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Phantom Pain	By : MsPen Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2145 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
- 1-Phantom Pain
- 1
Author's Note: If there are any factual errors, Mea Culpa.

****
January, 1830

Winter in Paris was the worst time of year. In the country the snow fell and lay in shining, unbroken fields of white. But in the city, even the snow falling from the sky was dirty and gray, and it became more filthy when it touched Paris’s polluted streets.

It was no different than any city Javert had worked in, no different than any winter. He stepped over a stream of melting snow as it coursed through a gutter. He was tired of winter, tired of the ugliness of human nature that confronted him every day. It seemed worse in the cold months after Christmas, as if, after all the light-hearted celebrating was over, the only thing left to the citizens of Paris was licentious behavior.

In a city clogged with smoke and dirt and far too many inhabitants, it was almost understandable. Of all the people in Paris, perhaps Javert knew best how difficult it was to live a clean life, free from vice. In the dull gray of winter, sin seemed closer to joy than the satisfaction of living without human entanglements.

It became more difficult as the years passed. Javert hadn’t been very old when he’d come to the realization that some men married and raised families, and he was not one of those men. There were occasions, of course, when having a wife to dote on him would have been convenient. When a ball from an escaped murderer's pistol had struck him in the calf— a clean injury that hadn't threated his life but had nicked the bone and hurt like the very devil— a wife to comfort him and change his bandages wouldn’t have been unwelcome. At the same time, being shot had thrown into perspective exactly why men in his line of work shouldn’t have families waiting for them at home. A man could hardly provide for his wife and children if he were injured or killed. And how would he have stayed sane, leaving the goodness and comfort of a real home to confront the lurid underworld of the tainted human race night after night?

But that didn’t stop him from desiring the company of a woman now and then. Not for home and family, but for another kind of comfort altogether. He’d never given in before. In his youth, it hadn’t been a question of will, but opportunity. Too serious and far from handsome, he hadn’t been the first choice of any girl in his younger years. Once he’d reached middle age his chastity had become a point of quiet pride for him. A test of endurance. And he’d seen how women complicated the lives of men. He counted himself lucky that he’d never had to placate an angry wife or avoid a romantic conquest that had ended badly.

And he'd never regretted his choices, until the incident with the gunshot. As Javert had lain bleeding, shouting orders and watching the other officers scrambled to make the capture, thoughts of death never entered his mind. He’d simply been too busy. But later, after the lead had been removed and the wound sewn shut, after the danger had passed, those thoughts crept in. He could have died, and there were so many things he’d never done.

That’s when he'd broken his fast from small vices. With the hole still fresh in his leg, he’d gotten drunk. Not just slightly warm from wine or brandy. Stinking drunk. So inebriated he’d forgotten how to use his crutches. He’d fallen, sprawled on the floor of his bedroom.

And nothing worse had happened to him. No dire misfortune had befallen him the next day. Javert the drunk was the same man as Javert who always imbibed cautiously, albeit with a slight aversion to sunlight the next morning.

Now, months later and due in part to the gloom of winter, he had taken up gambling. It was more enjoyable than drinking alone in his little room. Though he thought it a waste of time and money on principle, it was something he’d never done before and one of the frivolous regrets he’d had lying on the infirmary cot. At the start of the evening he’d felt good, better than he had since the shot had shattered his leg. But it was a cold night, and the damp sent spikes of ice through his bones, waking the wound that had long since closed. He stopped to rest against the slick stones of a building to ease the splitting pressure in his calf. He’d been there only half a moment when she appeared.

As whores went, she was not the worst looking he’d ever seen. Her limbs were plump and pale, gleaming white in the moonlight. She was young, but she would not remain so round and clean for long. Soon, disease and desperation would cling to her like a noxious perfume. For now, though, she was desirable, and the work that would ruin her would come easily.

She did not move boldly, but she had a bold air, like a newborn colt with confidence enough to convince it to walk, albeit clumsily. She tried to approach coyly, but she came upon him too quickly and with too eager an expression. It added to her charm, and he smiled.

“There’s an encouraging look,” she said, almost a whisper, her wide grin displaying a mouth full of healthy teeth.

This was not a girl born and raised on the streets.

“Where is your father?” He looked up, seeking the only lit window in the face of the building he leaned against.

The smile never left the girl’s tone, and she came closer. “Dead. Nearly a year now. But you didn’t come here for my father.”

Someone moved in the light of the window. He turned back to the girl. “I didn’t come here for you, either. I was merely resting.”

“And fortunate for you, resting by my door.” Though not an old hand at her trade, she knew the cloying language well enough, how to turn a phrase. “It just so happens I have no company tonight.”
He should have said, “And you’ll have none of mine,” had even opened his mouth to utter the words, but instead it all came out wrong somehow and he ended up simply saying, “Oh?”

Emboldened by his accidental interest, she came close enough to place her hand on his arm. “And are you without company tonight, as well? No one expecting you home?”

He gripped her wrist and pulled her forward, covering her mouth to silence her startled cry. “Never get within arm’s reach. There are men out there who want more than what’s under your skirt.”

He released her then, quickly and gently, and she took a few steps back, visibly shaken. “My... my mother waits upstairs. If something happened to me—”

“She wouldn’t know until they’d fished you from the river.” The way her hands shook when she pulled her flimsy shawl tight around her sent a stab of guilt through him. Better he feel guilty than she wind up dead, he reminded himself.

Backing away, she reached a hand behind her, trying to find the wall to steady herself. “Thank you. I will remember that. Good night.”

He watched her approach the little doorway, tripping over her feet a bit. He’d made her nervous, put a bit of fear into her. If only someone would do that for the other girls like her, before their pretty faces were cut up or their necks broken by the sadistic scum who prowled about, looking for a girl to ruin.

It was a wonder any sane woman would put herself into such danger for a bit of money. No desperation he could imagine would be severe enough to warrant it. This girl could easily find work in a shop. She was pleasant enough to look at. He imagined she could even serve in a large household.

But no. No wife with a shred of intelligence would let a girl like this into her home. Women were, if nothing else, jealous creatures. The moment a husband’s eyes strayed to her, the girl would be back to the street. And in a shop she would be prey to the demands of the shop keeper. Still a prostitute, earning the right to work in place of money.

She reached the doorway, stepping carefully from the broken stones of the street into its protective arch. Perhaps she would go upstairs, wait until the next night to find another patron. Most likely, she would sit in the shadow of the doorway until another man came along. It was not pity that made him do what he did next. It was a strange, primal possession. The thought that another man might come and put his hands on her, a man who would not give her a warning but put bruises on all that soft, pale flesh brought a boiling rage up in his guts, and he stepped away from the wall, approaching her slowly. “I did not say I wasn’t interested.”

Her head snapped up sharply, her eyes wary. She weighed the options, darting her gaze from the walking stick in his hand to the cut of his coat, finally to his face. He knew his looks were not the stuff of romantic stories, and her meek appraisal of him made him strangely self-conscious. But she wouldn’t reject him, he saw it in the desperation on her face.

“How much?” he asked, his voice oddly raspy to his ears.

She shrugged elegantly, more confident now that she was on familiar footing. “Six francs. Of course, it could be more, depending on how long you intend to—”

“Six. That will be fine.” He waited, unsure of what transpired next. Would they go inside? Was it a brothel? What would he say for himself if a fellow policeman recognized him entering or leaving the place?

An explanation would come a bit more easily if he were recognized leaving the house than if he were stumbled upon fornicating with a prostitute in an alley, so he was relieved when she turned and opened the door. “It’s upstairs. It’s not much, but there’s a room.”

“That’s fine.” He glanced guiltily over his shoulder as he followed her inside. What was he doing? He, who had quietly accepted his celibacy long ago, chose in this one, rash moment to enter the ranks of the depraved and indulgent.

No, not depraved. His gaze slid over her body as she climbed the stairs, taking in the curve of her back beneath her fall of black curls, the span of her wide hips. An image of his hands closing over those hips, pale and bare in the candlelight, his fingers digging into the cushion of her flesh, formed a groan deep in his chest, and he forced it down. Not depraved. Starved. And this girl, young and fresh and ripe, was a banquet.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, framing the slight figure of a woman aged beyond her years, her disapproving face bunched in a frown. At the sight of her, Javert’s lust crumbled some. The girl had said her mother waited upstairs. This woman watched from the window as her daughter found men to seduce for money. An unhappy mix of animosity, recrimination and pity warred in his stomach, and for a moment he almost turned back. But on closer examination, there was not only pain and accusation in the woman’s face, but desperation.

They needed the money, that much was painfully clear as the women ushered him inside. The main room was small and crowded with too much furniture, too many small treasures that had clearly been acquired in better days. They had not been poor for long.

The mother held out her hand and nudged him in the rib with her elbow. “Payment first.”
It was another moment he could change his mind in, possibly the last. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew the wad of gambling winnings, pressing them into her hand. The woman’s eyes flared wide, then narrowed again, resuming their suspicious look. “Well, that will buy you a fine night, I think.”

The girl took his arm, quietly murmuring, “this way,” before leading him to the back, where another door stood ajar beside the small fireplace.

The back room was smaller, but not stuffed to overflowing with remnants of a former life. There was a single, narrow wooden bed, a dresser with feminine necessities of perfume and cosmetics scattered messily across the top and a washstand with water and a small mirror. He stood, feeling too tall beneath the sloping ceiling, too broad for the space with the girl crowding at his side.

“Sit down, I’ll help you with your boots,” she said, only a whisper, but somehow it intensified all the nervous heat in his stomach. He sank onto the bed, wincing at the overloud sound of the creaking ropes.

“Don’t worry. She hears, but she doesn’t listen.” The girl set to work pulling the first boot free, her small hands so strange looking against his large foot.

“You’ve done this many times then?” Why did he need to ask? Obviously, she hadn’t been working this way long. But a part of him that made his stomach knot needed to know.

She smiled, the first unpracticed one he’d seen from her. It was a sad expression that didn’t reach her eyes. “Seven times. Not many men seem interested.”

“I don’t know why they’re not.” He reached down and lifted a heavy curl, sliding the silky strands between his fingertips before releasing it. Who was this man he’d suddenly become, all soft touches and startlingly tender words?

“Perhaps I’m asking for too much money?” She sat back, having freed the second boot, caught her lip between her teeth and regarded him earnestly.

He opened his mouth to reply, but her small hands grazed his ankle, and his body tensed. She idly stroked his exposed skin and slid her hand beneath his trouser leg. Her fingertips slipped over the scar, a smooth surface over bunched tissue, and a small “oh” of surprise escaped her lips. She pushed the fabric up and traced the edges of the phantom wound. “What was this?”

“I was shot.” He spared her the details of the story, spared himself from telling them. It had been a stupid mistake, over in an instant. For a reason he could not fathom, he didn’t want her to know of his failure. He didn’t want her to worry that he was dangerous, either, so he blurted, “In pursuit of a criminal. I’m a policeman.”

She leaned forward, lowered her head and brushed her lips across the scar. A jolt went through him, akin to being shot all over again. She rose slowly on her knees, her hands bracketing his legs and sliding up as she did, over his knees, to his lap and higher, into his coat to gently push it from his shoulders as she stood. “Are you in a hurry? We could make it quick, or...”

The unspoken option hung on the air as he drew his fingers up her neck to lay his palm against her jaw. It seemed a difficult task to speak. The words came out thick and rasping. “I am in no hurry.”

He pulled her forward, so their faces almost touched, then turned hers away to kiss the soft skin below her ear. Her breath quickened, and the sound set his blood afire, sent it rushing through his veins toward the uniquely male part of him that demanded attention. The girl’s hands moved quickly, unbuttoning his vest, then his shirt, her delicate fingers finding the warm skin beneath his clothing. He tried to respond in kind by unhooking her bodice, but she was too close to him, and he had no experience with removing a woman’s clothes.

Straddling his lap, she climbed onto the bed and pulled her dress open. She wore no undergarments. There was no teasing in the way she revealed herself. She was simply dressed one moment and undressed in the next. All of her plump, white flesh was available to him, and he didn’t know where to touch her first. She realized before he did that his hands hung in the air at his sides, as if he were suddenly afraid to touch her. Capturing one, she pulled it to her mouth, sucking his index finger between her lips.

He strained upward, just for a moment, from the shock of her action. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know why he apologized, felt his face flame with embarrassment.

“You’re so nervous.” She giggled and drew his finger down her neck, to her chest, tracing the space between her breasts with his finger. “You’d think you’ve never done this before.”

“I haven’t.” He fixed his gaze on her hands where they held his, not wanting to see her face. Would she laugh at him? He didn’t think he could stay and finish the task if she did. Moving without thinking, he drew her hands away and kissed the white skin where his finger had been.

She shivered. “Never?”

“No.” It felt good to lean his cheek against her breasts, better when she laid her hands on his hair, holding him close to her. She untied his hair, shaking it loose, and leaned back, a slow smile spreading on her face.

“There. Not so severe now.” She tapped the end of his nose with her finger, laughing, and he surprised himself by laughing, as well. Sliding her hands inside his opened shirt, she pushed both it and his coat off of his shoulders. The chill air of the room shocked him, but her hands were hot in contrast where they smoothed over his chest.

“You’re much older than I am.” It wasn’t an insult, but an observation. She pressed her mouth to his neck, the hard points of her nipples grazing his chest. “But you look better than most men I see.”

“Oh?” Should he have felt pride at that, or should he have been horrified to speak of her other patrons in such an intimate situation? He couldn’t decide.

“They’re usually fat. Out of breath before they can—” She blushed and dropped her head. “I’m sorry. I’m still learning.”

He didn’t tell her how her admission, that he was more attractive than the others she’d been with, made him feel bold and proud. That it gave him the ridiculous confidence to pull her against him, rougher than he’d intended, and crush her mouth beneath his.

The press of her cool skin against his, her soft mouth parting beneath his went to his head faster than the strongest drink he'd ever had. Never had he felt such intimacy or such pleasure with anyone. All from her arms wrapping impetuously around his neck, her tongue rubbing against his in a strange, almost unpleasant friction. He broke away, finding himself as breathless as the patrons she’d described, but filled with demanding passion rather than exhaustion.

Wordlessly, she slid from his lap, dropped to her knees before him. She reached for the buttons of his trousers, tracing the shape of him through the fabric. He closed his eyes and gritted back a moan. Her small, warm hand slipped inside and gripped him, and he could not hold back his reaction. He tried, and the resultant noise that escape was a hissing, half-strangled one.

“She won’t listen,” the girl reassured him again, her voice lower than before. Her hand still gripping him, pumping him, she wetted her lips. “Besides... I like the sounds.”

“Ah.” It was the only answer he could think to give. He couldn’t concentrate on anything but her hand on him, and then, unbelievably, the wet point of her tongue. She’d leaned down, taken the tip of him into her mouth, plump red lips sliding over his straining flesh. He put his hands on her shoulders, unsure if he meant to push her away or pull her forward to envelope more of him. He didn’t have to. Her mouth parted wider, drawing him in, her rough tongue swirling over him. Changing from darting and pointed one moment to flat and wide the next, too intense and not enough all at once. He pushed his hands through her hair, tangling it in his fingers and wondering too late if he had hurt her. But he couldn’t do much more than wonder. There was no controlling his thoughts, no controlling his hands fisting in the dark mass of her hair, no controlling the guttural sounds coming from his throat.

Everything over sensitized him. Her hands, her lips, the muffled, mewling noises she made as she worked him in and out of her mouth. The squelching sounds that accompanied and should have been ridiculous yet were somehow erotic. Her breath on him, cooling his heated skin. His heart hammered his ribs, his hips jerked upward, urging on the pulsing, tightening sensation concentrated in whichever bit of skin her tongue touched at that second.

She drew back, leaving him stammering in confusion, and silenced him with a finger to his lips. Her own were swollen and gleaming. “You paid for more.”

The words took their time penetrating the fog that coated his thoughts. He stared after her as she negotiated the small space between the foot of the bed and chimney, to the washstand. Oddly matter-of-fact, she took a small scrap of sponge and a bottle, held the sponge over the mouth and turned the bottle upside down. The scent of brandy— bitter and stinging— wafted through the room. Then, setting the bottle aside, she pressed the sponge between her legs, her fingers disappearing into that secret place of her he was about to enter.

She turned back to the bed, no longer the shy girl, now a brazen seductress standing exposed and ready before him. The change had been so gradual, it came as a shock to realize it now. Gesturing to the bed, she murmured, “Lie back. Take off your trousers.”

He did with hands numbed by hesitation. While her nudity excited him, the prospect of being exposed so himself made him curiously nervous. So much so that as he kicked his trousers free of his legs, all the lingering pleasure from her ministrations fled, as did a great deal of his arousal.
Whether she noticed or cared, he could not tell. She climbed onto the bed beside him, looking him over with a detached sort of interest that further separated her from the unsure girl who’d lured him off the street. “Are you afraid?” she asked, running her fingers languidly up and down his thigh.

He swallowed, gaze fixed on her fingers skimming ever closer to his groin. “Not of a girl like you. But nervous, yes.”

“Why nervous?” With a flick of her wrist, her fingers changed direction, gliding down to tickle the back of his knee. She reached for one of his hands, moved one of his palms across her belly, down to the bit of her that was shadowed with damp, dark curls. She opened her legs a bit, pressed his fingertips to the smooth, slick flesh between them. Her wetness pearled on his fingers, and for a moment he imagined the brandy-soaked sponge explained it. But this was thicker, slippery, not at all like brandy.

“You see?” she asked, her voice breathy. “I’m not nervous.”

No, she was anything but nervous, and her excitement fed his own. He pushed his fingers deeper, withdrew them, watching her eyes flutter closed. The thought of all that soaked, rippling flesh closing around him, drawing him deeper into her body, made him shudder. He withdrew his hand and rolled the silky moisture between his thumb and fingertips. Her breath caught audibly, and for a moment he saw a glimpse of his inept street girl again in her shocked expression. As she watched, so charmingly naïve for the circumstances, he touched his fingers to his lips and flicked his tongue out to taste her, musky and tinged with brandy.

She hesitated, her expression caught between fascination and embarrassment. The schooled, detached seduction was over, and he was relieved. “I thought you weren’t nervous.”

“I’m... I’m not,” she stammered, shifting on her knees. “You’re not like my other patrons. They don’t... I don’t enjoy it.”

He sat up, giving a fleeting thought to fact that his nudity no longer seemed uncomfortable, and lifted her chin in his hand. “It is apparently a first for both of us, mademoiselle.”

She smiled and pressed her palms to his chest, easing him back to the bed and crawling over him to straddle his hips. Gripping the base of his erection, she rubbed the tip across her slick flesh, jerking back when he surged upward. It was torture, waiting to enter her as she slowly pushed the tip of him into her soft, resisting flesh. Some long-buried instinct in him demanded that he drive into her, and it was a damned difficult instinct to ignore. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth, willing himself to be still. She shifted and then he was inside, slipping further and further in until she was flush against him, her plump thighs splayed on either side of him.

At first, she stayed perfectly still on him, her breathing deep and audible, her head thrown back as she seemed to be collecting herself. It seemed impossible to Javert that anyone could calm themselves in such a moment. Every sense overwhelmed him, from the hot, rippling flesh that enclosed him to the sight of her smooth, pale skin as she sat impaled upon him. She made a mewling whimper in her throat, and the sound drove straight to his groin, sent a pulse of overwhelming pleasure all through him. Even the heady scent of her body, which seemed somehow more potent now that the he was buried inside her, threatened to drive him over some unknown edge.

And then she began to move. Only a subtle twist of her hips, dragging him out of her and sinking him in again, all of that rough wetness clutching at him as she writhed and gasped atop him. He grasped her knees, then her hips, digging his fingers into the softness there to grip her. As she sank down to him, he pulled her, pushed up against her. The bed ropes creaked in earnest now, rhythmically, but he found he didn’t care who heard. Nor did he care who overheard her cries of delight or the involuntary grunts that burst from him as they moved together harder, faster.

The precarious edge he’d feared approaching before seemed further off now, and impossible to attain. He sat up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer even as she wound her plump legs around his back. She rocked on him, drawing him deeper, but it wasn’t enough. He lifted her, swinging his legs off of the bed, and got to his feet, crashing them both into the tall dresser. She reached behind her, arms flailing for a moment, and made to grip the edge. Failing that, she brought her hands up to brace herself against the steeply sloping ceiling. All the while, he never ceased pounding into her, stooping down to avoid banging his head, capturing one of her hard, rosy nipples in his mouth and sucking it as he pistoned in and out of her.

In his arms she thrashed, moaned, mindlessly repeated babbling pleas. Finally, her cries changed, rising in volume and pitch, culminating in a shriek as her body stiffened, her inner flesh convulsing along the length of him. This was the impetus he’d needed, the desperate clutching of her body as she dropped limp in his arms, and without any further urging he exploded into her, his head swimming so that for a moment he worried in a vague, far-off way that he might send both of them crashing to the floor. In the next second he no longer cared. He thrust against her a final time, as if seeking to push farther into her than he’d already gone. Roaring like a madman, he shuddered over her.
When his head cleared, he managed to fall back to the bed without killing them both. It seemed suddenly ridiculous that they were still joined— though he felt himself slipping from her by rapid degrees— and he gently lifted her so she could climb off of him. Her chest rose and fell heavily as she lay on the bed, shamelessly exposed to him in a way that now made him profoundly uncomfortable.

“Give me a moment. To get my breath. Then I will dress and be on my way,” he said, his throat as raw as if he’d run a mile against the bitter cold wind.

A timid hand touched his chest, and the weight of it was like an anchor holding him to the bed. “You don’t have to go.” Her breath hitched and she paused, then added, “You paid enough for a whole night.”

Ah, this was the trap he’d heard described so often. The guilt at leaving them, that they would twist to their advantage. One of his fellow inspectors swore that if he’d never touched his wife she wouldn’t have become his wife in the first place. And though he knew it was ridiculous to feel guilty— after all, he’d paid her for the privilege of her body; it wasn’t as though she’d been used without recompense— he still did.

“It would be better if I left now.” He stood, ignoring the foolish impulse to cover himself with the sheet as he searched for his trousers. She nodded and went rather matter-of-factly to the washstand, where she set about cleaning herself as he dressed.

She didn’t look at him as he went to the door, but he felt he should say something, at least. “Don’t continue with this life. Sell your fine things, find work in a shop. This will only lead you to ruin.”

“And vice, and sin, and perdition.” She turned to him, the warmth gone from her eyes now that her duty to him was done. “There is nothing you can say to me that I haven’t heard preached from every church doorstep in Paris.”

“I don’t give a damn about sin and vice and perdition. It isn’t my job to condemn you to hell. But it is my job to know what the dangers are to the citizens who walk these streets, no matter how they make their wages. I would be remiss if I did not tell you that, of all the occupations in the city, yours is the second most dangerous.” He smiled, reluctant to make a joke of it, but unsure she would listen to what she perceived as a sermon. “Next to being a policeman.”

“I see how vile and dangerous it can truly be.” There were tears in her voice, and he wondered at that. Was this an act she'd perfected and tried on every man? To gain more money? To ensure repeat business, a regular patronage, perhaps?

Disgusted, he pushed his way outside, past the stern faced mother who sat among the treasures more dear to her than the virtue of her daughter.

The night air tasted bitter to him, and he choked on the scent of stale perfume and brandy that clung to his skin. The phantom wound in his leg throbbed with every step, until finally he was back at his doorstep. His head swam; he was oddly drunk without having tasted a drop. His mind mocked him with the memory of her taste on his fingertips, laced with brandy. He was drunk. Drunk on vice and flesh and the careless exploitation of a girl who would live the rest of her days thoughtlessly used by men like him. He staggered to his washstand and splashed water onto his face, scrubbed his hands, stripped down and washed his body, desperate to remove any trace of the girl.

He fell onto his bed, aching all over, and tried to fall asleep without thinking of all he'd seen that night.

****
In the rising civil discontent of winter in the city, it was easy to forget about the girl. Not forget entirely, of course. That was something he admitted to himself when he lay in bed, unable to sleep, tortured by memories of soft moans and sweat-slick flesh. But when he patrolled the streets, and to a lesser extent, when he filed his reports, his mind didn't wander back to that dark little room.

His feet were never tempted to wander back to that street, either. Only once did he imagine an “accidental” meeting with the girl, but even his imagination seemed to realize that would be a foolish choice. The mental interlude ended as awkwardly as it no doubt would have in reality. He found no reason to seek her out.

****
The spring thaw came and covered the city in more wet, more filth, more cold. After a shift, Javert's feet emerged from his boots corpse white and shriveled. For the first time he could remember, he couldn't keep the aching damp from his bones. The spectre of age seemed to settle over him every night as he slept, causing his bones to creak and ache all day long. For the first time, he began to worry that he might be, if not old, something very close to it.

The river swelled, forcing its way over banks, uprooting bridge dwellers and flooding the fields outside of the city. And the years had taught Javert well that any change in the everyday world of the average Parisian, no matter how minor the irritation, led to high tempers in the close quarters of the city. The police increased their patrols, both in frequency and geographical length, venturing into parts of the city that, though they were relatively unaffected by the madness near the riverbanks, still felt the tension that blanket the city.

Still, Javert kept his eye closest on the river. When the Seine became fed up with what the denizens of the city gave her, she sent it back. And no one put anything into her that they would want found again.

It was nearly midnight when he limped-- he'd given up hoping his leg would ever be the same in cold, wet weather-- toward a huddled group near the river's swollen shore. Normally, four or five persons grouped together wasn't cause for alarm. But things in the city hadn't been normal for days, and this group would have to be dispersed before they caused whatever mischief they were up to.
“Clear out, all of you,” he said as he made his way toward them. He didn't raise his voice. He rarely found he needed to. But the cluster shifted uneasily, and when he was closer he barked his order again.

“We didn't hurt her,” one of the men, tall and clean but for the streaks of fresh mud on the knees of his trousers where he'd been crouched beside the bundle on the ground. “None of these men did. I found her like this.”

The first thing Javert noticed was that there was still a ring on the corpse's finger. That it hadn't been stolen was an indication that she hadn't been killed by these men for her meager jewelry. The fact that her finger was nothing but bone above the silver band ad pulpy, mashed flesh below it was an indication that she'd been dead, submerged for some time.

It was only by habit that he noticed this first, and not the sodden red dress on her decomposing form, nor the lank black hair that obscured her face and lay tangled in clumps on her dress where it had floated away from her scalp.

Pushing his coat out of way, he knelt on the muddy bank beside her and carefully pushed some of that matted black mass aside. A few strands clung to his hand when he pulled it away, and he wiped his fingers clean on his handkerchief without looking away from the body and the dark, ugly wound that gashed the mottle blue neck open like a mocking grin.

“It always comes to that with them girls,” one of the men said behind him, and he stood, not wishing to linger too long.

“Clear off,” he advised them, and though all the strength was gone from his tone, they grudgingly obeyed. “This is a matter for the police,” he called after them, but they needed no further incentive to leave.

****
It was nearly dawn by the time the corpse was in proper hands and Javert's reports were all made. He thought of putting his head down on his desk and succumbing to the sleep that blurred his vision and pulled at the edges of his consciousness. But he could not sleep until he'd done his final piece of business in all of the unpleasantness.

It was easy to find the house again. Easy, because he'd avoided it for so long, and truly avoiding something requires a keen awareness of its location. His traitorous feet had wanted to lead him back so many times that he had to suppress the spring in his step. Though he knew his task was grim, his body remembered a much more enjoyable association with its surroundings, and he counted himself fortunate that he had not allowed himself to visit again before this day.

He knocked at the doorway, then again, louder, in case the inhabitant was still abed. It was only a moment before he heard a clomping tread down the steps, and he removed his hat, twisting the brim in his hands as he waited.

The moment she appeared in the doorway, he nearly lost his nerve. She was thinner after the winter. Her tattered shawl slipped from her shoulders which protruded white and somehow, still appealing from her chemise. She grasped at the shawl with skeletal fingers and hitched it up, her expression one of bewilderment and scorn.

She did not recognize him? It seemed impossible, considering how she had plagued his memory for the past months. But then, it was impossible she had refrained from more encounters, as he had, and so it was natural she would not remember her one night with him. The thought made him sick and angry somehow, and he shoved those emotions aside.

“Mademoiselle, I—” He could not look at her face as he spoke, thought he knew it made him seem weak. “I met you some months ago—”

“I remember you.” Her voice was rougher than it had been. The sound of alcohol was in it, even this early in the morning. Her tone was hard and unfriendly. “What do you want?”

“I want—” Why had he come here? To reassure himself that she remained on that fragile edge between naiveté and a broken spirit? He knew well enough that such a hope was ridiculous. “I wanted to tell you something.”

She shrugged. He saw the motion in her crossed arms, but he still could not look at her face. “A woman was found this morning. Murdered. She had been killed some time ago, her throat cut, and she came out of the river late last night. It is not my intention to horrify you. No, perhaps it is.”
He looked up at her then, expecting to see unfriendliness, disgust. But her lower lip quavered and silent tears pooled in her eyes. They did not spill over, but he saw them shining there, and in them he recognized a bit of the shy girl he’d first known her for.

His words tumbled from him, one on top of the other, clumsy and out of control. He heard himself speak the things he did not want to admit to himself, let alone her, but he could not stop them. “I thought she was you. I feared it. She wore a red dress. A red dress, like the one you wore that night. And she had a ring. And black hair. I remembered how you had so many fine things, and the ring… it wasn't cheap, it was like something you might… I prayed it wasn’t you, but I couldn’t tell. Her face was deformed from the water, and bruised from the decay. She was a horror to look at. I’ve seen many girls like that, you don’t work too long on the street before you do, but she was a horror because I thought… I was so sure it was you.”

Before he could stop his hands they had closed over her arms and pulled her close. Before he could think or say anything else, he kissed her. She almost yielded to him, her body going slack for a fraction of a second before she pushed him back, and he let her go. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to her lips, and he stooped to pick up his hat, which he had carelessly let fall to the street, in order to cover his own shaking hands.

When he straightened, he did not look away from her eyes. What had been a fearful thing a moment before had become somehow comforting. A tear did spill over her cheek then, sliding down a wet trail before it landed on the thin fabric of her chemise. She hugged her shawl tighter, struggled to scowl at him. “Well, it wasn’t me, was it? You proved that. And besides, I’m not a whore now.”

“No?” He looked toward the window above, expecting to see the mother there looking at him with disgust.

“She’s gone. She got a fever and she died. And when she died, I sold all of those things she treasured. Isn’t that what you said to do? Didn’t you tell me it was too dangerous, that I could only be ruined living the life I had?” The girl’s voice rose, hysterical, and a man passing them buy had cause to give them a second look. Javert ignored him, and the girl behaved as though she didn’t care what spectacle she made of herself.

“I did tell you that.” He knew he should express sorrow for her mother’s death, but he thought of the woman hiding amidst her treasures while her daughter lay with men in the next room simply to keep a roof over their heads, and he could feel no sympathy. “I’m pleased that you listened.”

“Well, I’m not!” The girl’s shrill exclamation rang stinging off the stones, and her whole body shook with her sobs. “I’m not pleased! Now, I work for a man who can’t keep his hands to himself. I’m a whore, just like before, but to one man with stinking breath and filthy talk and I’m starving! At least before, I wasn’t starving! And you come here, happy that I’m not dead, happy that I’m still alive in case you want me again, and I wish to God that had been me you pulled out of the river!”

Of all the reactions he had expected, this one took him by surprise. He staggered back a step, then caught himself. This was not why he had come, to horrify himself and run away. “I do not want you alive in case I want you. I want you alive because you deserve to live. No one deserves to have to have their throat cut, no one deserves to be hidden away in the river until they’re nothing but soggy meat no one can identify.” He stopped himself. These were the things he admitted only in the nightmare part of his mind that he kept carefully shut away. To acknowledge them was to risk losing his nerve, and he would not spend the rest of his life in yet another small village because he could not stomach the terrors of the city.

He put his hat back on, aware of how ridiculous it must look now that he'd crushed it badly out of shape with his twisting hands. “I did not come here to frighten you or use you. I only wanted to assure myself that you were still...” He couldn't finish. He mumbled an apology and turned away.

“Inspector!” Her voice came out strangled, desperate.

Javert slowed his steps, considered for a moment before turning back to her.

She hadn't moved, but her posture seemed strained, as if she were held by an unseen force and would run to him voluntarily if she weren't restrained. “Thank you,” she said, her thin voice barely a whisper. “For coming back.”

A nod was all he could manage in reply before he left. This time, he had no illusion that he would ever return.
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Phantom Pain