Work Text:
I.
Then there's the sound of distant shouts, and impacts, and Javert eyes the structure above him worriedly as it groans. Should he chance…?
Well. Why not. It isn't as though there's a huge difference, in terms of Creation, whether or not he exists for five minutes more or less. If his shouts collapse the damned crates on top of him, at least he's gone out fighting.
"Hey!" Javert shouts, as the shouts stop abruptly. "Anyone out there?"
There is a long pause, and then there is the sound of footsteps. Javert breathes out, slowly, and waits, hesitating again.
Knowing his luck, it might just be Hammer, looking to gloat over his body. Damned Specials. Javert grits his teeth, wondering whether he's willing to give a fugitive the pleasure.
"Hello?"
It's not Hammer. Whoever it is has a deeper voice, more resonant, and he sounds worried. A security guard, perhaps? Relieved, Javert calls out, "I'm under here - get help, I'm Inspector Javert of the police and…" His voice trails to a halt. Things are moving, dragging, and it takes him a moment to realize that the stranger is moving the chest-high crates aside, bare-handedly.
Inhuman strength.
Another Special.
Javert regrets having mentioned his rank and status, though he keeps his silence as the stranger continues his work. If he's dug out of here, Javert probes his own leg - it's pinned, but not damaged. He can put up a fight on even ground: he still has one gun. He can-
"So that's why Hammer was sniffing around here," the stranger continues, friendly and oblivious. His voice sounds modulated - a synthesizer, perhaps, edging his voice one or two pitches off normal.
"What happened to him?"
"I've restrained him. He's outside."
Javert grits his teeth. Vigilantes. They're as much a canker on society as criminals itself, subverting to the law to their often excessively violent purposes. He hopes there's enough of Hammer left smeared on the pavement to identify.
Eventually, enough of the crates are moved aside that Javert sees the face of the latest miscreant - whoever Super Strength is, he's tall, broad-shouldered, though the rest of his face is masked in a featureless silver plate. He's dressed thankfully soberly for a Special, no ridiculous neon spandex get-ups or weirdly contoured body armour: Super Strength is wearing a long-sleeved hooded black sweater, black jeans and gray running shoes.
It occurs to Javert that this admittedly sensible get-up will allow Super Strength to disappear far more easily into crowds if pursued, and he tries not to scowl, even as the stranger hauls off more crates and peers at him worriedly. "Are you hurt?"
"Just my pride. My leg is pinned."
"Ah. A moment." The stranger shifts out of sight, and then more crates move, sliding away. After a while, the pressure on his leg eases, enough for Javert to pull his leg free, and then scramble awkwardly out of his would-be tomb. He's bruised all over and annoyed, so it doesn't help his mood when Super Strength seems to perk up at the sight of him, like some damnable puppy hoping for a pat.
What does he expect Javert to say? Thanks for contravening Section 4(a) of the Specials Act?
"I'm glad to see that you are unhar-" Super Strength begins, which is as far as Javert allows him to get - he claps the polarity cuffs on his wrists.
"You are under arrest," Javert growls, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say-"
"Come now, officer," Super Strength notes, sounding surprised, but not particularly frightened, to Javert's irritation, "I just saved your life."
"The Court may elect to take that into consideration." Javert finishes Mirandising the vigilante and shoves him towards the exit of the warehouse, where he finds that Hammer is, indeed, restrained, via a twisted length of metal pipe, and unconscious. He adds property damage to his mental tally of the vigilante's offences, and marches the man over to his squad car, ignoring his stream of oddly gentle protests.
As he gets the receiver to radio for back-up, the vigilante sighs. "Must you really, Inspector?"
"Shut up."
"Well then," the vigilante says, almost sadly, "Please let me apologize in advance for damaging police property," at which point he snaps the cuffs as though they're made of paper, and starts ambling away down the street. For a moment, Javert's too surprised to react, then he gets the spare gun from the squad car.
"Halt! Or I'll shoot-"
It's as far as he gets. The vigilante is keying something into his phone - when he stops, he disappears abruptly.
Javert scowls. Fucking vigilantes. Always working in groups. He amends his call to dispatch, and spends the rest of the wait glumly toeing through the fragments of the polarity cuffs.
So much for technology. The Commissioner is not going to be pleased.
The Commissioner is indeed soundly displeased, and when he is displeased, he spreads his displeasure about his minions with excruciatingly detailed impunity. Javert's nursing no sleep and a thoroughly terrible coffee from a nameless sidewalk cafe, terrible even by police standards, and he stands woodenly in the Commissioner's office as he's grilled for the third time about the cuffs. Yes, they were activated. Yes, he checked. No, they weren't faulty, he's used them before. Yes, they hadn't worked on the miscreant. Yes sir. No sir. He should have taken back-up, sir.
He wonders if collapsing into a gently unconscious heap over a superior officer's desk constitutes submitting a sick leave request, and is seriously considering the possibility when the Commissioner's buzzed over the intercom. "What?" the Commissioner growls, narrow-eyed.
"Sir," the poor young sod staffing reception squeaks, "The Mayor's here to see you, sir. He doesn't have an appointment but he says it's important."
"Merde. It's probably about that low rent policy of his. Send him through," the Commissioner moans. "Inspector, you are dismissed. Look smart, man! And for God's sake, keep a lid on the cuffs. We don't want panic spreading through the ranks. Your set was probably defective."
"Sir, yes sir." Javert doesn't even really hear him: he's blinking owlishly, frozen. Monsieur Madeleine is here. Monsieur Madeleine. And Javert knows he looks as pale as death and as disheveled as though he had gone five rounds with a rhinoceros and crawled out of the ring to die.
Fate is cruel.
"Well, don't just stand there," the Commissioner scowls, after a while, at which point, unfortunately, Monsieur Madeleine ambles into the room and smiles warmly at him and Javert is pinned between wishing that he had died under the crates last night and thanking God that Fate had arranged all his life to come to this moment. He looks a fright, but Monsieur Madeleine seems oblivious to it: the mayor himself is impeccably dressed as usual, in an olive-green wool coat and pressed charcoal gray trousers, with a pale cream scarf, handsome as ever. Javert's fingers twitch, and he barely suppresses a shiver, dry-mouthed.
"You are dismissed, Inspector," the Commissioner notes pointedly, and Javert nearly flinches. He bows nervously and reluctantly exits the Commissioner's office: the precinct is still revving on its first round of bad coffees, and he slinks away to his desk, rubbing at his eyes.
The rank of Inspector came with an office space, which by this gentle hour in the morning is already dangerously full of reports in various stages of spelling and grammar. Javert wishes that the precinct had gone paperless as it was fucking meant to and pours himself into his chair to die. It doesn't work. He taps at the keyboard, blearily trying to file his own report for the night, and at some point decides to rest his cheek on a stack of manila case folders, just for a few seconds, and-
-he jerks awake when the warm hand closes tight over his shoulder, surfacing erratically from a confused dream full of jellybean tombstones and a giant bear with a propensity for teleportation. Javert grabs instinctively for the intruder, then he startles and scrambles to his feet when he recognises Monsieur Madeleine. Folders go flying, and Monsieur Madeleine murmurs something that Javert can't hear through the roar of blood in his ears, and they pick up strewn case files in silence, though he can see the mayor's shoulders twitch a little, as though in amusement.
Perfect, Javert thinks, bitterly. Monsieur Madeleine is before him, alone, for the first time, and all Javert can do is utterly embarrass himself.
"Did you need something, sir?" Javert asks, as politely as he can. It comes out stiff and unfriendly, and he internalises a sigh as Monsieur Madeleine instantly looks defensive and apologetic.
"Oh, Bertrand just mentioned that you were investigating Barricade, Inspector, and I was curious as to your progress. You see," Monsieur Madeleine adds earnestly, even as Javert's heart sinks further towards his boots, "What with the media attention recently, I profess that I hold a… personal interest in the matter."
"Investigations are still under way," Javert notes uncomfortably. Think, man! Monsieur Madeleine has a personal interest in your case! Say something intelligent! "But rest assured, Monsieur, the chaos of vigilantism will be stamped out." God. He should just shoot himself and be done with it.
"Of course," Monsieur Madeleine seems disappointed, probably in the obvious non-answer. Javert is fairly sure that the day can't get any worse. "I understand that you apprehended a dangerous suspect last night and almost caught another?"
It's the 'almost' in Monsieur Madeleine's gentle words that catches him. Javert nods slowly. "As yet, neither have any relation to Barricade," he mutters, because the Barricade brats to date have all seemed to be young, probably teenagers at best, and Super Strength last night had been a far older man, as far as Javert's instincts can tell. "Hammer, in particular, would certainly be an adversary of theirs." The rogue Special, after all, is a bank robber, and so far, the misguided vigilante brats have self-styled themselves as proponents of justice. Feh.
"Indeed." Monsieur Madeleine smiles encouragingly at Javert, and he tries not to squirm on the spot.
He doesn't dare think. He's already made a greater fool of himself by accident than he could have hoped. There's no use intentionally feeding the flames. They stand in an increasingly awkward silence for a long moment until Monsieur Madeleine finally takes pity on Javert, wishing him a good morning and a nice day and all manner of genuine and pretty pleasantries, and all Javert can respond with is a nod and a gruff farewell, hopelessly tongue-tied.
Somedays, he doesn't know why he even tries at life.
II.
Hammer's minions had grabbed him off the street, and passers-by mill about and stare even as he's bundled shouting and flailing into a white van. Honestly. Why does he bother? The common public are clearly all spineless bastards.
He hopes that someone had taken a picture of the van's license plate and/or called the police, preferably both, as his hands and feet are cuffed and he's driven off to a warehouse on the outskirts of Paris. It's so uncreative that Javert feels a little depressed. You just can't credit criminals with imagination nowadays. For once in his career, he'll like to see a proper, Batman-style underground hideout or something, kitted with interesting gear, not an abandoned warehouse with rusting struts and old packing equipment. The most that can happen to him here other than a beating is catching tetanus.
Admittedly, looking bored probably hadn't helped warm his captors to him - Javert is bruised and his lip is split by the time he's cuffed with his hands behind the back of a chair, and he scowls as his kidnappers take a photo of him, probably about to send it off to the Commissioner. Prisoner exchange, by the sounds of it. Hardly creative. And the Commissioner had built his current reputation and rank but having zero tolerance for Specials and their minions. There will be no negotiation.
He tells them as such and ends up punched in the face and kicked in the ribs, cheek planted on the dusty concrete ground, and for a moment, Javert is tempted, very tempted to just reach within him, to the-
The thought never gets completed. Shouts break out behind him, and Javert briefly thinks that maybe - just maybe - the law was quick on the turn this time round and he's about to be rescued - but all he hears is chaos and heavy thumps. Boots spin out of his line of sight, and he grunts, trying ineffectively to roll onto his back so that he can see what is happening.
Hands land on his shoulders and gently right him, then his cuffs are being unlocked. Javert scrambles out of the chair so quickly that he goes dizzy, then he stares.
It's Super Strength, still straightening up from his crouch, and as they recognise each other, Super Strength's shoulders deflate a little. "Oh," he says unenthusiastically. "It's you."
Javert glances beyond the Special. Hammer's minions have been draped over packing equipment, the floor, and over one strut high on the ceiling. They just look unconscious, thankfully. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Following a tip off. We… I heard that an officer had been taken hostage, on the police radio."
Javert notes the slip, mentally. It doesn't surprise him. Specials like to work together, just like rats. "You're under arrest."
"Again?"
"Multiple counts of a breach of Section 4(a) of the Specials Act and one count of wilful damage to city property-"
The Special makes a whistling, wheezing sound, and it takes Javert a long moment to realize that he is laughing, muffled behind his mask. Furious, Javert stiffens, his lips thinning, and Super Strength lets out a few gasps, obviously attempting to rein in his mirth, and his voice is still fractured as he manages, "My apologies, Inspector, it is just-"
"You would mock the law on top of breaking it?"
This does not have the effect that Javert had hoped - the Special breaks into a fresh bout of laughter. Annoyed, Javert looks around, hoping to find a gun or some weapon lying around that he can use to keep Super Strength subdued or laid out for the count or at the very least, bruise him a little, but there is none close at hand.
"I am so very sorry," Super Strength says finally, far too amused for Javert's pleasure. "But I suppose that we should part ways for now. I did not mean to laugh."
There's a special hell reserved for miscreants who lie to police officers, in Javert's opinion, and he watches sourly as Super Strength whips out his phone and evades arrest via yet another breach of Section 4(a). He sighs, rummages in the pockets of one of the unconscious minions, and finds a cell phone that has been surprisingly left unlocked.
The Commissioner obviously has many choice words to say, but what he does, in a way, is worse - he puts Javert on three days' medical leave, claps his shoulder in an awkward fashion that fails to be fatherly in the least, and sends him home with a pointed reminder to get some rest. Javert tries to sneak the case file from his office home with him, but his sergeant has been subverted to the side of the enemy, and he's sent packing empty-handed and in a foul mood.
The bruising takes on a particularly horrible greenish tint by the time he rounds the end of his third day of enforced boredom, and Javert is scowling to himself as he heads home from the local grocer, a bag of bread and fruit in his arms. It's near the end of the evening, almost into night, and he cuts through a park on his way home, mentally revising all the work that he's going to have to put in tomorrow morning.
He's so occupied that he nearly trips over the couple having a noisy domestic near the stone fountain, and he sighs, rubbing at his face with the palm of his hand. "All right. Break it up."
"Don't interfere!" the man snarls, wild-eyed, reeking of drink, and his cowed wife skitters back a step before making a quick decision and darting behind Javert.
Javert tries not to sigh. He has a baguette, a few apples, and some bananas. No weapon to speak of. "Look, kid," Javert says wearily, "Do yourself a favour and shut up. Miss, who is this man-"
She's gone still and quiet, and Javert realizes, with a certain degree of fascinated horror and profound irritation, that the man has drawn a pistol.
"You're going to have to put that down," Javert says, in his firmest tone, but the man merely snarls, cocking the gun, aiming it and pulling the trigger.
Javert doesn't think - it's instinctive to reach out and create just the barest touch of force, enough to turn the bullet aside to ground itself harmlessly in a tree. The woman behind him screams, and Javert's about to reach into his grocery bag to sacrifice an apple when something tall and big takes two big steps out of the bushes and grabs the man's gun, unhurriedly, crushing it.
It's Super Strength. The man steps back, swinging wildly, and Super Strength sidesteps, clenches a fist, and punches. It's a precise punch, and it's obvious that Super Strength was holding back, but the man folds up with a whimper, unconscious. Behind Javert, the victim lets out a little sigh, and faints.
Great.
Super Strength helps support her to a bench, and Javert grumpily calls the precinct. He doesn't even bother to mention Super Strength, and when he hangs up, he gets the feeling that Super Strength is amused. "Am I off the hook, officer?" the Special asks warmly.
"Until we figure out what's wrong with the polarity cuffs," Javert mutters, "There's no point trying to arrest you. No squad car could hold you and you would probably even damage the police cells. Are you following me around?"
"Not in the least," Super Strength protests. "I was on my way to attend to an appointment when I heard the gunshot."
Javert sighs. There's no point probing at this statement. He's tired, he has a victim and a delinquent to deal with, and he's still- "Never mind. Just go away. I'm off duty, and although I would instruct you to turn yourself in, I doubt that you possess a sufficient sense of morality to do so."
Super Strength tilts his head a little, then he says, finally, "It's a surprise that a fellow Special like yourself couldn't be more understanding, Inspector."
Javert feels his spine go cold, but he knows how to respond to a statement like this. He's prepared himself for it all his life. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The Special stares at him for a long, thoughtful moment, then he inclines his head with something that seems to be pity. Javert grits his teeth, but he doesn't say anything more, and eventually, Super Strength starts to fish in his pockets for his phone.
III.
Today he just has his coffee, and he's watching the clock, ready to get back on duty, when, of all people, Monsieur Madeleine settles into the opposite chair at his table and smiles benevolently at him. "Inspector! What a pleasant surprise."
A pleasant surprise, Javert's mind repeats, dazed, and underlines it for good measure. Javert nearly spills the cup of coffee over himself, and hastily sets it down. He's dressed as a detective should: affordable but crisp suit, white shirt, tie, but he's suddenly, immediately self-conscious all over again. It's late enough into the afternoon that he's probably starting to look a little unshaven, and… and…
"Monsieur," he manages to blurt out, "Bonsoir."
"The coffee is good here," Monsieur Madeleine grins, with a glance at his cup, and stung, Javert feels obliged to defend himself.
"I, it was just a short break, I will be returning to my-"
Monsieur Madeleine looks distressed. "Inspector, I did not mean to imply that you were shirking your duties. I just happened to be passing by."
Javert is utterly incapable of holding a polite conversation, it seems. He fights the urge to flee with the remnants of his dignity. It would be disrespectful, and besides. Besides. Monsieur Madeleine seems especially handsome today. He's on his way to the theatre, probably, judging from his tailored suit, bow tie and shirt, his gloves, God almighty, but Monsieur Madeleine is wearing white gloves over his beautifully long fingers.
Javert tries not to stare, and he definitely tries not to imagine what those gloved hands would feel like over his skin. His prick pushes against the confines of his trousers, and he tries to shift unobtrusively further under the table.
"You were going to watch a play?" Javert asks, uncomfortably, and regrets the question. Posed by a policeman, it's probably intrusive.
Monsieur Madeleine, however, smiles encouragingly. "Very close. I am attending a charity gala."
Javert does not see how this is 'very close' by any means, and wonders if he will die if he swallows his tongue right this instant. "I see," he murmurs, and thankfully, Monsieur Madeleine seems happy to discuss the gala - something about the plight of third world children - Javert isn't really paying attention. Monsieur Madeleine can read the phone book to Javert in that gentle, grave voice and produce the same narcotic effect. It ought to be illegal.
"You seem very interested," Monsieur Madeleine concludes, and he looks so cheerful that Javert finds himself nodding slowly in agreement. "Why, then, I insist that you accompany me tonight, Inspector," Monsieur Madeleine adds, "I would love to introduce you to some friends of mine."
Javert's fingers freeze over his cup. "Monsieur, but-"
"I will of course let Bertrand know."
"But Monsieur," Javert presses, as panic leaks in over his shock and drowns every inch of his previous stirrings in ice, "I am not dressed for the occasion."
"Nonsense, of course you are."
Javert protests weakly until his coffee is cold, and he's still protesting as Monsieur Madeleine steers him out onto the street, friendly as ever. Javert falls mute when they walk down a block, far too panicky now to even enjoy the crisp evening and the gentle cadence of Monsieur Madeleine's voice. He has no real interest in making a fool of himself and Monsieur Madeleine is asking him to-
"My dear Javert," Monsieur Madeleine says finally, coming to a stop, "Would it be so great a trial?"
"No, no," Javert forces himself to look up, at Monsieur Madeleine's concerned, guileless eyes. A perfect man. Handsome, gentle, kindly, with no vice or serious flaw that the political newshounds have managed to dig up so far, and not for lack of trying. A public servant who understands the service aspect of his role, rather than its power. Javert feels his panic wilting. Monsieur Madeleine's full attention is a dangerous thing. "If it pleases Monsieur le Maire that I attend this, ah, event, then I will."
It's a syncopated thing to say, and Javert mentally kicks himself. Monsieur Madeleine, however, only smiles broadly, as though Javert has paid him some sort of sweeping compliment. "Come, then. We'll be late."
Javert's a little relieved, once they reach the hotel where the gala will be held, to see that he isn't the worst dressed of the lot. There's a pack of youths crowding the entrance, the boys mostly dressed in rumpled suits with no ties, and one even in sneakers under his poorly tailored trousers, but even as Javert starts to frown at them, one of the young girls detaches herself from the group and hugs Monsieur Madeleine. "Papa, you are late," she chides him, and then turns an inquisitive glance towards Javert.
This is young Cosette Madeleine, then, Monsieur Madeleine's adopted daughter, plucked off a smuggling ring into a bachelor's charity. She's bloomed under his care, nearly fifteen years of age now, perhaps, blonde and delicate and beautiful in a demure orange frock. Javert doesn't try to introduce himself. Miss Cosette is but one more factor in a long string of reasons why his enduring infatuation with Monsieur Madeleine will remain unvoiced.
"Ah, Cosette, this is Inspector Javert of the Sûreté, the Extranormal Crime Division."
The youths murmur among themselves, but Cosette dimples prettily as she smiles at him. "Pleased to meet you, Inspector." Her handshake is firm, and she insists on introducing Javert to her friends. The boys watch him warily, but that is hardly unusual for boys of their age, and he barely remembers their names. It's hard to concentrate on details when Monsieur Madeleine is in the immediate vicinity.
He spends most of the gala trying not to get introduced to anyone, too nervous to eat and regretting the coffee - his nerves are buzzing, he's bored, and painfully out of place. Cosette and her friends occasionally attempt to engage him in conversation, but he's monosyllabic, and eventually, they give up. Thankfully, Monsieur Madeleine is too busy with politics to torment him further, and Javert waits about an hour - surely an hour is enough to be polite - and tries to slink out of the conference hall without being noticed.
He tries to do this via a side door, but the exterior shell of the hotel that houses the hall seems rather more complicated than he remembered, and Javert is thoroughly lost by the time he wanders down a random corridor and mentally curses historical architecture. Surely he did not just manage to get lost in a hotel. He tries to retrace his steps, to find some staff, at the least, and hesitates out of habit outside a door when he hears muffled voices.
It takes him a moment further to recognise Monsieur Madeleine and his daughter. "… no trouble," Monsieur Madeleine is saying, in a reasonable voice.
"You've already run into him three times," Cosette retorts, her tone beseeching, yet impatient. "Surely you must be more careful, Papa. You are too trusting."
Javert considers walking on, but he waits, instead. Cosette seems to be describing some sort of trouble, and the thought of someone troubling the gentle mayor is unbearable.
"You're imagining trouble where there isn't any, Cosette," Monsieur Madeleine notes, and he sounds amused.
"I'm not imagining it when you are courting it," Cosette's response is sharp, and Monsieur Madeleine sighs. Javert hears Cosette start to step towards the door, and he hastily looks around, then sidesteps around the corner, waiting.
The quick, loud clicks of a feminine heel sound out as the door opens, then fades away, and even as Javert is trying to figure out whether he's heard Monsieur Madeleine leave, there's a curious, "Inspector?"
Javert freezes, as he turns. "I was trying to find the exit," he says quickly.
Monsieur Madeleine watches him, and his face is neutral - it's a startling look for the mayor, and it unsettles Javert more than the overheard conversation. He's never seen Monsieur Madeleine wear anything other than gentleness. "I see," he says finally, and even his tone is quiet, almost flat. "Well, your mistake is not unfounded. This part of the hotel was meant to have been closed for renovations - it is empty."
Javert's heart sinks. He deserves the rebuke, unspoken as it is. He should have walked on the moment he had overheard a clearly private conversation. "Thank you, Monsieur," he says finally, accepting humiliation and defeat. He has finally offended the object of his desires. This development does not surprise him.
Still, he cannot leave matters as they are. If Monsieur Madeleine is under threat- "Monsieur," he adds, when Monsieur Madeleine seems to turn to leave, "I could not help but overhear the end of your conversation."
It is Monsieur Madeleine's turn to stiffen - he looks wary. "Oh?"
"If there is someone giving you grief, Monsieur, I would suggest reporting it to the police."
Monsieur Madeleine stares at him for a long moment, then he abruptly grins, amused, and it's so disorienting and unexpected that Javert very nearly takes a step back. Or forward. Merde. "My daughter is merely being sensitive, Inspector," Monsieur Madeleine notes. "If I could prevail on you not to take her side in this matter…?"
"A man in your position surely fields more than a few threats to his person." Javert probes, unwilling to let it go.
"And I do," Monsieur Madeleine shrugs, "But they are of no consequence, hardly worth noticing. Are you enjoying the party, Inspector?"
He cannot lie, but he cannot speak the truth without sounding ungrateful, so Javert stays uncomfortably silent, long enough that Monsieur Madeleine adds, kindly, "The exit is out to the left and then to the right, Javert. Thank you very much for your time."
Javert finds that he no longer wants to leave. If he could, he would stay here in this dusty corridor just talking to Monsieur Madeleine forever. Bask in that warm and gentle smile. He swallows. "Of course. Bonne… Bonne nuit, Monsieur."
Monsieur Madeleine waits, and when Javert doesn't move immediately, he adds, "I'll walk you out."
"I would not want to trouble you, sir," Javert protests, but again, Monsieur Madeleine will hear nothing of it, and he accompanies Javert out, left, then right, along a narrower corridor, and out to a side street.
It's night, and the lights from the main street dim the alley they're in to shadows. Javert feels grateful for it - he's trembling, and it takes a few abortive breaths to get himself back under control. He feels overwhelmed, all of a sudden. Monsieur Madeleine is here with him, yet impossibly apart. They walk in utterly different worlds: Javert cannot even conceive of the enormity of the chasm between them. This past hour and a half has convinced him so.
"Do you frequent that cafe where we met today?" Monsieur Madeleine asks, and the question is so odd that Javert answers it, unthinking.
"No. I try not to." He regrets his answer immediately - it makes today's chance meeting seem even more as though he had been skiving off. Javert scowls.
"Perhaps we should lunch there sometime," Monsieur Madeleine notes, and seems oblivious to the way Javert straightens quickly. "I would like to stay updated with your investigations. Every Thursday?"
He can't agree. This is going to destroy him, to sit at lunch with Monsieur Madeleine every Thursday, across one of those damnably small round tables and listen to that voice of his: he'll be nervous all of the day before it, and probably distracted all of the afternoon after, and- "Of course, Monsieur." He curses himself.
"Splendid." Monsieur Madeleine reaches over, taking hold of Javert's unresponsive palm in his gloved hands, warm even through the fabric, and pats him gently over his knuckles. "See you on Thursday, Inspector. Here's my card."
And he is gone, ambling back the way they had come. Javert stares, then closes his eyes, rubbing a hand sharply over his face. He's stressed already, and Thursday is still half a week away.
IV.
Javert glowers at him. Being part of the ECD means that occasionally being targeted for messy attempted assassinations by Specials is just a job hazard. The ECD had sent a strike force out to suppress the rumoured power battle between the Patron Minette and another gang of rogue Specials, had gotten caught in the crossfire, and at one point Javert had lost consciousness when he had been hit by part of a lamp post.
"Just get me down," he mutters. He's been strung up by his wrists on a heavy iron pole, and his toes only barely touch the ground. He's tired and heartsick and he's just spent the last hour in the dark mentally composing condolence letters. His arm is broken, but the pain's almost becoming a welcome distraction at this point. The other two officers strung up beside him, further into the room, expired of their wounds an hour or so ago. It's been a long and bitterly painful wait in the dark.
Super Strength's amusement fades when he steps in and sees the bodies - his shoulders hunch instead, and he exhales, hurriedly stepping over to Javert. With a quick, sharp wrench, he breaks the shackles holding Javert up, grimacing when Javert winces as he cradles his arm, then the Special steps over to check Adrien's pulse, then Lucian's. Javert watches him grimly as the Special also breaks their shackles and gently lowers them to the ground, folding their arms over their ravaged, burned chests, then closing their eyes. The stench of charred meat is probably overpowering - Super Strength gags as he steps back, swallows, and then bites down a sound: a sob.
"So young," the Special murmurs. "If only-"
"Constable Lucian Bellamy," Javert points, his tone bitingly sharp. "Just married, expecting a child. Constable Adrien Daviau. Only assigned to the ECD last week. His brother is a sergeant over in Vice. Always wanted to be a cop."
"I'm sorry," Super Strength says quietly.
"Are you?" Javert snarls, suddenly, blindly angry, "They're only two more in a long lists of casualties in this war against your kind-"
"Our kind," Super Strength corrects.
"Don't you dare," Javert chokes, too furious to be fully coherent, "I don't flout my powers. I obey the law. Rogue specials like you vigilantes and the Patron Minette and Hammer, you treat Paris like some sort of playground! And as a result," Javert adds bitterly, "Young men like these two die, and I - I'll have to break the news to their families tomorrow-"
"The law is prejudiced."
"It is the law," Javert snaps, but the Special is already checking his phone. Furious, Javert lashes out, unthinkingly, drawing on his abilities, and the phone jerks out of the Special's hand, shattering on the ground. Super Strength flinches, startled, then he sighs.
"Inspector."
"You're under arrest."
"Your backup will be here soon," the Special is striding towards the door, and enraged, Javert pulls up everything he can grasp, funnelling his anger and grief into it and pushes. Super Strength abruptly slams into the concrete wall of the cell with a yelp, as though slapped in place by an invisible hand, and he spits blood as he scrambles up to his feet.
Javert sways where he's standing, dizzy - he's never tried to push something that heavy before, and he's almost fainting, sound buzzing into a blur in his ears, and he sniffs, his nose feels congested - he brings up his uninjured hand to wipe over his mouth, and it comes away bloody.
"Hey," Super Strength approaches him, sounding concerned. "Take it easy, Inspector. Your nose. It's bleeding."
"You don't fucking say," Javert growls, and he sniffs again, squirming irritably as Super Strength carefully sets him against the wall. He tries to strike at him again, but his ability slips out of his grasp. He's too weak from pain and exhaustion and that rush of fury that had spiked before is ebbing.
"Help is on the way," the Special says, and his voice weaves soothingly over Javert as his vision starts to blur, guiding Javert down until he's sitting against the wall. "Just rest here a while, Inspector."
"Can't," Javert mutters, grabbing at Super Strength's wrists. "Need to work. You're under arrest."
"I know," the Special pulls away easily. "Maybe another time, Inspector. I still have work to do." He hesitates, a moment, glancing briefly to the side, at the bodies. "Do you want me to - do you want me to move you outside? Or to another room? This area's been cleared. It'll be the least that I can do. I'm sorry that I can't stay. We're close on Babet's trail."
Javert breathes out, shakily, and back in. Super Strength is being ridiculous all of a sudden, and it's unsettling. "Outside," he says finally, and the Special helps him out to the narrow corridor beyond the cell room.
The stench isn't so bad out here, and the Special's big hands are warm against his shoulders, the cadence of his voice soothing. There's a familiarity to it all, and Javert tries vainly to grasp at it, even as the Special gets to his feet, preparing to go.
"Wait," Javert says gruffly, "What's your name?"
The Special hesitates, for a long moment, then he replies, "Jack."
"No code names?" Javert drawls. Frivolous code names tended to be the status quo among vigilantes, or so he had thought.
"That is the code name," Jack replies, amused again. "A jack. Because of my strength. You see?"
"It's not very…" Javert begins, trails off when he realizes how ridiculous this conversation is becoming, then scowls when Jack starts to laugh.
"Well," Jack notes wryly, "If you come up with a better one, let me know. Bonne nuit, Inspector. I'm very sorry for your loss."
V.
"Inspector! Should you even be out of bed?"
Javert grunts as he sits down and orders a cup of coffee and a sandwich. "It is just a broken arm and some bruises. I was lucky."
"Lucky!" Monsieur Madeleine protests, then he sobers up at the look on Javert's face, and seems briefly uncomfortable. "I don't like how one-sided your work seems to be. The ECD seems outmatched."
Javert wonders whether or not to take offence, then he finds that he's stiffening up anyway. "We've made inroads into the vigilante problem and we're-"
"I didn't mean to offend," Monsieur Madeleine interrupts hastily. "You and your division work very hard. But you're all, well. You just have your batons and pistols and those polarity cuffs, and you face wrongdoers who can set the air on fire, or lift cars into the air, or-"
Javert shrugs. "That is the way of things."
"Perhaps if it could be different," Monsieur Madeleine muses out aloud. "If there could be registered Specials. Helping the police."
He can't hide his derision even if he tried, but Javert says nothing, sipping his coffee instead, and in the end, it's Monsieur Madeleine who sighs. "I have offended you again."
"I think perhaps that Monsieur le Maire does not understand," Javert replies, carefully. "Having these… 'powers', they twist a man. They are from the Devil himself, ill-gotten. Eventually, especially with repeated use, they blacken a man's soul until there is nothing left of him but a monster."
Monsieur Madeleine blinks at him, startled. "You believe that?"
"Do you not?" Javert is equally surprised. "I heard that you were a God-fearing man."
"God forgives. And there is nothing on God's Earth, under Creation, that is born intrinsically evil."
"I did not say that they were born evil. Only that prolonged use of unnatural powers corrupts." Javert tries not to scowl. "These Specials start to think themselves better than Normals. First they start with small crimes, whether theft or pretending that the law against uncontrolled vigilante violence does not apply to them. Then the crimes get greater. The vigilante 'justice' gets more and more violent, more unprovoked."
"Then they have no option but to hide themselves?"
"They should hide. Control themselves." Javert warms to his topic, despite his misgivings. On this subject he's most likely to betray himself in tone. He has to be careful. "If they do not use their abilities then they are not tempted down the road to worser sins."
"Perhaps so," Monsieur Madeleine notes, pensively. "You seem to speak with the voice of experience."
This shocks Javert right out of his high dudgeon, and he sucks in a quick breath. "I have met many Specials in my line of work, Monsieur."
"Ah, of course." Monsieur Madeleine smiles gently at him. "It is a commendable thing, to try and understand the mind of your opponent, I suppose."
Javert doesn't really know what Monsieur Madeleine means by that. Maybe the good mayor has watched far too many police procedurals, after all. The ECD does work with profilers, but not often. Usually the crimes that they handle are big and obvious enough that the culprit is also equally obvious. After all, in his experience, Specials and their powers tend to be fairly unique. He's never met anyone else like himself. Or anyone like Hammer, or the Patron Minette's members, or (the?) Jack.
The conversation drifts off police work, somehow, and in between bemusedly listening to Monsieur Madeleine bemoan the current syllabi in the lycée and the quality of Miss Cosette's tutors, Javert realizes, very slowly, that this is actually… nice. This is like a chat between friends. He doesn't exactly remember the last time he has done something like this.
He belatedly realizes that Monsieur Madeleine is asking him a question. "Pardon?"
"I asked," Monsieur Madeleine repeats, smiling, "What do you do outside of police work, Inspector?"
This is an entirely inappropriate personal question, Javert thinks, blinking. "Ah. I have a horse, stabled with the brigade équestre. It is an old racehorse, adopted," he adds defensively, when Monsieur Madeleine's eyebrows rise. "He was being sent to a meat yard. It was a waste of a good horse. The brigade équestre stables him for a subsidised fee…" He trails off, uncomfortable again. Keeping a horse in Paris is an unusual enough hobby that surely it will invite comment. He does not wish to be thought strange, or a spendthrift.
Monsieur Madeleine, however, actually looks genuinely curious. "That is very good of you, Inspector. You ride during your free time?"
"When I can." Javert feels disconcerted all over again. "Do you ride, Monsieur?"
"I haven't had the opportunity to learn, I am afraid." Of course. Put that way, his question certainly seems frivolous. Javert nods, and almost apologizes, but thankfully, Monsieur Madeleine continues speaking. "I tend to do a little gardening, myself."
Javert knows absolutely nothing of gardening save which plants are unsafe for equine consumption, and he mumbles something, feeling awkward and uneducated for the rest of the lunch. He's relieved by the time Monsieur Madeleine calls for the bill, and today halfhearted in his attempt to foot it. They haven't discussed his investigation in the least, today, and Javert doesn't know what that means.
"I hope I haven't wasted your time, Monsieur," he says, as they get up from the table.
"My time?"
"I had no update about Barricade." They've been lying low, of late. "They've been keeping a low profile, I think. Ever since the technicians figured out how they've been getting around the polarity cuffs."
"Ah, yes, of course." Monsieur Madeleine looks briefly reserved, and Javert realizes dully that he's misstepped, somehow. "No matter. I rather enjoy our meetings."
"You do?" Disbelief is so palpable in Javert's tone that Monsieur Madeleine grins.
"You sell yourself short, Inspector. You are pleasant company."
That's a bald-faced lie, and Javert is thrown by it - Monsieur Madeleine does not look like the sort to lie, and he can only hear sincerity in his words. He stares, instead, confused, and Monsieur Madeleine claps him on the shoulder. "Next week?"
"Oh. Of course, sir." Javert blinks, and Monsieur Madeleine inclines his head at him, preparing to leave. "Ah, Monsieur," Javert adds hurriedly, all unthinking. He is being selfish again. When the mayor turns, he gropes belatedly for a topic. "I forgot to ask. About that trouble that Miss Cosette referred to. How has it run?"
"Oh, that," Monsieur Madeleine seems amused that he had asked. "I think that we are fair resolved. But thank you for asking, Inspector. Your commitment to your duty is indeed commendable."
Javert's in such a good mood for the rest of the day that his team occasionally sneak glances at him from their cubicles, spooked.
VI.
ECD officers start to quit, or take leave, and Javert doesn't blame them. The bloodletting has gotten to a point where there's an unspoken order from the Commissioner to turn a blind eye to vigilante aid - they need all the help they can get, and God help him, but Javert agrees. He works as much as he can without passing out, pulls in all the favours he can manage from other divisions and the gendarmerie. He leads a strike force that takes down Brujon, and they close in on Gueulemer.
There's a wary truce between the ECD and the vigilante teams, but it's still cautious enough that outside of a pitched battle, there's but one nominated liaison. Javert isn't sure whether he's relieved or dismayed that it's the Jack. The Special makes him uncomfortable. Javert knows that he owes him his life, several times over, but the man is still a criminal. The knowledge meshes uneasily within him, always.
Neutral ground is usually an anonymous rooftop or a park, the location sent to Javert's phone half an hour before the time, and always at random. Today they're on top of an apartment building just out of the Latin Quarter, with a nice view of the Seine. It's a cloudy night, and they probably don't have to fear snipers.
"You're working yourself ragged," Jack notes, when Javert steps out onto the roof. "Whatever will your family think?"
"I have no family," Javert retorts shortly. He's in a foul mood. The best lead that they'd had on Montparnasse had just fizzled out. "Have you the tracers-"
"No family?" Jack interrupts, sounding surprised. "You?"
"Is this relevant?"
"Well, I would have thought that a man of your stature-"
Javert sighs. Sometimes Jack gets like this - the man had an obsessive and pugnacious streak about him which was probably what turned him to vigilantism in the first place. "What stature?"
"You are an Inspector," Jack shrugs, "You are a good man, and you are handsome, I suppose I am surprised."
Javert frowns at him severely. "Given what the Patron Minette are hunting," he says flatly, "Perhaps it is a blessing that I have no family to lose."
This sobers Jack quickly. "Ah. Quite."
"You should be careful," Javert finds himself muttering, "If the Patron Minette manage to figure out who you are, your own family will be in danger."
"My family is already in danger," Jack shakes his head wryly, "For despite my wishes they are as deeply involved in this mess as I am."
Perhaps it's the night air, or the silence, but Javert finally connects all the dots. One of the boys in Barricade has the ability to move objects through space, in short teleporting hops. "You're with Barricade," he says slowly, finally. "Or, your son is."
"Good guess, Inspector," Jack notes, amused.
"You're not exactly in costume." The Barricade brats love flashy, skintight costumes, even the girls. It's quite possibly indecent, in Javert's opinion.
"I'm too old for that," Jack says wryly, and Javert starts to laugh before he remembers himself.
He's not sure when he's started to let his guard down around Jack. The man is so unrelentingly patient, nice, perhaps, that he almost - almost reminds Javert of Monsieur Madeleine. Tall, dignified, gentle. Javert had always thought it odd that Jack had chosen to be a vigilante - at least, until now. Perhaps he's just trying to rein in his son's excesses, whoever the boy is.
"Which one is your son?" Javert asks, finally. "Leo?" The leader of the Barricade is a brash and annoying boy with the equally annoying ability to transform himself into a gigantic lion.
Jack sighs. "Castle, actually." He's named the quiet blonde girl with the decidedly irritating ability to build invisible force field blocks and shields. "She met this boy in her lycée and one thing led to another. I try to keep them out of too much trouble."
"Young people," Javert grumbles, before belatedly realizing that he's commiserating with a criminal.
"You do seem to meet a tall gentleman often," Jack continues, confirming Javert's opinion that Barricade has been spying on him. "If we know, then the Patron Minette might know, as well."
Jack has a point, and Javert goes cold for a moment before he forces himself to relax. The mayor hasn't exactly gotten involved in the street war, other than obviously publicly denouncing the violence. If the Patron Minette had wanted to get to him, well, the mayoral residence is public knowledge. "That's merely in a professional capacity. Your spies should have recognised Mayor Madeleine. He likes to stay updated."
"Updated with the state of your horse and your dislike of criminal investigation television shows?"
Javert scowls, clenching his fists. "That's none of your business," he snaps hotly, and mortified, he realizes that he's so abruptly angry that he's flushed red. He's started to cherish all this stolen time with Monsieur Madeleine, and it infuriates him to think that someone else might have been listening in. Thursday lunches have become his main and abiding hour of pleasure every week.
"Of course." Jack inclines his head. "My apologies."
Javert's furious for all of the short meeting, curt and irritable, and at the end of it, Jack adds, hesitantly, "We were merely watching you. You see, we try to keep track of all of the ECD and the people they are close to."
"Rest assured," Javert says stiffly, "The mayor's interest in me is merely professional."
"And your interest in the mayor?"
The blunt question catches him off-guard, and Javert hesitates, long enough that Jack glances at him inquiringly, and finally, Javert mutters, "That's none of your business."
"The man's a bachelor," Jack notes, sounding amused, then, and Javert wonders bitterly whether he can get away with telekinetically shoving him off the roof. "And he's been publicly out since last year."
Javert knows this intimately. He even remembers the date of the announcement - an off the cuff remark in a Vanity Fair interview, to be precise. "He has a daughter."
"And so? That hardly makes a man celibate."
"Why are we having this conversation, I swear-"
"Is it because you are also a Special?" Jack interrupts, curious, but Javert has had enough - he storms off, his teeth clenched so hard that they hurt. Unwittingly or not, Jack has hit at the heart of it all. Javert is a flawed man, born flawed, and he has less self-control over himself than he had originally even thought. Even if by some strange turn of Fate the good mayor propositioned him, conscience would dictate that Javert turn him down.
VII.
And then one day Monsieur Madeleine fails to show up for lunch. Instead, there's a letter on his usual chair with a typed note, containing a location and a warning. Come alone.
Javert isn't stupid. He calls the precinct, and then, with some hesitation, he tries to call Jack, but the man doesn't pick up. He leaves a voice message instead, grits his teeth, and drives. He'll stay calm. He'll-
The location's at an abandoned building out of the city limits, and even as Javert pulls up in the parking lot, a man bursts out of a clouded glass window on the second floor, falling onto the asphalt. Javert's heart jumps to his throat for a moment before he sees that it isn't the mayor, and then he exhales and draws his gun, trying to bite down on the hope welling within him. It looks like Barricade has already gotten here ahead of him. Probably from tapping into the police radio.
Javert starts to step into the building, wary of traps, at which point a black van swerves noisily into the parking lot. He freezes at the door, looking around wildly for cover, but then Barricade pile out of the van, Leo already transforming into his lion form, his lieutenants making an awful racket as they scramble out of the van behind him, colourful and motley. Javert isn't sure whether to greet them or try to strangle them, but they ignore him as they start to disappear, teleported into the building by R.
"This is a hostage situation!" Javert hisses at them, but the girl - Castle - merely nods at him from behind her mask, trotting briskly towards him. There's something familiar about her gait, but Javert can't place it, at least, not until there's a loud crash from beyond the double doors.
Cursing, Javert kicks the door open, squinting into the semi darkness, but it's - thank Heaven - Monsieur Madeleine, picking himself gingerly up from a mess of planking, plaster and broken furniture. He's fallen through the roof, but he doesn't look badly hurt, and as he extricates himself from the mess Castle lets out a feminine cry of relief and runs forward, hugging him tightly. Monsieur Madeleine laughs and allows the intimacy, smiling paternally-
Paternally.
Castle.
The Jack.
Javert comes to his final realization just at the moment that Monsieur Madeleine - Jack - realizes that he is there, and he blinks, pulling away from his daughter. "Inspector."
"You," Javert says bitterly, and he finds that his hands are shaking, his gun still up and pointed. "You… were you just laughing at me all this while? God, I thought - I knew that it was strange that you would have approached me, but I never thought - I should have known. I should have known!"
A crash sounds from above, and a muffled leonine roar - Madeleine winces. "Javert, put down the gun, please. You are among friends."
"Friends?"
"Allies, at the least," Madeleine actually has the balls to look hurt. "Let me explain."
"What is there to explain? You are a liar and a criminal," Javert snarls. "I never should have…" He doesn't have the words to continue - his throat feels closed up, clenched tight. He's shaking so violently that he can see the barrel of the gun tremble.
Madeleine glances at Cosette, who shrugs lightly, then steps towards the stairwell, heading up to help her friends. The Special walks towards Javert, slowly, until he's finally in reach of the gun, and he pushes the barrel down with his inexorable strength and thumbs the safety.
"At the beginning, yes, I admit, I wanted to speak with you because I was worried over how close the police were to Barricade," Madeleine says, his voice low and earnest and God help him, but it has still the same narcotic effect on Javert as before. "But it became more than that. I recognised that you are a good man, an honourable man. But it was not until I realized that you were also one of us that-"
"That you felt that it was safe to get closer?" Javert snaps, baring his teeth, "You cannot blackmail me, sir. I do not care if you report me."
"No! No. I was intrigued, at first. Then it became more, God help me, but to be obviously wanted by you - someone like you - it is intoxicating." Javert shudders as Madeleine steps closer, but he doesn't back off, even when a big hand presses hesitantly over his arm, slipping down to his hip.
"You wanted to use me."
"No. I wanted to help you." There's a bruise on Madeleine's jaw that will start to purple soon, Javert notes, dully, and it irritates him, despite everything. "I… care for you, Javert. And I know that it is well within your right to walk away, or arrest me, anything. Hit me if you want. But do not think," Madeleine says forcefully, "That anything within the last few weeks was feigned."
He believes him. He believes him, God help him, and he does not know what to think. Javert is still angry, still bewildered, still heartsick. He breathes out, shakily, then he startles at the sound of approaching sirens. "How are you… how are you going to explain this?" he mutters, and Madeleine smiles at him with sharp relief - Javert's heart skips a beat and he hates himself a little.
He can't think, even now. But he knows that to denounce Madeleine like this will not be right. He will destroy more than the gentle, upright mayor - he would destroy a young girl on the cusp of her life, more: he will destroy a man who has saved his life several times.
"You arrived on the scene," Madeleine murmurs, "But Barricade intervened. Naturally, your courage is to be-"
"Don't," Javert snaps venomously. "Don't fucking say it. And I never want to see you again, you hear me? This rights all debts between us." The tension within him starts to untwist into numbness, even as he says it. "I never want to see your face again."
Madeleine stiffens, wide-eyed, and he looks so crushed that Javert's next breath chokes in his throat, but then he bows his head. "Of course. Thank you, Inspector. For everything."
VIII.
He's in the middle of irritably instructing a couple of levitating brats to land instead of executing whatever fucked up mid-air manoeuvre they're trying to complete by placing a lock on the other side of the bridge when Cosette trots up to his elbow.
"Inspector," she dimples prettily at him, and he sighs. When the world wants to shit on him, it usually goes all in.
"What do you want?"
She looks past him at the young couple, and pads over to the bridge. "Janus, if you don't land over there right now, I'm gong to tell on Marianne."
The red-headed girl in his arms twists, blinking, and Janus rolls his eyes at Cosette. The couple floats away to the far end of the bridge, at which point they break into a spirited dispute. Javert sighs. The repeal of the Specials Act has added a whole trough of absolutely unexpected problems, but at least the world hasn't yet burned down.
Cosette passes him a card, and smiles again. He glances at it - it's Madeleine's card, with an address and a time scrawled on it. He scowls, and hands it back to her. "Not interested."
"It's been three years!" she calls after his back, as he starts down the bridge, and he ignores her, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.
To Javert's exasperation, members of the now-disbanded Barricade pop up over the rest of the morning and far into the afternoon, with the same card, address and time, and late into the day, when Leo - Enjolras - strides out towards him from an alley, Javert very barely manages to refrain from punching him in the mouth.
"No," he says flatly.
Enjolras shrugs. "All right." The young man is dressed in a bright red jacket and a shirt that's open halfway down his chest, for all appearances a thoroughly disreputable university student. His clear disinterest actually makes Javert slow down and come to an awkward stop, frowning. All the other irritating ex-Barricade members had more or less chased him down on the street.
"All right?" Javert repeats. "Is this the last of you lot?"
"Yes." Enjolras looks bored. "Are you going, or not? You have half an hour to get there."
"I said 'no', didn't I?"
"Look," Enjolras says wearily, "I owe Cosette and Marius a wedding present, so if you're really not going to go, I'm going to shapeshift right now and drag you there. Your choice."
"You'll be assaulting a police officer-"
"Been there, done that," Enjolras grins, baring all his teeth. "Your move, Inspector."
"What's so important about today?" Javert demands, frustrated. Damn the vigilante amnesty!
"You'll see."
To Javert's considerable personal irritation, he turns on his heel and starts walking briskly towards the address on the card. It's not the mayoral address, which makes him feel slightly better about it, though this impression drops sharply when he realizes upon reaching his destination that it's a restaurant. The maître d' stops him at the door, looking mildly scandalised at his dusty clothes and rumpled suit, but Javert irritably flashes his badge at him and stalks into the restaurant.
He spots Madeleine immediately - the man's at the window, seated at a table for two, and Javert has to take a deep breath to swallow blind anger at his sheer temerity. He marches over, sits down at the table, and folds his arms. "Happy?" Javert snaps.
Madeleine startles violently, almost upsetting the table, blinking at Javert in utter astonishment, and Javert abruptly realizes that this isn't, in fact, Madeleine's doing. Those brats. Before he can get up, however, Madeleine smiles, a lopsided and heartfelt smile and it arrests him in his seat as surely as though the man had cuffed him there.
"Inspector! I was expecting Cosette."
"Considering the amount of effort your daughter and her friends spent harassing me today, I think it's safe to assume that she won't be showing up," Javert retorts. "What's so important about today?"
"Ah," Madeleine frowns a little. "I do apologize for their behaviour-"
"I asked you a question."
"It's my birthday," Madeleine says, apologetically, "And I'm really sorry that you were inconvenienced, Inspector."
Ah.
Hell.
Javert sighs. He really should walk out of the restaurant, but instead, he sets his hands down, picking up the menu. Madeleine blinks again, slowly, then he looks so brilliantly pleased that the last of Javert's exasperation melts. Three years, and the man's goddamned smile still devastates his self-control.
They order, and Javert lets Madeleine pick the wine. When the maître d' retreats, Javert mutters, "Your daughter is getting married?"
"Yes, at the end of the year. I told her that she is still too young for marriage, but she insists."
"Congratulations, I suppose," Javert says gruffly, and Madeleine starts to chuckle before catching himself.
"How is Gymont?" Madeleine asks, and they talk horses until the amuse-bouche is served, a spoonful of something colourful that Javert cannot exactly identify. He isn't exactly used to restaurants of this sort of price range - all of his salary either goes to Gymont, rent, or modest living expenses.
The appetiser is equally perplexing, but the accompanying wine is good, and Javert feels himself starting to relax. He blames the combined narcotic effect of alcohol and Madeleine's voice. He doesn't care. Besides, it's Madeleine's birthday, and between them, there are no further debts, only bad blood, and even that has long started to fade, he notes, slowly. The world has changed quickly over the last three years, and Javert hasn't really had the time to hold on to old grudges.
He's pleasantly tipsy by the time dessert is over, which is why, Javert thinks, when they leave the restaurant and take the lift back down to the ground floor, alone, he murmurs, "Happy birthday."
Madeleine blinks at him, then he smiles, sweet and soft. Javert swallows, suddenly a little more light-headed, and Madeleine reaches over to grasp his hand, lightly, pressing it between his big palms. It's so much like that time in the hotel that it's disorienting: Javert feels almost as though they've stepped back in time, for a moment, before all of their sins and harshly spoken words.
"Thank you for tonight."
"You paid," Javert points out automatically, then mentally kicks himself for instinctively ruining the moment. Madeleine, however, merely grins. Good-humour lights up his eyes; Javert's mouth starts to feel dry.
"Perhaps," Madeleine begins, hesitates, then seems to force himself to add, "Perhaps, if you are still free on Thursdays…"
It's Javert's turn to hesitate, all the way until they're at the ground floor, then Madeleine lets go of his hand and steps out of the lift, buttoning up his coat. They're on the cusp of autumn, and Javert's fingers toy with the first of the buttons on his own coat before he states, "Fine." A weight within him seems to loosen, dragging Javert clear, and he isn't sure if he's free or falling. "See you on Thursday."
IX.
Madeleine laughs whenever Javert absently uses his ability to reach over and catch things from smashing on the ground, and he's starting to suspect that the brats are doing it on purpose. He tells this to Madeleine once, after dinner, when Cosette is packed off to bed and all the brats are shooed home, and Madeleine shrugs. "Telekinesis is a very impressive ability."
Javert tries not to redden. Ever since the repeal of the Specials Act, the Sûreté had acted as though it had been using Specials as policemen all along, especially in the ECD. Using his ability, however, still gave him the occasional twinge of guilt, and he tried to use it only when absolutely necessary. He's been freer with it recently. Madeleine and his brats are a bad influence.
"Not particularly. At least it's easy to hide," he mutters, and tenses a little when Madeleine presses a palm over his arm.
"I am older than you," he begins, and there's something of pain in the wryness of his smile. "Old enough to remember places like Toulon. Back when Specials like us were not tolerated but actively persecuted. And in the length and breadth of my experience, I have never met a Special who should be ashamed of his or her powers."
Javert nods, slowly. "You escaped?"
"Yes. I took another name." Madeleine turns away, towards the sink, starting to wash the dishes. "A bishop helped me."
"What was your original name, then?"
"Jean Valjean." Madeleine eyes him briefly, his smile still wry. "I think no one else alive knows me by it. Not even Cosette."
This is a gift, and Javert has nothing by far in its measure to return, nothing so graceful. "I remember places like Toulon," he offers, instead, gruffly. "I was born in one. My mother was a Special. The bagne closed when I was young enough to leave. The prison chaplain introduced me to one of the Sûreté Inspectors."
Madeleine looks startled, then concerned. "I did not mean to open old wounds."
"There aren't any." Javert has long reconciled himself to his past. Jean Valjean. He can't quite picture Madeleine with another name, one so common. He isn't sure. Despite his limp, Madeleine moves with a gentle, fluid economy that suits the grace of his assumed name better than the short consonants of his birth. "What would you prefer me to call you, then? 'Jean'?"
Madeleine fumbles a plate, and Javert briefly regrets his casual question, up until Madeleine reaches for him, pulling him closer, soapy hands and all, and then it seems natural that they're fumbling a kiss between them, inexpertly, noses bumping, teeth in the way. It smooths out awkwardly - it's been a while for Javert, and it seems the same for Madeleine, and soon their lips press, open-mouthed, unhurried and sweet.
"I still do not know your first name," Madeleine murmurs, when they pause for breath, and it takes Javert a while before he can respond.
"I have none." His mother hadn't seen fit to provide such information before she had passed, and the chaplain had decided to leave it up to Javert to determine when he got older. Javert had never bothered. Madeleine kisses him again, as though he had answered with one anyway, and it drives the memory from his mind, the ignoble taint of his birth. Javert drinks greedily from the grace of Monsieur Madeleine, from the desires of Jean Valjean, and curls his thumbs against Madeleine's cheekbones.
"Mon bien-aimé," Madeleine whispers, when they part, and Javert's next breath gutters into a stammer behind his teeth. Madeleine doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps he does - the next kiss is chaste and quick, then he turns back to the sink.
X.
"Your daughter is a grown woman," Javert mutters once, when Madeleine stretched on the couch, thighs spread, Javert kneeling between them. "Leave her to her own devices."
"The last time I did that," Madeleine looks deliciously rumpled, his shirt unbuttoned, belt undone, and Javert's fingers on the rest of his swelling prize, "She joined a revolutionary group of vigilantes and ran about in a… costume… that did not at the least reflect her upbringing, uhm, Javert-"
Javert has to concede this point as well. Cosette has a remarkable ability to fall into bad company. Small wonder her adopted Papa is so possessive. "She's still of age," Javert points out again, and when Madeleine tries to retort, Javert gets his boxers down far enough to lick slowly and hungrily up his cock, and he shuts up. Applied practice allows him to take a little more, each time, and Javert finds that he's anticipating the day that he can take the thick, heavy flesh of Madeleine's cock all the way down to the back of his throat. He moans at the thought, breath puffing, and Madeleine squirms and bites down on his wrist with a soft whimper.
He manages to break Madeleine's attempts to keep silent only when he gets as much cock as he can into his mouth without choking - when Javert sucks, Madeleine lets out a breathy whine, and he has to press his free hand hard between his own legs, God. Big hands press over his short hair, urging him on gently, and it's wet and sloppy and Javert can feel Madeleine's powerful thighs, pressed trembling against his shoulders. He loves it and he shouldn't. This blaze of pleasure runs far too hot and wild to be anything but madness.
Madeleine rolls his hips, gently at first, then rougher, harder, when Javert merely suckles harder, until he's starting to fuck Javert's mouth and it's so dirty like this, on his knees, with Madeleine's fingers shaking over his skull. The strength in those fingers can crush bone as easily as breathing and knowing that only makes Javert's cock press harder against his jeans. He's close, and he pulls roughly at Madeleine's cock with his hand; thighs squeeze against his shoulders as Madeleine rocks forward, too roughly, his cock presses down Javert's throat and he gags on it and now - God - he's coming, dazed, in his jeans like a teenager, tears in his eyes, overwhelmed.
Fingers pull him back and away, but he whines and tugs at the flesh in his grip, then Madeleine is gasping his name as his cock jerks and spurts over Javert's fingers, his mouth, his chin.
"Sorry," Madeleine hauls him up easily, but Javert merely blinks at him, slowly, then he shivers and squirms breathlessly as Madeleine starts to lick him clean.
It takes a while, and if he was younger, Javert would be hard again - it's the most erotic thing he's ever experienced: he kisses Madeleine greedily when he's clean, chases the last of his lust down Madeleine's throat. It's divine. Insane. Madeleine's hands have shifted down to his hips, holding him in place - it's gentle, but he knows that if he shifts, he'll only be able to move if Madeleine wants him to move. Yes.
"Mon bien-aimé," Madeleine murmurs, as he usually does when they are like this, his voice a little raw.
Javert turns his mouth to nuzzle up Madeleine's jaw, his breath shaky as he traces his own response in the quickening kick of Madeleine's pulse, in the salt of his skin, the jump of his throat under Javert's lips. If he could, he would write his answer large in the bones of their souls.