Javert’s mind suddenly filled with images of Valjean working out. His muscles tensing up as they had back in Toulon, sweat glistening on his skin, low groans escaping his lips with each exertion… Clearing his throat and blushing slightly, he quickly revised the con to a pro.

He was absently chewing on his pencil when Valjean’s voice startled him from behind. “What are you writing?”

Crumpling the piece of paper and hurriedly shoving it into his pocket, Javert couldn’t help but notice that lately, fishing for an excuse had become his favourite sport. “It’s just... a shopping list!”

“But Javert, I went shopping yesterday with the housemaid! Did we forget something you need?” Valjean frowned, concerned. “Is there something you wish to tell me? If you’re not happy with the food we can think of something else. I don’t want you to be in want or in need of anything…”

There he was again, all caring and thoughtful. It was exhausting, really. “No, everything’s perfect! Did I say shopping list? I meant… Copping list! A record of my most noteworthy arrests as a cop. For my memoirs.”

Valjean blinked, his expression hovering between disbelief and restrained amusement, like he was debating whether to correct Javert or let him dig a deeper hole. “Copping list? Javert, are you sure that’s the right term?”

Javert froze, his face reddening slightly. “It’s… a perfectly valid term! Refers to being a cop! Obviously!”

Valjean’s lips twitched, suppressing a smile. “If you say so…” He sat down heavily in front of Javert, propping his chin on his hand and tilting his head slightly. “So, you’re writing your memoirs?”

Javert nodded solemnly. “Justice deserves to be documented.”

“Ah, yes.” Javert wasn’t sure he liked the amused twinkle in Valjean’s eyes. “So, am I to assume you’re too busy to have tea with me and Cosette this afternoon?”

“Absolutely!” Javert replied, nodding eagerly. Who would have thought the list would actually be useful. “One must write when the inspiration strikes!”

“Yes, of course”, replied Valjean. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Well…” Javert hesitated. “Do you think you could pick up the essentials to handcraft some haltères? I was thinking of working out a bit.”

If Valjean had noticed the blush creeping onto Javert’s cheeks, he didn’t acknowledge it.

When Valjean came back a few hours later, he was carrying brand-new, shining dumbbells that had evidently cost a fortune. He refused Javert’s protests and offers to pay him back, finally settling for a barter of sorts. “If you truly want to repay me, you could show me how to use them tomorrow. I’ve been meaning to get back into shape anyway.”

Javert didn’t think it was fair for Valjean to buy him shiny new equipment and gift him the promise of a celestial view of bulging muscles on top, but he could hardly complain. That settled, he really should have anticipated the man’s next inquiry. “So, what did you write today?”

Javert had apparently already forgotten their previous conversation. “Written? Why would I write...” He froze, embarrassed as the memory resurfaced. “Oh, right! My memoirs! I… I truly didn’t…” He stuttered for a few moments, then took a deep breath and gave up. “I’ll be honest, Valjean. I didn’t write anything. I’m sorry to disappoint you...”

“Disappoint me? Never!” Valjean protested, grasping Javert’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “It’s alright, Javert. Maybe telling me your plans put you under pressure. You probably have writer’s block now!”

Javert blinked. Could a person really be so dense? Well, he certainly wasn’t going to refuse the lifeline he had been thrown. “Yep, that’s it. Writer’s block.”

“Would it help you to brainstorm? We can talk about your past cases, and maybe you’ll get your inspiration back.”

Of course Valjean would offer to help. Still, there were worse ways to spend an evening than chatting with Valjean about his past cases. Despite everything, Javert found he didn’t think about his past work with bitterness. He regretted some choices, doubted others, but he had done his best for what he had believed was right. And he’d been damn good at it. Hell, he was even proud.

He smiled back at Valjean, nodding happily. “Sure. Let’s brainstorm.”

It was well into the night, and well into the bottle of wine they were sharing, when Javert decided he’d told enough stories for the day. Of course, the fact that Valjean was laughing uncontrollably inevitably factored into his decision to stop. “Wait,” the older man managed between laughter, “Wait, did you really tell him it was a crime to walk his dog after two in the morning?”

“Of course!” While pretending to be irritated, Javert couldn’t help but let a small smile slip. It was, after all, a funny memory; plus, Valjean’s laughter was infectious. He didn’t just laugh with his mouth, or his voice, or his eyes; he laughed with his whole body. His usually slumped shoulders were thrown back, his chest heaving with breathless mirth, his cheeks flushed. When Valjean laughed, Javert felt as though nothing could ever make him sad again, not when such a laughter existed to lift his spirits.

“But why? That’s such an obvious lie!” Valjean managed to say, calming down.

“Well, he didn’t seem to think so at the time,” Javert replied curtly. “Plus, what was I supposed to do? I was so sure he was the suspect I’d been looking for, I left him in jail all night. I had to come up with a reason!”

“Couldn’t you have just, I don’t know… Told the truth and apologized?”

Javert looked at him as if he had just expressed a foreign concept in an alien language. “Apologize? Do you even know me, Valjean?”

Valjean let out a contented sigh and covered Javert’s hand on the table with his own. “I think I’m starting to,” he murmured happily, as though delving into Javert’s inner thoughts and personality was the most precious gift he could imagine.

Be it the late hour, the wine, or the weeks of barely repressed emotions, Javert found his heart pounding as he hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly. Every rational part of him screamed to pull away, to maintain his carefully constructed wall of decorum. But the warmth of Valjean’s hand, steady and inviting, melted his resolve. Slowly, tentatively, he turned his hand in Valjean’s grip, locking their fingers together and bracing himself for an impact that never came. He was holding his breath, but Valjean didn’t flinch, and his smile didn’t falter, as though Javert’s hold was the most natural thing in the world. “You look so happy when you talk about your job,” Valjean said softly, stroking Javert’s hand with his thumb.

“I think I was. Happy, I mean,” Javert replied. “Maybe I was too detached from my emotions to notice at the time.” He hesitated for a moment. “I’ve been thinking of going back to work,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe taking on some private investigations. What... what do you think?” He felt foolish, asking for Valjean’s opinion like a wife seeking her husband’s permission to work. But somehow he felt as if this new life he was living was Valjean’s creation, and as such he cared about Valjean’s opinion and wouldn’t take back the question.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Valjean said with a dazzling smile. “You’ve done a lot of good in the past, and you shouldn’t let a few mistakes define your whole destiny.” He chuckled shyly. “God knows I didn’t.”

That night, when Valjean wished him goodnight, Javert felt like a new man.

It didn’t take long for Valjean – ever the optimist – to give it another go. Less than a week after his last failed attempt, Javert raised his head from the book he was trying to read only to find the other man watching him with a hopeful expression.

“Do you have plans for today?” Valjean asked cheerfully. Javert silently held up the book and motioned him to stay quiet, hoping the gesture would suffice.

It didn’t. A moment later a rough yet careful hand entered in his field of vision, gently pulling the book from his grasp. Javert couldn’t find it in himself to complain, especially because he had not been particularly enjoying the reading. At Valjean’ insistence, he had decided to give fiction a try, but it was proving to be a failed experiment. He couldn’t seem to be able to properly focus on the page; they seemed pointless, their existence futile.

“Just a minute of your attention?” Valjean asked, his tone light but insistent. Javert sighed heavily, crossing his arms. “I know what you’re going to ask,” he muttered. “And as you can see, I’m busy reading. I’m at a pivotal point in the plot; I can’t leave it right now.” Yes, the book was rubbish, but there was no reason to let Valjean know, after all.

Valjean arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “And reading a book is more important than making me happy by greeting my sweet, lovely daughter, who asks for nothing from life except to know her father is living with a respectable man?”

When had Valjean become such a master manipulator? Javert exhaled sharply, gesturing vaguely toward the book. “It’s not just the book. It’s part of an important project I’m working on. One that requires my undivided attention if I’m to finish it sooner rather than later.”

Valjean’s interest was piqued. “Oh? And what project would that be?”

Javert hesitated for a split second before replying, “I’m… reorganizing the library. It needs a proper system. Orderly. Efficient.”

“The library?” Valjean repeated, glancing around the room. His gaze landed on the small, scarcely populated bookshelf in the corner. “You mean that shelf with nine books?”

 “Books need to be catalogued,” Javert insisted firmly. “Doesn’t matter how many there are.”

Valjean tilted his head, his expression sceptical but amused. “And you need to read them all to organize them?”

“Obviously,” Javert replied, with a tone of exaggerated patience. “I’m arranging them by topic.”

Valjean’s lips twitched, betraying a smirk. “Wouldn’t it be faster to organize them by colour? Or height?”

Javert placed a hand to his chest, feigning deep offense. “Are you suggesting that form is more important than substance?”

Valjean raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright”, he replied with a resigned sigh, handing the book back. “At least let me help. I’ve read most of them anyway. if we split the rest, we’ll finish faster.”

Before Javert could protest, Valjean settled onto the couch beside him with a book of his own. Their legs brushed together as Valjean got comfortable, and their elbows bumped every time either of them turned a page. Javert gritted his teeth, determined to focus, but his eyes barely skimmed the words on the page as the book’s uselessness was compounded by the new distraction.

He could feel the warmth of Valjean’s presence beside him, the subtle sound of his breathing, and every slight shift in his posture. Concentrating on anything else became an impossible task.

Night had fallen while they were still sitting on the couch, turning pages with the occasional comment on the content of their books. The time for tea had long since passed, and dinner as well, when Javert finally turned to announce he was done. That was when he noticed Valjean slumped sideways, the book resting on his chest, his eyes closed. Fast asleep.

For a moment, Javert froze, unsure of what to do. “Ridiculous man,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real animosity in his voice. Carefully, he removed the book from Valjean’s hands, setting it on the table to avoid damaging it. As he did so, Valjean shifted slightly, his head tilting and coming to rest against Javert’s side.

Javert stiffened, his body instinctively rigid; but as the seconds passed and Valjean’s breathing remained steady, he relaxed ever so slightly. Slowly, cautiously, he adjusted, guiding Valjean’s head to rest on his lap.

For a long moment, Javert didn’t move. His gaze lingered on Valjean’s face – the soft lines that betrayed his age, the faint smile tugging at his lips. He lifted a hand, hesitating before letting his fingers brush lightly against Valjean’s hair. The touch was tentative at first, but soon he relaxed, moving his fingers gently, smoothing stray strands and tracing light circles.

He let his mind wonder, for once freed from the fear that someone might read his true feelings in his eyes. How had this man, once his adversary, come to occupy such a central place in his life? How had his presence become something Javert could crave so deeply? The thought made his chest tighten, but for once he didn’t run away from the sensation, for once he simply let himself feel.

He felt the fear of losing him, he felt the weight of regret for every moment he had spent denying himself every little thing the other man had taught him to appreciate. He felt admiration for Valjean’s strength and unwavering kindness, a quiet awe for the man who had managed to pull him from the abyss when no one else had cared to try. And, perhaps most unsettling of all, he felt longing. A deep, unspoken yearning to stay in this fragile moment forever, where the world couldn’t intrude and he could pretend, just for a little while, that Valjean was his to hold, his to care for.

The realization terrified him, yet it also brought an unfamiliar sense of peace. In this stolen moment, with no eyes to judge him and no rules to bind him, Javert let the emotions take root. They were dangerous, for he knew feelings like these could unmake a man. But here, now, he allowed himself the indulgence.

When Valjean stirred, a couple of hours later, his eyes fluttered open to the sight of Javert looking at him with a dreamy, unguarded expression. It only lasted a few seconds, then the other man shifted back to his usual sardonic demeanour, his hand withdrawing swiftly from Valjean’s hair.

Valjean blinked in confusion before sitting up. “I fell asleep,” he murmured, his voice drowsy.

“You did,” Javert replied evenly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Valjean’s lips curved into a warm smile, his hand drifting up to his hair, where Javert’s fingers had lingered only moments before. “There are worse ways to wake up.” His gaze held Javert’s for a moment, and for once, Javert didn’t look away.

A few weeks later, on a warm Tuesday afternoon, Javert was peacefully reading the paper when Valjean entered the room with a smile. “I was thinking,” he began casually, sitting down in front of Javert, who was seated at his usual spot by the window. “It’s a lovely day. Perhaps we could take a walk together?”

Javert looked up from the paper, his face lighting up in a rare display of enthusiasm. “I’d like that very much,” he said, a small but genuine smile forming on his lips.

“Wonderful!” Valjean said, his tone brightening. “I was thinking we could walk in the direction of the Pontmercy’s house. That way, we can stop there for tea.”

Javert’s expression shifted instantly, the words catching him off guard. “You didn’t let me finish,” he said quickly, sitting up straighter. “I’d like that very much, but I can’t. I have work to do.”

Valjean raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Work? You didn’t mention anything earlier. What is it you’re working on?”

Javert hesitated, his mind racing. “Uh… Just a case… Someone from the precinct asked for my help.”

Valjean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, if you really can’t come… It’s too bad, Cosette has been asking to meet you for a while now.” He pensively stroked his chin, wating for an idea that didn’t take long to strike him. “Wait, then why not invite her here? You could see her briefly before starting your work.”

“No,” Javert said sharply, standing up abruptly and smoothing his jacket. “I need to leave now. It’s important.”

Valjean blinked, but then nodded slowly, the phantom of a terrible thought taking form on his face. “Ah, you’re going out? Alright, I understand.”

Javert froze for a split second, knowing he had just trapped himself in his own excuse. “Yes,” he then replied curtly, moving toward the door. “I’ll be back later.”

As soon as Javert stepped outside, he felt the weight of Valjean’s gaze on his back. He didn’t need to turn around to know he was being followed; it was obvious. Why can’t that man mind his own business for once? He thought, annoyed, though he schooled his expression into calm neutrality.

Deciding to maintain the charade, Javert made his way toward the central square, pretending not to notice Valjean’s presence as he scanned the area for a suitable distraction. That was when he spotted them – two familiar figures standing by the corner, deep in conversation.

“Constables Martin and Cecil,” Javert greeted as he approached them, his tone serious but not unfriendly. If Valjean was watching him, better for him to assume he had business with them.

The two young officers turned, their faces lighting up in recognition. “Inspector Javert!” Martin exclaimed, his voice full of enthusiasm. “It’s been so long since we last saw you!”

“We thought you’d disappeared for good after leaving the force,” Cecil added, his tone equally reverent.

Javert straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “I’ve been… unwell,” he said cryptically. “I was taking a refreshing walk when I spotted you. How have you been doing?”

The constables exchanged a look before Martin spoke up. “Actually, not well. We’ve botched a couple of cases and now our work is under review.” Javert wasn’t surprised; those two had never been the sharpest tools in the box. Still, he was sad that two of his pupils were in trouble and he felt the desire to help them.

It was probably Valjean’s influence. Javert sighed. “What have you been working on?” He inquired politely. For a moment, he hoped they’d tell him that it couldn’t be discussed with a civilian, but the duo seemed way too eager to share. “It’s a fugitive case. A prisoner escaped from the precinct last night, and no one knows how. We were just about to go speak with the guard on duty for more details.”

They were staring at him with such expectant and hopeful eyes that it didn’t take long for Javert to capitulate. “Let me join you,” he offered, his voice firm. He felt like he had just put himself into an unpleasant affair, yet he couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement at the prospect of working on a case again.

The officers barely refrained from shouting in glee. “We’d be honoured!” Cecil exclaimed enthusiastically, and they began to walk toward the precinct together.

As they reached the precinct gates, Martin slowed his steps, glancing over his shoulder. “Inspector… I think someone’s following us.”

Javert’s heart sank, but he kept his expression neutral. “Oh?” he asked, feigning disinterest.

“It’s that man,” Martin said, nodding toward Valjean, who was attempting – poorly – to blend into the shadows. “He’s been trailing us for a while now. Should we apprehend him?”

“No,” Javert said sharply, his voice louder than he had intended. He cleared his throat. For a split second, his mind raced to the worst scenarios. Valjean, dragged into the precinct. Questions he couldn’t answer. Faces from the past recognizing him. His throat tightened, but his voice was steady when he spoke: “No. That man… I know him. He’s harmless.”

Martin frowned. “He looks suspicious.”

“Plenty of people act suspiciously,” Javert countered quickly, his mind scrambling for an excuse. He gestured toward a terrified-looking man on the other side of the square. “For example, that fellow over there, who’s been staring at us like we’re about to arrest him.”

The constables turned to look, and the man in question immediately froze like a deer in headlights before bolting down the street.

“After him!” Martin shouted, and the constables took off in pursuit.

Javert stayed frozen in place for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to appear composed, but inside his emotions were spiralling.

He turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Valjean, still lingering in the shadows, clearly unsure whether to follow. Javert’s chest tightened. If the constables turned their suspicion back toward Valjean, if they started asking questions... He shook his head sharply, pushing the thought away.

He had to keep the situation under control, but he couldn’t let the two overly zealous officers take their frustration out on an innocent man. He started to walk briskly in the direction of the chase, his heart pounding harder with each step, hoping that Valjean would come to his senses and go back home.

Obviously, he didn’t.

From the outside, the scene was almost comical. A man was running away, clearly terrified, with two officers shouting at him to freeze. Behind the officers, another man was shouting at them to slow down, insisting it was all a mistake; and trailing behind him was an older man, attempting a clumsy mix of running and hiding behind every corner, only managing to draw more attention to himself. None of them seemed to realize they were running in circles around the police station.

The older man, the last in line, was the first to tire. He stopped just around a corner, hands on his knees, panting and sweating. He rested long enough for the group to circle the building again, and when they came back around, they all collided with him, tumbling to the ground in a chaotic heap like a life-sized game of dominoes. Only the last man of the group remained upright, and he wasted no time pushing everyone off the poor fellow at the bottom.

“Valj – Fauchelevent!” He exclaimed, catching himself just in time. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He offered his hand, which Valjean took gratefully. “No, I’m fine. Nothing’s broken.”

“Not for long,” Javert snarled, his harsh tone at odds with his careful gestures. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Valjean shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “Just… Helping?” He ventured.

“You call this helping?”

“Well, he’s not running anymore, is he?”

Javert turned to the alleged fugitive, who was now standing and sobbing uncontrollably, while the two officers holding him exchanged confused glances.

“I’m sorry!” The man wailed between sobs. “I only walked my dog after two in the morning because he was sick! Please, I don’t want to spend another night in jail! Please!”

Javert suddenly understood the man’s terror upon seeing him. He cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Well, it seems to me this is not our fugitive,” he said to the officers. “And to apologize for the fright, and since this was but a minor misdeed, I suggest you let him go...”

“But Inspector,” one of the officers interjected. “Walking a dog at night it’s not a…”

“Not a serious crime, of course not!” Javert interrupted quickly, his glare silencing the officer. “Which is why you should let it go. This once.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you for your understanding, Monsieur!” The man cried, grabbing Javert’s hands in his before fleeing as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Well,” Constable Martin said, “We still need to find our fugitive.”

Just then, the prison guardian emerged from the precinct, calling for them. “Constable Martin, Constable Cecil!” He reached them, panting heavily. “There’s been a mistake,” he announced. “The night clerk forgot to file the transfer paperwork. The prisoner has not escaped! He’s just been moved!”

With that, Javert’s first case after his resignation was officially closed. As he grabbed Valjean by the elbow to drag him straight home, the two officers waved them goodbye.

“Au revoir, Inspector Javert!”

“Thank you for teaching us about the dog law!”

“Shut up,” Javert growled, quickening his pace, though he could have sworn he heard them chuckling, one muttering: “Same old Inspector.”

During the uncomfortable walk home, Valjean, apparently blissfully unaware of the danger he had narrowly avoided – and the one awaiting him at home – decided to tease Javert.

“Well, you certainly left a lasting impression on that poor man, didn’t you? Inspector Javert, the terror of night dog walkers.”

Javert stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes narrowing dangerously. For a brief moment, he carefully considered throwing Valjean under the next passing carriage. Ultimately, he dismissed the idea with a sharp intake of breath, turning instead to glare at him.

“We’ll settle this at home,” he snarled.

Whatever humour Valjean had left vanished instantly at the sight of Javert’s expression.

At least, as Javert practically threw Valjean onto a chair and began pacing furiously around the living room, Valjean had the decency to look ashamed. His hands rested on his knees, his posture slightly slouched, and his eyes followed Javert’s every step, a mix of remorse and faint amusement flickering in them.

When Javert finally managed to calm down a little and realized that everyone was safe and that it was probably a terrible idea to throw the other man out of the window, he planted himself firmly in front of Valjean, hands on his hips, his glare as sharp as a blade. “Explain,” he ordered, his voice cold.

Valjean straightened a little, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. “Well,” he began carefully, “I was following you...”

“No shit”, Javert groaned, rubbing his temple. “Why would you do that? Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever given you a reason not to trust my words?” Javert knew he had, but since Valjean had never found out, his point stood.

Valjean blinked, clearly surprised. “I wasn’t following you because I didn’t believe you!” He replied, sounding almost offended. He rose to his feet to meet Javert’s glare. “Who do you take me for? Even if I thought you were lying, I’d have just assumed you had your reasons and left it at that.”

“Then why follow me?” Javert shot back. His frustration hadn’t eased; if anything, it burned hotter now.

“I was worried about you!” Valjean exclaimed, his tone rising in exasperation. “You haven’t stepped outside of the house for months, and all of a sudden you’re off on a case? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t overexerting yourself.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed, his tone dropping to a dangerous growl. “We’ve talked about this. You said you agreed I should get back to work. You said it was a wonderful idea.”

“I still think it is!” Valjean shot back. “But I assumed you’d start slow. Paperwork, consulting, maybe a desk job – not leaping headfirst into action without knowing if you could even handle it!”

“I’ve been at this job for decades, Valjean!” Javert roared. “I know perfectly well what I can and cannot handle!”

Valjean threw his hands up, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand why you’re so mad! Fine, maybe I misjudged the situation. Maybe I shouldn’t have followed you. But no one got hurt, and I’ve apologized! What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Javert spat, grabbing Valjean by the cravat and yanking him closer, “is that the first thing we’re taught in this line of work is how to tell if we’re being followed. Not only did I see you, the other officers saw you, and they assumed you were up to no good. They wanted to apprehend you and interrogate you! I had to divert their attention to that poor man just to cover for you.”

Valjean’s expression shifted from confusion to dawning realization as Javert continued. “Do you have the faintest idea of what could’ve happened if they’d arrested you?” He asked, his tone quieter now but heavy with emotion. “What if they found out Ultime Fauchelevent died two decades ago? What if they brought you in, and an older officer recognized you? I’m not the only one who started out as a guard in the bagne, you know. A single suspicion is all it would take to ruin you.”

Javert released Valjean’s cravat, taking a step back as if the intensity of his own words had exhausted him. He shook his head, his voice now barely above a whisper. “Don’t mistake yourself for a free man just because I know you should be.”

“I’m sorry,” Valjean murmured, his voice trembling under the weight of Javert’s words. “I’m... I’m an idiot.”

Javert closed his eyes for a moment, letting Valjean’s words settle in the silence between them. When he opened them again, the fire in his gaze had dimmed. “Yes, you are,” he agreed, his voice quiet and even. “And one day, your idiocy is going to cost you more than an apology.”

Valjean nodded, heeding the heavy warning in the other’s words. “I wasn’t thinking. I just... didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Javert laughed, but it was a bitter, humourless sound. “Hurt? Do you really think I’m so incompetent that I can’t handle myself in the field? Or do you think you’re invincible, that you can just throw yourself into danger on my behalf and everything will magically work out?”

“It’s not that,” Valjean replied quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... You’ve been through so much. You’ve barely had time to recover. I…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

Javert stared at Valjean, a soft smile tilting the corner of his lips. “Lose me?” he repeated, almost inaudibly. “How ironic”.

Valjean looked up at him, curiously examining his expression. “How so?”

Javert turned away, his shoulders tense. For a long moment, he said nothing, the room filled only with a silence that was unusually awkward. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unsteady. “You scared me,” he admitted, the words forced out as if they were physically painful. “Do you know that? When I saw them watching you, thinking you were up to something... I thought, just for a moment, that I might not be able to stop it. That I might lose you.”

Valjean took a step towards him, carefully, as if afraid to startle him. He cupped his cheek with his hand, softly stroking his stubble, and left a kiss on his forehead. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he admitted softly. “The last thing I’d ever want is to make you worry.”

“You have a strange way of showing it,” Javert replied with a sigh. The rough warmth of Valjean’s hand against his beard sent a strange comfort through him, and when he felt Valjean starting to pull away, he instinctively reached for it with his own hand and held it there. “Don’t,” he pleaded, not sure of what he was even asking. Don’t stop touching me? Don’t leave me? Don’t die? Somehow, he meant all three, and somehow, Valjean seemed to understand.

“I’m not going anywhere, Javert,” he reassured him softly. “Never. Not as long as you want me by your side.”

“You can’t promise that,” Javert said, his voice a sad whisper.

“Watch me,” Valjean replied, his lips curling into a faint smile, though his eyes were serious.

Javert wanted to reply with something witty, something equally sarcastic, but somehow he was at a loss for words. With Valjean this close, so close that he was the only thing Javert could see, he found himself unable to think clearly. Still, he didn’t want to step back. He wanted to get even closer, to surrender what was left of his sanity, to renounce his last sensible thought, and never separate from Valjean again, so neither of them would have any reason to fear losing the other.

Still, he didn’t move an inch, not letting go of Valjean’s hand on his cheek, but not closing the distance either, for he didn’t know if he was allowed to kiss his perfect lips, to breath the air from his lungs, to wish for him so ardently.

In the end, Valjean made the decision for him. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, his breath warm against Javert’s lips. It seemed as if he could read Javert’s conflicted thoughts as though they were an open book, and he had all the answers. “You’re allowed to care,” he murmured.

Javert’s eyes closed, and for a heartbeat, he forgot himself. He surged forward, his hand gripping the front of Valjean’s shirt as their lips met in a clash of frustration and relief, the kiss far more desperate than gentle.

When they finally parted, Javert’s breath came in ragged gasps, and his grip on the front of Valjean’s shirt remained firm, as though letting go would somehow break the fragile moment between them. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken emotions.

“I...” Javert started, but the words faltered on his tongue. He shook his head slightly, his usual composure drowned by the weight of everything he felt.

Valjean brushed his knuckles gently along Javert’s cheek. The touch was tender in a way Javert wasn’t sure he deserved, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. His lips pressed into a thin line as he searched Valjean’s face, looking for something – permission, maybe, or reassurance.

“You can tell me anything,” Valjean murmured softly, his voice steady. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’ve spent my whole life knowing what I would do at every turn,” he said eventually, struggling to put his thoughts in order. “I had a clear path, a mission. I knew how I was born, and I thought I knew how I’d die. And then, I lost everything. I lost my job, I lost my faith in the Law, I even lost my death. You took it all away from me, and now I don’t know anything anymore. Every day is a fright, an unknown. Every step brings with it a terror I never thought I’d feel.”

He let his words sit heavily between them. He didn’t know how to finish, but when he met Valjean’s gaze, he realized he didn’t need to. The other man was smiling tenderly, a look of quiet pride on his face, as though Javert were something he had created and had just come to life. “I know,” Valjean said, his voice warm with understanding. He laughed softly, then leaned in to leave another light kiss on Javert’s lips. “Isn’t life wonderful?”

Javert stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he grabbed Valjean again and kissed him, this time with a slow, deliberate tenderness that could have lasted forever. When he let go, he felt as if the world had finally shifted into place. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice filled with happiness. “Thank you, Jean.”

The weeks passed, and the life Javert and Valjean shared began to evolve into something neither of them could have foreseen, but both had hoped for. What had started simply as a shared solitude grew into a steady routine of quiet companionship. They would spend evenings discussing a wide variety of topics, from moral and legal matters to the best food they’d ever eaten, from their childhood lives to religious dilemmas; and sometimes they sat in silence, comfortable in the presence of the other. Walks that had once been solitary became moments to watch the sunset together, and thoughts that had once been private were now exchanged openly, weaving a stronger bond between them.

One warm spring night, everything shifted without ceremony. Javert, intending to retire to his room, hesitated when he found the door of Valjean’s bedroom wide open. Valjean was lying on the right side of the bed, the covers on the left side neatly turned back. He wasn’t looking at Javert, but he wasn’t sleeping either, and the whole situation seemed a little too deliberate to be an accident. No questions were asked, none were needed; the offer was clear and, as was gradually becoming a habit, Javert chose risk over solitude.

From then on, their bond deepened even further. It wasn’t merely about sharing a passion; it became about sharing a life. The mutual romantic gestures flourished, and the small familiar moments accumulated: a hand lingering a second too long on a shoulder, a shared laugh over a poorly cooked meal, the quiet comfort of falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing. Javert, who had once believed his world would be defined by duty and loneliness, found himself unexpectedly happy to have been wrong.

It was during one of Valjean’s usual Wednesday walks that Javert decided to try something new. These walks were something Javert seldom joined, for he knew how much the other man needed time alone to reflect on the matters of life, and he already felt guilty enough for constantly intruding on Valjean’s thoughts while at home. This time, he had waited anxiously for these precious hours of solitude, as he was planning a surprise: a home-cooked dinner, obviously prepared with the help of the more-than-eager housemaid. The thought of such a domestic gesture filled Javert with a mixture of nerves and excitement. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, but he found he wanted to try – for Valjean.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the knock at the door. He frowned; Valjean wouldn’t be home for at least a couple more hours, and the housemaid had just gone out to find some missing ingredients for the dinner. He opened the door, expecting to find the woman having forgotten the grocery money he had given her; instead, he found himself face to face with a young woman, her fist still raised as though about to knock again. She was strikingly beautiful, with a face that felt hauntingly familiar. She offered him a polite smile, extending a hand. “Monsieur Javert, I expect?” She asked. He grabbed her hand nervously, and nodded curtly, not trusting his own voice.

“My name is Euphrasie, but you can call me Cosette,” she said simply. “I’m Monsieur Fauchelevent’s daughter.” She shot a look over Javert’s shoulder. “May I come in?”

She looked so much like her mother that Javert would have recognized her even without an introduction. His heart skipped a beat as he stared at her like a ghost, and it wasn’t until she cleared her voice that he remembered his manners and stepped aside to let her in. “I’m afraid your father isn’t home,” he said, hoping that she was there only to see her dad and she would leave upon learning she couldn’t.

“Oh my,” she replied instead, breaking into an angelic smile that would have fooled anyone else. “I seem to have forgotten my father always takes a walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg every Wednesday at this exact hour!”

Not being able to decide if he should laugh or cry, Javert opted for the third option. He stared at her in the eyes and finally said the words he had never thought to pronounce. “May I offer you some tea?”

Javert poured the tea with a steady hand, trying to ignore the way Cosette’s gaze seemed to pierce through him. She sat across the table, her posture impossibly graceful, her expression a polite mask that didn’t quite conceal the sharp curiosity in her eyes.

“You must enjoy this house,” Cosette said casually, taking with delicate hand the cup Javert had just poured. “It’s warm, welcoming. My father has always had a way of creating a home.”

Unsure of the meaning behind Cosette’s words, and too untrusting to assume it was only small talk, Javert didn’t know how to reply. He simply grunted in response, his eyes glued to his cup of tea, as if afraid Cosette would add poison to it were he to get distracted for a second.

Cosette was not disheartened by the lack of a proper reaction. “He speaks very highly of you, you know,” she said carefully. “It’s rare for him to talk about someone with such admiration.”

“Your father is a good man,” Javert replied stiffly, adding sugar to his tea and mixing it, the little spoon clicking softly against the porcelain. “Some would say too good. I’m sure most of his praises are exaggerated.”

She nodded thoughtfully, sipping her tea. For a moment, there was silence; then, with a tilt of her head, she asked, “Tell me, Monsieur Javert, how did you and my father come to share a home? It seems... an unusual arrangement.”

Javert’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “It’s a long story,” he said curtly, hoping to dismiss the question. “One better told by your father.”

“Ah,” she said, her smile not wavering in the slightest. “I’m afraid I’ll never get to know, then. He’s not the best when it comes to answering too many questions.”

“A trait we both share, I’m afraid”, Javert muttered.

She set her cup down and leaned forward slightly, her expression sharpening. “You must understand, Monsieur Javert, I’m very protective of my father. He’s been through so much, and as I’ve recently learned, he’s suffered in his life way more than I could have ever imagined. And now, for the first time in years, he seems truly happy. I’ve never witnessed him like that, and thought I never would. It’s wonderful to see, but I can’t help but wonder what’s brought about such a change.”

Javert remained cautious, sensing the shift in her tone. “Why is it so important for you to know?” He tried to argue. “Can’t you just enjoy his happiness, and let him be?” And let me be, he wanted to add; thankfully, he stopped himself in time.

“Ah, I could, Monsieur Javert”, she replied wistfully. “And if it was just a matter of sating my own curiosity, I would have dropped the topic a long time ago. Alas, that’s not it.”

“What would the matter be, then?” Javert replied. Trust a girl to take what was simply an unhealthy desire of sticking her nose in someone else’s business and turn it into something it wasn’t.

“My father trusts too much”, she replied simply. “Since he’s so happy, and you are the only change that came into his life as of recently, it doesn’t take a genius to know the source of his shift. And I fear that my father, maybe in eagerness to find a companionship of sort now that he doesn’t have me around all the time, put himself into something that will only end up hurting him more. I don’t know if he could bear it, not after seeing the way he speaks about you. He’s ecstatic; and as they say, the higher you fly, the harder you fall”.

Javert was starting to hate this conversation. It wasn’t just a matter of being uncomfortable; after all, he was an expert in spotting interrogations. He had held too many of them not to recognize what this was: the cryptic sentences, the constant circling around the same topics without asking the real questions… She was cunning, that was clear; if she really used to be as sweet as Valjean had described her at length, it was obvious marrying a lawyer was going to be her ruin.

“I’m tired of these games”, he stated. “Speak plainly.”

She seemed to appreciate the change in pace, but her expression was harsh when she answered. “Are your intentions good with him?”

“They are,” he replied curtly. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Well,” she replied, “As I’m sure you know perfectly well, my father has quite the sum of money stashed away from his past good deeds. I would hate to think someone is sharing his house and pretending to be his friend only to take advantage of his good fortune and even better heart...”

Ah. That was it, then. She thought him a gold digger.

Javert was fuming. It was one thing to enter the house uninvited and with the sole desire of interrogating him: that, he could understand. That, he could forgive. Hell, that he could even admire, for had he not always admired people with such strength of character, when accompanied by good intentions?

But this! To accuse him, of all people, to aim at Valjean’s money! He, Javert, who had never complained about his low income even at the highest peak of his career, who had never asked for a sou more than he was strictly due, and sometimes not even that!

Did Valjean have more money than him? Yes. Was he more than generous with his money, especially when it came to Javert? Well, Valjean being Valjean, obviously. Was Javert getting used to not having to ration his meals, to have the liberty to occasionally use his savings to buy something for himself? Of course, who wouldn’t. But that she thought that was all there was to it? It was insulting. Not just for him, but for her father also, for she was all but insinuating that there was nothing he could offer but his money. It was absurd; Javert knew for a fact that even if someone was to get close to him for less than good intentions, he would eventually fall in love with his good heart.

Javert’s thoughts raced uncontrollably. Wasn’t she the same as him, in some way? Sure, since she had been adopted by Valjean the man had given her happiness and all she could ever wish for, but she was still the daughter of a whore, married to a baron she barely even knew. They were from the same gutter, reaching up to a better life for themselves; yet she dared to think herself so superior, she thought she had a right to poke around his personal business. Their only difference was that she had been supported by a loving father and a dumbstruck fellow while he had faced his struggles entirely alone for most of his life. She had been lucky. Did this mean she had the right to demand his credentials, to barge into his new home, to threaten to take this new happiness away? For if she believed him not worthy, all of this could go away. There was no doubt in Javert’s mind that Valjean, if forced to a choice, would drop the man who’d made most of his life hell to be with the daughter that had saved him from such torture.

He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let her take Valjean away from him.

He surged to his feet, trembling with barely contained fury, and slammed his fists on the table, sending some tea sloshing over the edge of its teacup and onto the tablecloth. He started to talk, but luckily for everyone involved the door flung open before he had a proper chance to let out all of his frustration. “Listen here, you little...”

“Javert!” A thunder voice roared from the doorway. Javert turned only to see Valjean staring at him, an expression of utter confusion, hurt, and blazing fury on his face.

He sat down immediately under the weight of that gaze, yet he couldn’t help but reply in an equally furious tone. “She accused me of living with you because I have aims on your money!” He protested, and he felt a sort of vengeful, childish spite when Valjean turned to his daughter with an even more confused, hurt and furious face. “Cosette! Apologize immediately to the inspector!”

Before Javert could protest that he wasn’t an inspector anymore, Cosette paled. “Oh mon dieu, an inspector? You mean, like an inspector of the police? Oh, I had no idea! Father, you never told me!” She turned to Javert, ashamed and embarrassed. “Forgive me, Mons- No, Inspector Javert. If I had known you were a man of the law I would have never...”

“I’m retired”, Javert corrected her, with a sigh. In front of her new demeanour, he couldn’t stay angry. After all, could he really blame her for wanting to look out for her father? “It’s all forgiven,” he muttered. But she wasn’t done.

“Oh, father, why haven’t you ever told me your roommate was a former inspector?” She protested turning towards Valjean. “And how did you meet an inspector of the police anyway? You were always weary of police stations! Oh, no, I know you won’t answer. I’ve already learned your cunning ways to avoid uncomfortable questions.” She turned towards Javert. “You are a man of the law. A man of the truth. Please, tell me. How did you two meet?”

Valjean’s panicked expression was fairly amusing, though it didn’t help at all. “Er- You see”, Javert started, eyeing the girl’s father, not sure of how much she already knew and how much he could reveal, “If you really want to know...”

Valjean crossed the distance to the table in just a few long strides and all but shoved a biscuit in Javert’s mouth. “She doesn’t!”

“No, father, I really do”, she corrected him, delicately patting Javert’s back as he was choking on the biscuit. “Please. You promised, no more lies”.

Valjean looked at Javert, who nodded curtly. He tried to find comfort in the notion that one way or the other, in a few minutes everything would be over; yet he feared the outcome of the conversation as he had never feared anything before. He had risked his life multiple times without batting an eye, but now he had something even more precious to lose. Still, he knew he couldn’t ask Valjean to lie to his daughter on his account forever; it was about time to come clean.

“Alright”, the older man finally capitulated. “As you know, I was arrested for stealing a loaf of bread. But you don’t know about the most fearsome guard in all of Toulon...”

The tale was long and difficult for everyone involved. Javert was ashamed of the image that transpired of himself from Valjean’s words, and even more ashamed that he didn’t find a single fault in it. Everything Valjean was saying was the absolute, candid truth.

Cosette experienced a whirlwind of emotions throughout the tale. She regarded Javert first with fear, then hate, then understanding, and finally, by the time Valjean recounted the barricades and the Seine, her expression was pained, as though she herself had been the one to leap into the river on his stead.

“Oh, poor Monsieur Javert”, she sobbed, grabbing his hand across the table and squeezing it tight. “Why, why would you do something so foolish? I know, I’ve always known my father’s good heart could change a man, but to resort to that! Oh, it is never too late to change one’s way of life! And father”, she added turning to Valjean. “How brave you have been! How lucky that you were able to save him from the Seine!” She grabbed his hand too and stayed there sobbing for a while, holding both men’s hands, while her father tried to console her and Javert stayed perfectly still waiting for the whole ordeal to end.

When she finally let him go, Javert stood up and tried to announce his leave, but another hand grabbed his and stopped him in his track. This was a larger, warmer hand, one that he had lately learned to know and to love as it held him with unprecedented care; yet it now turned on him in betrayal, stopping his escape to safety.

He glared at Valjean, but he mellowed when he saw his face, a new kind of determination he hadn’t previously seen in his eyes. He sat back down as Valjean spoke again, and held his hand tight to give him strength for that last confession.

“Cosette, there’s... There’s one more thing”, he murmured, eyes fixed on the table. “Javert and I... We...”

He hesitated, and Javert came to his rescue. “We’ll burn in hell with the people of Sodom and Gomorrah”, he concluded. Valjean turned a curious shade of red, while Cosette, after an initial moment of stupor, chuckled amused. “Oh, I should have imagined my father’s happiness couldn’t be born from just a friendship”, she commented shaking her head. “And I’m sure you won’t burn in hell”, she added. “God’s mission isn’t to punish, but to forgive. You hurt no one, and if your only sin is love, I’d say you deserve heaven more than a lot of so-called saints.”

“Cosette”, whispered Valjean, moved to tears. “I’m so sorry. You must think me a hypocrite. I tried to raise you according to all the principles of the Bible, and now...”

“You raised me with the comfort of knowing there’s a God above who loves us all”, she interrupted him, shaking her head. “This is the god I believe in.”

“My child”, Valjean murmured, looking at her in awe as if he couldn’t believe such perfection existed. “I don’t know what I did right with you, yet you turned out so perfect”.

Cosette laughed softly, wiping away a tear as she looked at the two men. “I hope,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “that you both find the happiness you deserve. Together.” He turned to Javert, a shy smile on her lips. “And… Welcome to the family,” she added.

Javert, caught off guard, opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss for words. In the end, he settled for a stiff nod of gratitude. Cosette seemed to understand and gave him a knowing smile.

“I should go now,” Cosette announced lightly. “Marius will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to. But promise me you’ll visit us soon – both of you.”

When the door closed behind her, Valjean stood still for a moment, a smile lingering on his face as he turned back to Javert. “I think that went well,” he said with obvious relief.

Javert, who had remained seated at the table in silence, raised an eyebrow. “Well? She practically interrogated me.”

Valjean laughed, hiding his smile behind his hand when he found Javert’s less than amused expression. “Ah, I’m sorry about that, dear”, he said. “Also,” he added, “I think I owe you a confession…”

“Seriously?” Javert commented sarcastically. “My word, how bad do you people think I was at my job? You came back an hour earlier than usual, and while you were actually angry at what she accused me of, you were clearly unsurprised to see her here. You were in on it; even constable Martin would have realized.”

Valjean approached the table, amusement evident in his expression. “I swear, I had no idea of her real thoughts. She said she only wanted to see you, and introduce herself formally. A matter of an hour top, she said”.

Javert huffed, crossing his arms. “That lawyer is a bad influence on her”, he muttered under his breath, but Valjean heard him anyway, and knew he had been forgiven.

“I’m sorry, mon coeur”, he added for good measure. “But you have to admit, she handled herself with grace. And in the end, she accepted us. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

Javert uncrossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. “I suppose,” he muttered.

“And,” added Valjean, “You finally had tea with Cosette. It wasn’t so terrible after all, was it?”

Javert raised an eyebrow and, with deliberate slowness, picked up his teacup. Tilting it just enough for Valjean to see, he revealed the untouched liquid inside.

“Not quite,” Javert replied, his tone calm but triumphant. “I didn’t take a single sip. So, technically, I still win.”

Valjean blinked, then burst into laughter, the sound filling the room with warmth. “You’re impossible,” he said, shaking his head, though his smile softened the words.

“And yet,” Javert replied, standing and placing the teacup back on the saucer with a clink, “here I am.”

Valjean reached out, resting a hand on Javert’s shoulder as his laughter faded into a tender smile. “Yes,” he said softly. “Here you are. And I couldn’t be happier.”