Beautifully Twisted

Naughty Me

Mon, 06 Oct 2008 15:22:07 GMT

Okay, okay, so I totally gave my self-imposed deadline the finger, I know.

I'm writing like a maniac, though, and as soon as I finish this chappy you shall have it, and I SHALL implement the three day schedule.

Thanks for the birthday wishes as well...my birthday was quite happy indeed. :) Any time I leave a casino $400 up is a good day.

Cold Angels Update Schedule, Etc.

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 04:19:15 GMT

It's good to be back! Thank you guys so much for the wonderful response to my return to the wonderful world of Geoffy fanfic!

I have just returned from Baltimore and am on a Big Important Committee now, plus I've got a milestone birthday (w00t!) this Wednesday and lots of other crap happening...so I'm hoping to update once every three days. Ergo, within three days from now, you should have the doozy of a chapter that is Teh Weddinz.

And if that doesn't happen, I fully give you all permission to hunt me down and lock me in a room until I finish the fic. :) Sometimes I girl needs incentive, after all.

Cold Angels, Chapter 10

Tue, 23 Sep 2008 03:46:03 GMT

A/N: A short transition and re-whetting of my feet. The next chapter? Wedding bells, wedding gifts...and wedding nights.

Javert was in an expectedly sour mood when he arrived home that evening, and ate his dinner without speaking a word, much less casting more than a cursory glance in Cosette’s direction. She bore it in silence, well aware that she had done something she most certainly should not have done.

Afterwords in the parlor, he sat at his paperwork again, with Cosette on the far edge of the settee. It was not long, five minutes at the very most, before she stood up to retire.

The scratching of his pen stopped momentarily. “Shall I lock the house from the outside from now on?”

“Please forgive me, Monsieur,” she bit her lip and ventured a step closer, “I only wanted…”

“I know what you wanted,” he set the pen down and began to stare out the window, lacing his long fingers together and resting his chin on them, “But dwelling in the past will do you no good. You know what will happen tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“When you are my wife, I will not tolerate such gestures of defiance.”

“I understand.”

She waited for him to speak again, to no avail. The scratching of the pen resumed resolutely. Finally, swallowing a lump in her soft throat, she turned once more to go up the stairs.

“Cosette?” he called out in a voice not quite his own.

“Monsieur?”

“Sleep well.”

Leave it to Coldplay

Mon, 22 Sep 2008 03:33:17 GMT

Their whole "revolution of 1830" theme in their new album has be pining for Javerty goodness...expect a fanvid up later tonight or tomorrow, and more fic before the weekend.

tis good to be back.

Eh, Eh, Eh, Eh...

Sat, 23 Aug 2008 20:21:11 GMT

Okay, so I hate that stupid Umbrella song. However, my VH1-loving Mutti has recently asked me to give Rihanna more of a chance. So, I looked up some of her music. Pretty blah, imho, and then I found this. (full vid here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6zdhHLvT7k&feature=related)

Seems to have been spliced from the same DNA as this. Although certainly less innovative and more watered-down.

And no, it wasn't the same director either.

*Sigh*

From the Bowls of Oklahoma...

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 16:14:55 GMT

No, I'm not dead. I've had a lot going lately, but not nearly enough to keep me as silent as I've been. It should be another three weeks or so before I get anything new up, but there will be fic in the future. :)

Pirates of the Plains (Prologue)

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 20:35:11 GMT

A/N: I changed Mr. Swann’s name because no one, I mean no one, in Western Oklahoma is named “Weatherby.” Also, I know it’s crap. But I have to set the scene before it gets good, ya know.

Prologue – Ten Years Prior

“That was Deana Carter with ‘We Danced Anyway’ and you’re listening to 97.3 ‘the Coyote’ Country…continuing with 43 minutes of commercial-free music, got some Reba…Here’s ‘Fancy’ on the Coyote.”

The heavy, haunting echo of the bass resonator floated out of the crackling speakers and into Liz’s ears as the car continued down the roadway. Dad’s Lincoln didn’t really drive; it flew, with the tires seldom seeming to touch the ground on its way from point A to point B. Even then, with the rain-soaked gravel grinding beneath the wheels, the ride was smoother than the unbroken surface of a pond.

Still, ten miles out of town in a storm was never a good place to be. It was May; the official start of the season in Tornado Alley. Dad and Jim – Officer Norrington to her – were wordless in the front seat, and Joe Gibbs, the local jack-of-all trades, sat beside her, running his tongue over his teeth behind his upper lip. Well, “sat” was a misnomer; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as close to standing up as he could be in the car.

“What’s with all the chick music?” he asked.

“Quiet, Gibbs.” It was her Dad’s voice, and it startled her. He only called people by their surnames when he was very, very tense.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Jim asked, “I’ve got all kinds of training for…”

“I’m fine,” he shifted in his seat a bit and leaned forward over the steering wheel.

Five minutes passed in silence. Liz counted them on the digital clock next to the cassette player.

Jim leaned to one side, his keen eyes narrowing. “Stop, Keith.”

“What is…oh, my God.”

Liz climbed her arms up the window and craned her neck. Through the specks of water on the glass she could make out the vague outline of something big and grey and rectangular blocking the entire road. It was a semi trailer.

The car came to an abrupt halt and the doors flew open; only Jim’s bounced closed again as the men ran to the wrecked truck. Dad ran back all of two minutes later, laying an unconscious boy down in the back seat with her.

“Watch him,” he ordered, leaning over the front seat to his car phone.

The boy, her own age, was laid out with his head in her lap. He was soaked to the bone and covered in scratches, and his arm looked bent out of shape. He must have been in the bed, she thought as she moved a chunk of wet hair out of its place, plastered to his cheek and lip. As her hands moved down absently to adjust his bunched-up T-shirt, she caught sight of something around his neck. It was a coyote tooth, set in pewter and on a matching chain.

Immediately it came back to her, the time when she was five when it had seemed bright as a twisted daylight in the dead of night. Someone had set fire to the Treadaway’s wheat field, and it and part of their feed pasture were in flames. She remembered Dad pacing back and forth on the phone with Jim, talking about some gang who wore coyote teeth. As quickly as she could, she unhooked the clasp and curled the fang, chain and all, into her palm.

Outside the car, Gibbs was draping a sheet over something that looked too much like a body, and Jim was trying to get a signal on his radio. Liz looked out the open door to the far left of her and saw in the distance the top few feet of a black semi, hauling tarp-covered equipment as fast as possible toward the east.

Scathingly Brilliant Idea

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:57:52 GMT

By the end of the weekend, I hope to have, in addition to another Javert chappy, the first chapter of a POTC Alternate Universe. (yes, there's BarbossaBeth) And when I say AU, I don't just mean changing it around a bit. I mean, completely different setting. It's half camp, of course, it is POTC. But I'm taking some of it seriously, it's sort of a tribute to the lifestyles many of my family and family friends embrace.

It's early May on the plains of Oklahoma, a time of high wind, higher heat, and volatile thunderstorms. Farmers have been praying all winter for rain to keep the wheat alive, now they pray for dry weather so that it can be harvested. On all sides of the town of Millicent, a sea of golden grain stretches up to the horizon as far as the eye can see, punctuated by far-off water towers.

Liz Swann, only daughter of a former Representative and the current Mayor, looks forward to the harvest season because it brings out-of-towners from as far as Canada to cut wheat. Will Turner, labor at the only tire shop in town, looks forward to the business it brings. Jim Norrington, head of the county's Highway Patrol, looks forward mostly to getting drunken truck drivers off the roads for good.

So when a slightly intoxicated man known only as Jack rolls into town driving a semi without a trailer, in need of fuel, interest is piqued. However, none of them have any idea that it will herald the arrival of...DUNDUNDUN...

A strange out-of-state crew, with license plates that constantly change and never match. They run a black combine and take their pay only in cash. And their manager always wears a designer suit, albiet one that has seen better days. What is this strange caravan that has the entire town on edge? When Liz sneaks off to find out, things get interesting.

What do we think? Am I crazy or what?

This Song is Made

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 04:13:29 GMT

...for my Marquis/Abbe/Madeleine triangle.

Perhaps I shall make meself a fanvid.

Cold Angels, Chapter 9

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 00:28:28 GMT

As Cosette lay in bed that night, it occurred to her that she had left one single, solitary day of freedom.

She wondered if it was at all possible that she could convince Mme. Jules to let her go out, just once, to see her old home. It was highly unlikely, given the state of things. She would have to sneak out.

And so she did, shortly after Mme. Jules went to clean up from breakfast. In her redingote and bonnet, as quickly and quietly as she could, she opened the door and hurried down the street.

It wasn’t long before she passed the young woman she had met on her walk with the Inspector.

“Is he not with you, Ma’m’selle?” she asked with a curtsy, eyes averted.

“Not today,” she said, reaching into her reticule and pulling out a few sous.

“Bless you, Ma’m’selle,” the girl took them and tucked them into her dress.

She was gone like wisps of smoke before Cosette could even open her mouth to speak.

A girl walking alone in the streets of Paris attracted more attention than she would have preferred, but it was a small price to pay. She wanted so deeply to be able, just one last time, to see the bench on which she and Marius had sat, her little corner where she could be with his memory. That was her destination, where she was bound, single-minded, oblivious to stares and calls.

Faintly, washed by weather, but still in existence, the address she had written out adorned the back of the bench. She was careful not to lean against the chalk as she sat back in her corner, pulling her handkerchief from her reticule to dab her eyes.

Marius. Poor, dear Marius. For he who had been full of nothing but life and beauty, to have it taken from him, and from her, so soon, was nothing short of tragic.

She wondered how he had died. Valiantly, as was fitting. Perhaps alongside his comrades-in-arms, hunched behind the barricades while he hastily shoved a ramrod down the barrel of his gun. Perhaps he had died amid shouts and dust and emotion, killed by an anonymous bullet; an anonymous body in an anonymous fight.

Or perhaps he had been alone. Perhaps the last thing he had seen in this world were the cold, unforgiving eyes of her own future husband. Perhaps the gloved hand had held the pistol to his temple, or beneath his chin, or at the back of his head, all the while the vile lips curling into a sneer.

It was highly unlikely that the Inspector was directly responsible, she had to remind herself as she wiped away more tears. And even if he was, it was far too late to turn back now.

A bell somewhere unseen chimed the noon hour, and she jumped slightly, causing the pigeons that had gathered around her feet to take flight. Mme. Jules was beside herself by now, she surmised, and it would be good of her to return home. But first she stood, crossing slowly and deliberately over to the door, letting her touch linger for a short time over the lock before she placed a kiss on her fingertips and touched them to the door one last time.

Finding her way back proved to be a more difficult task; the last time she had made the trek, she had hardly been lucid. Her focus had been entirely on the figure leading her through the wartorn streets.

It was not hard to remember him as he had been. In his manner was combined a strange coupling of irritation and triumph, causing him to walk with his back straight as a board, and his jaw set like iron. He had been drawn up to his full height, the nails in the soles of his boots clicking menacingly on the stones as he dragged his trophy along, her, the sweet and tangible sign of the power he had finally obtained over the fate and being of Jean Valjean.

He had been at once terrible and handsome, horrifying and alluring, as he led her. The very soul of justice, driven on only by his consuming need to see the proper thing done in all cases. He was addicted, in that instant, to the feeling of accomplishing the greater good.

On Cosette walked, half-lost, mind on anything but the present reality. So engrossed was she in her memories that she walked straight into a man.

He was a tall man, wearing a top hat and a long coat that was nearly black, a dark, dark grey in color. He also wore leather gloves, which she could see because his arms were crossed in front of his chest sternly. He looked down at her with livid eyes, his upper lip twitching spasmodically. His widened stance, unmistakably masculine and rather like a sentinel guarding a doorway, expressed a certain amount of danger in his temperament.

It was Javert.

“What…” he asked with some difficulty, trying to mitigate his voice through gritted teeth, “Are you doing here?”

She was speechles, eye wide as he took hold over her shoulders and shook her once.

“Are you mad?” he spat, repeating himself, “What are you doing here?”

She opened her mouth, but he rolled his eyes.

“For the love of God girl, what are you playing at?”

“Inspector, I…”

“Answer me!” he shook her again.

“Please!” she took hold of his coat imploringly, “I only wanted to see it, just one last time. The place where Marius and I…”

“You foolish, foolish child! These streets are no place for you. Do you have any idea the type of people who wander about Paris?” He lowered his hands, “Of course you don’t.” He turned away and kicked a loose stone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely squeaking the words.

“Sorry?” his voice was low, “You are sorry?”

She nodded, and looked away.

“Well, I suppose that solves all of this, then, does it not?” he turned her face to his, “What am I to do, Cosette? Play at nursemaid for you all day?”

She fought back the tears as she shook her head.

“Do you even realize the danger you put yourself in? You could have been…a girl…alone in Paris,” he placed a hand on her shoulder.

And then a very, very strange thing happened. Something so peculiar, Cosette could not register that it had actually taken place until some time afterword.

The hand slid back around her shoulder blades to the opposite side, and his other arm clasped around her waist. “Cosette,” he whispered as he embraced her, “If any harm befell you, I could only blame myself.”

By the time she realized fully what had gone on, he had hailed her a cab and paid her fare, sending her on her way.

“Where on God’s green earth have you been?” Mme. Jules gasped when she saw her at the door.

The poor girl collapsed in sobs against the woman, who led her to the parlor.

“I shall get you coffee,” she bowed out and returned shortly to find Cosette leaning on the arm of the settee, looking very much a mess. She took a sip of coffee and sighed.

“What has happened?”

She recounted the morning’s events, albeit brokenly.

“Well, well,” Mme. Jules looked at her rather sternly, but knowingly.

“What?” she wiped her eyes.

“It would appear…if I may be so bold…that you care how your actions have affected Monsieur Javert.”

A nod.

“Then one might safely assume…”

Cosette looked puzzled for a moment, with comprehension slowly dawning in her reddened eyes. In her disbelief, she smiled.

“I think,” she laughed, “Indeed, I do,” she bit her lip, “I care for him.”

Cold Angels, Chapter 8

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 16:27:35 GMT

Gentleness was not a quality that came naturally to Javert. Strength and fortitude, he could command. Determination? Most definitely. And he was an expert in devotion to duty. But the closest he had come to tenderness since taking Cosette beneath his wing had been two cases of financial leniency in the form of pastries. (Which was no small thing, to him, considering how tidy he normally kept his budget.) However, he thought he had done well the night before.

With an internal feeling somewhere near brief, harsh laughter he recalled the pretty thing, head resting softly on his knee. Ever trusting, ever naïve; wholly unaware of the war that waged behind his eyes. There was time, yet, to secure some manner of true affection from her, if it was not budding there already.

Why on earth affection had suddenly become such a high priority to him, Javert had no idea. Perhaps it merely seemed uncharitable, condemning such a lovely girl to a cold marriage…It would be a horrible waste. No. He was determined, for the sake of her virtue, her youth and beauty, to be a husband to her in every sense.

“Inspector?” came the voice of the secretary expectantly.

“What? Oh, yes,” he rose and followed him out.

Meanwhile, at home, Cosette was sitting in the parlor with Mme. Jules, embroidering little lengths of ribbon onto a scrap piece of lawn. It was an odd scene, servant and lady, side by side, but as Cosette had no other companions, it was logical, in the least, if improper.

“What did he mean…expectations?”

“Your duties, I suppose,” the woman was working a tambour hook, “After all, you were raised in a convent. I assume you haven’t the slightest clue what you will be doing.”

Cosette gave her an apologetic look.

“Well, foremost, you will be in charge of me. We will discuss menus, tidying, that sort of thing. ”

“And may I direct you to make dessert?” she smiled slyly.

“Alas, I shall still be bound by whatever budget he gives us.”

“Of course,” with a sigh, “So, what else?”

“Well, at any functions, which are few and far between, believe me, you will try your best to reflect well upon him.”

Cosette nodded.

“Though, perhaps, of the utmost importance are your…unspoken…duties.”

“Unspoken?”

“Monsieur the Inspector, or, should I say, Monsieur the Deputy, leads a very difficult life in a hazardous occupation. On top of that, every kindness he has shown you has not been due to you at all. The very, very least you can do, Cosette, and I do mean the very least, is to be receptive to him.”

When met with a blank stare, Mme. Jules rolled her eyes. “Convent girls,” she muttered, “Be warm in his bed. As women, my dear,” she thought back for a moment on her late husband, “We have a great responsibility. There will be nights Monsieur Javert will come home in poor humor. There may even be nights he comes home injured.”

“Injured?”

“It has not been unknown.”

“And what am I to do, in these circumstances?”

“You have instincts, my dear. It will come to you, when you should use them.”

Love/Hate/Love

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 04:06:09 GMT

Fandom: House on Haunted Hill
Pairing: Evelyn Price/Steven Price
Summary: A little bit of marital almost-bliss
Warnings: pretty much PWOP

“Well, at least you’re letting me have the damn party,” Evelyn called from the bathroom, folding a cotton ball over her fingernail and leaning in to remove her eyeliner.

“You know how I am, sweetheart,” he spat from his place reading Forbes in bed, “What Daddy’s little princess wants, she gets.”

“Hmph,” she tossed the cotton ball in the trash and walked over to her side of the bed.

“So, why are you feeling so cozy all of a sudden, hmm?” he didn’t look up, “You haven’t slept in here for months. Come up with another scheme to bump me off?”

“Sugarpuss, if I wanted to kill you, I’d wait until the party.”

“Touché.”

She slid down under the covers and turned her back to him. He cast his eyes over her outline slowly.

“I’ve got an idea,” he murmured.

“What?”

“It’s been six months. Let’s fuck again, just for old time’s sake.”

She gave him a withering look. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he raised his eyebrows, “I’ve got one hell of a set of blue balls, Evelyn.”

“Fine. But I’m on top,” she pushed back the sheets straddled him.

His hand grasped the nape of her neck. “Princess?” he asked against her mouth.

“Yes?”

“Like hell you are.” He bit down on her bottom lip and flipped her over on her back, digging his hand into her hair.

“Steven,” she groaned, clamping her thighs shut.

“Afraid not, honey,” he slid a leg between hers and forced her knees apart.

She reached up to dig her fingernails deeply into his back, breaking the skin as he leaned his head back and hissed.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” she asked with a gasp.

“You bet your sweet little ass,” he kissed her hungrily, one hand pulling her nightgown up around her hips. His long, deft fingers snaked in and began to tease her.

She bit back a moan. “You’ve gotten better,” he eyes widened.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he snarled, his mouth moving down to her neck. His teeth sank down into the white skin as he began to suck, starving, leaving a livid red mark in his wake.

“Mm, shit,” she said, dragging her nails up and down his back.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he began to kiss down to her breasts, leaving a curved line of suck marks.

“Unnhhh,” she closed her eyes.

He snickered arrogantly, pulling back to survey his work, his fingers still toying with her slick flesh. “You look good,” he sneered, wiping a bit of blood away from the cut he left on her lip. She took his hand in hers and sucked the finger clean. “Twisted bitch,” he laughed.

“You know you love it,” she smirked and wrapped a leg around him, “Now fuck me.”

He thrust into her viciously, bracing his arms on either side of her head for balance. He looked down into her feral eyes as he slammed into her, the only sounds in the room the noise of their ragged breathing, and their bodies as they collided.

“Deeper,” she panted after a moment, grabbing his hips and etching red lines into them. She tossed her head, black hair strewn in a mess across the pillow.

“You love this, don’t you?” he gasped.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said as she leaned up to bite the hollow of his throat.

He groaned and gripped her hair again, pulling it back, making her neck arch upward as he bit again, drawing blood and licking it away. She felt her release build and burst as the skin broke. She pulled his head up and kissed him, tasting her own blood on his mouth as he came inside of her.

It took them both a few moments of furious panting before their heart rates began to return to normal.

“You don’t usually last that long,” she taunted.

“Maybe I’ve been practicing,” he caught her in another kiss, turning over onto his side and pulling her with him

“It was the best fuck I’ve had in a few months.” She said dryly, even as she settled into his arms.

She would never tell him the truth; that it was the first time she had come in ages, even with her affair.

“Good night, Evelyn,” he said as he picked a piece of down from her hair.

“Good night, Steven.” Against her better judgment, she laid her head against his chest.

After all…he was still her husband.

In Fair Eureka, Where we Lay our Scene

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 23:56:38 GMT

There she is, the Grand Old Lady of the Ozarks. So you'll have an idea of what she looks like, when I post the opening of Hora Somni (at the hour of sleep) this week. After the opening, to keep it my private intellectual property, I will be collecting email addresses and creating a mailing list for those interested in the story.

Coming Soon...

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 03:04:50 GMT

As in Tuesday at the latest...

More Marquis, more Javert, possibly more Walsie...

A oneshot consisting entirely of Smut on Haunted Hill...

And...

If I can convince myself to do it...another oneshot...

Eeenvolfing an eenterestink accent und a leetle golden scratchy thing.

Muahahahaha.

Ha.

Crazy Dreams

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 23:05:59 GMT

I want to make a radical life change.

I want adventure.

I want to go somewhere far away from where I am now. I want to scrap everything and start over somewhere fresh, somewhere with promise. I don't want to have to compromise my dream of becoming a psychiatrist eventually, but if I have to put it on hold for the sake of this adventure I want to have, I will.

It is my intent to have a tangible plan in the next three years. I don't just want to move town, I want to change countries.

So...who am I shacking up with? *Kidding*

Dr. Norman Baker

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 18:05:21 GMT

Harmless quack or raging psychopath? The mediums who run the Ghost Tours at the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs would say the latter. They've talked, they say, with the ghosts of his victims. They know what he really was.

They know that when he converted the hotel, built in 1886, into a cancer hospital in the 1930s, people started dying. A town that today doesn't even have its own funeral home sustained seven mortuaries.

The tales are grim. A lye pit to dissolve bodies. Burning flesh emanating from the incinerator. People autopsied alive, locked alive in freezers. All in this sleepy little resort town in NW Arkansas.

Dr. Baker was paranoid, sadistic. He preyed on the hope of countless innocent victims with his promises of cures that turned out to be living nightmares.

I'm thinking of writing a book based on what went on at the Crescent Hotel when it was under Dr. Baker.

And regardless of the photographs of what he actually looks like...

I can't help picturing him as the Geoffster. Basically because if the story of Dr. Baker's atrocities ever made it to film, which is one of my dreams, really, because it would make a kickass psych/gore horror film...it would be necessary to have a consummate actor in the role. Someone who could present a respectable front, with the subtlety to let the true madness show through the cracks in the veneer.

Must go write. Inspiration taking over.

Cold Angels, Chapter 7

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 09:56:28 GMT

“Shall we have coffee again?” Cosette asked as dinner drew to a close.

“I’m afraid I have paperwork,” he set his fork down, “This business with the rebellion has created a necessity for properly filed reports, and a good deal of my inferiors are incompetent as to that particular skill.”

“Oh,” she looked down, not entirely certain why she was disappointed.

“I can work in the parlor, if you prefer,” he offered, going to the hallway and retrieving his document case.

“I think I would like that.”

He set himself up at the desk in the parlor, which he had positioned to face the window with a view of the street. Looking up from her place by the fire, she thought he looked rather like a bird of prey, perched watchfully while the last stragglers of the evening went on their ways. Occasionally his lips moved as though he spoke to himself, but for the most part, the room was silent save for the scratch of his pen. The stack of papers before him was formidable; being Deputy Prefect, he had explained to her, nearly everything that went through the offices required his signature.

She grappled with herself for a considerable amount of time before she got up and moved to a chair nearer to him.

“Can I get you something?” he asked without looking up.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry, I just wanted to…” she looked down at her hands.

“Wanted to what?” this time he did look up, rather puzzled.

“I wanted to be closer to you.”

His expression changed to a soft shock. “You did?”

She nodded.

Mme. Jules, who had been watching from the hallway, came in silently and set something down to one side of the Inspector’s feet. Closer examination revealed it to be a small kitchen stool. The older woman winked at Cosette, and was gone.

“If you would rather not…” he began, but she had already stood and crossed over to him. Tucking her skirts beneath her, she sat down elegantly, her head coming up to just at his elbow. His hand twitched once, as though he meant to move it.

She looked up at him and smiled. “I like it here.”

He felt his stomach do something odd, akin to dropping or flipping, as he cleared his throat. “I’m glad.” He looked down, and when the corners of his own mouth turned up, there was almost a warmth to his expression. At the very least, there was a patronizing sort of affection in his eyes borne of his position as Cosette’s caretaker.

The pen resumed its scratching motions, and his eyes turned back to his work, though they did occasionally flit to the young lady at his feet. He bit down slightly on his tongue to keep the previous night’s thoughts at bay, striving to keep his mind singly focused on his papers, and his papers alone.

It grew even more difficult as Cosette yawned quietly and let her head droop, coming into contact with his thigh just above his knee. She smiled up at him again and nuzzled down against his leg, closing her eyes.

She was such a sweet thing, so naïve, so trusting. There was not an ounce of ill will in her, not a bit of contemptuousness. This, he thought as his hand ventured around to rest on her opposite shoulder, was why a man such as himself needed a wife. This is what had been absent yet unnamed all the years of his solitude.

She must have fallen asleep, because after a moment, she started and blinked, looking up at him with an expression of pretty confusion. Her cheeks went bright red.

“I…should be getting to bed,” she murmured as she stood and curtsied, turning upstairs.

He sighed and felt the warm spot on his thigh where she had leaned, and told himself, three days. Three. Days.

“She won’t admit it to herself yet,” came Mme. Jules’s voice, “You must help her along.”

“I am no expert in the art of courtship,” his mouth was a soft, straight line, “How do you propose I go about it?”

“I have heard,” she mused, “That the great tamers of horses do it by first showing gentleness, and then walking away.”

He made a noise somewhat akin to a laugh in his throat and set down his pen.

“I shall have to try that.”

He ascended the stairs, standing for a long moment at her door, once again sorely tempted by their encounter. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the lock, and was gone.

Lying in bed, Cosette still could feel the ghostly sensation of his leg against her cheek as she began to drift off to sleep. For the first time since she had come to stay with the Inspector, her dreams would not be of Valjean, or even Marius.

Her dreams were of Javert alone.

Cold Angels, Chapter 6

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 17:29:53 GMT

A/N: Another short one.

He did not wake her at dawn that next morning, but left for work without seeing her. She awoke near nine and came downstairs to find Mme. Jules and ask for a bit of late breakfast. The older woman left for the kitchen and returned with a small, paper-wrapped bundle, containing one of the sugared-almond confections from the Patisserie.

“I think,” she said knowingly, “He is apologizing for his manner last night.”

Cosette had to smile as a bit of the airy bread dissolved on her tongue, giving way to the cream inside.

“Will you sit with me?” she asked, and Mme. Jules looked at first surprised, then pleased.

“Perhaps in a month or so, Ma’m’selle will have convinced him to begin buying sugar.”

Cosette laughed. “I doubt the horsemen of the Apocalypse could convince him of such a frivolous purchase…unless it somehow worked out to cost less than the pastries in the long run.”

Mme. Jules smiled. “Monsieur Javert is a sensible man,” she nodded, “He was not born into any sort of luxury, and I believe he takes great pains to ensure he will never fall prey to poverty again.”

“Again?”

“Monsieur’s life began much the same as your own, Ma’m’selle.”

“How so?”

“You should ask him yourself…there is much you could learn from your future husband, if you would seek his counsel.”

Cosette chewed her lip and stared down at her half-eaten breakfast. “When is the wedding?” she asked quietly.

“Three days.”

“Three days,” she repeated, “I don’t suppose much will change.”

“On the contrary, Ma’m’selle. I think it will change everything.”

Für Sofia

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 16:27:28 GMT

A song I wrote yesterday

I will not waste precious breath
Describing how you were my everything
And how I never wanted it
To end the way it has
I've a thousand grievances, my dear,
I could go on for days,
But you have not been listening
For months now, it would seem
I'm cold and

All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say, that I can't say

I will not lay here and pine for you
You've buried me, you've thrown me out
And I can't help you up
While I am down here on the floor
I am sick and tired of taking shit
Like it's my medicine
Youre cold as ice to me
And I don't like it anymore
I'm tired and

All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say, that I can't say

I don't wish I'd never met you,
I don't wish that I'd been smarter
You have taught me things that otherwise
I never would have known
And now as memories subside,
I see you as you really are
And as you've always been and as you're always going to be.
I'm hurt and

All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say, that I can't say

So go on, lay in your ivory tower
Convince yourself it's all my fault
I don't care if you blame me;
We both know that we're both wrong.
And I will be your grievance story,
You my first and last mistake
And I your pretty scapegoat,
You a footnote to a song
I'm through and

All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say are cycling back into my blood,
All the things that I can't say, that I can't say

All the things that I can't say, I have to purge them from my blood,
All the things that I can't say, they haven't done me any good
All the things that I can't say, perhaps they're better left unsaid
All the things that I can't say, that I can't say, that I can't say.

Cold Angels, Chapter 5

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 22:44:44 GMT

A/N: Short, I know. More once I've had a decent night's sleep.

“You are upset,” he said as they retired for coffee after dinner.

“No doubt your emotions are directed at me,” he continued, “I am, after all, quite easy to blame.”

“Inspector, I…”

He held up his hand and went on, “You must know it was inevitable. Criminals are brought to justice, and both of the men in whom you had placed your trust were criminals.”

“Marius was not…”

“Marius was a radical bent on anarchy,” he came a step closer, “Cosette, I speak as a friend…did you really expect the young man to be satisfied, forever faithful to one woman?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please. You have a head on your shoulders. Surely you know that the feelings that bind two people together are not built upon fluttering eyelashes and sweet words.”

“Then what does?” she asked emotionlessly.

“Honor, for one, and duty. A sense of one’s place.”

“And do you know your place, Inspector?”

“Do you know yours?” his tone contained a hint of warning.

“Perhaps no one ever taught me,” she spoke, “Perhaps it never occurred to me before Marius, that I may ever be a man’s wife.”

“Mme Jules will see to it that your…expectations…are realistic,” something dark and rich appeared like smoke behind his normally self-possessed eyes, and he blinked it away, “It’s late.”

Javert found himself wrestling with his demons in his bedroom. He was pacing to and pacing fro, coat off, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirt unbound. He had unwittingly placed himself in a very difficult situation, and even for a man as strong as him, it was taking every ounce of his willpower not to give in.

It would be so easy. So easy to break the curse of his solitude, to feel again at last those pleasures in which he had not indulged since his distant youth.

Her room was just down the hallway, a mere five steps for his long legs. All he had to do was unlock her door, and she would be his. He imagined her, curled up sweetly beneath her blankets, fragrant blonde hair spilling out over the pillow. It would be her word against his; a convict's child against the Deputy Prefect of Police. No one would believe he had forced her, if he did.

"No," he spat aloud, throwing his snuffbox at the floor. It popped open and tobacco spilled out, falling into the miniscule space between panels of the wood.

For all her foolishness, Cosette was still a virtuous girl. A little misguided, perhaps, but virtuous. Worth, he thought with a sense of pride, far above rubies. In a matter of days she would be his bride, and he could indulge his passions at whim, on sound moral ground.

But it was taking all of his willpower to last even that long.

Choreography Implosion

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 21:04:01 GMT

For those who don't know, I bellydance reasonably well. And the troupe I'm joining this summer might be performing at an event called TrickconTreat, a big Halloween-themed conference this October. The object is Gothic Bellydance, some spookyness etc.

I have made it my current life mission to have a solo on this little program, if I can make it look good and convince our teacher/founder. And I want to do it set to NIN. For those who don't know or haven't picked up on it, I'm a whore for Trent Reznor. He's even on my mood set, tee hee hee.

So far I've been working with Reptile, and it's a bitch. The beat is there, I just can't feel it. I want to make sure it still looks like bellydance, you know? Maybe I should go back to The Perfect Drug.

Anywho, end rant. Eyes peeled for more Cold Angels, it's coming.

Cold Angels, Chapter 4

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 13:30:49 GMT

“Cosette?”

He woke her up at dawn again.

“Cosette?”

She wrapped herself in a shawl and came to her door. “I’m awake.”

He turned the key and opened it; he was completely dressed. The skin beneath his eyes looked more pronounced and darker than usual, as thought he had been up all night.

“What is it, Inspector?”

“I was wondering if you would walk with me.”

“Walk with you?”

He nodded, “I have your coat downstairs. I’ll wait for you to dress.”

She pulled on a brown checked day gown and pulled her hair back hastily, hiding the sloppy job with her bonnet.

Down in the foyer, he held her coat out for her and stood to one side as she buttoned it up.

The streets were nearly deserted in the residential parts of town. From time to time, a servant could be seen, picking up milk or putting out scraps, and occasionally a carriage clattered past, but they were the only people out for a walk.

“Have you reached your decision yet?” he asked without looking at her.

She opened her mouth to speak, and a young lady about her age, dressed in tatters, came out of nowhere.

“Please, sir,” she curtsied and addressed the Inspector, “Do you have a franc to spare?”

“Be on your way,” he warned, and she turned to Cosette.

“Please, Ma’m’selle,” she curtsied again, “If I don’t pay my rent, I’ll be out on the streets…”

“You’re already there,” the Inspector stepped between them, towering over the poor girl, “Go on! Go back to the rat’s hole you crawled out of. And don’t let me catch you here again.”

“Inspector,” Cosette said when they were alone, “Was that necessary?”

“Beggars quickly turn to thieves. Give them kindness and they become greedy, she’ll be a pickpocket within a month.”

She cast her eyes downward gravely.

“Now…your decision?”

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. If she said no, she might as well go and join the beggar girl and roam the streets, looking for men with more mercy than the Inspector. But if she said yes…

If she said yes, she would be Wife to this man. She could look forward to years, perhaps, of his coldness. Of his rigid body beside her in bed, if they shared a bed together at all. Of his financial stringency and his birdcage of a home. But she would have food, and warmth, and protection.

If she said no, there was still a chance she could fall in love and be free. There was still a chance.

“Cosette?”

“I have,” she said in a voice that wasn’t hers.

“And?” he stopped and looked into her eyes. She shivered and the coldness.

“I accept.” She couldn’t believe she said it aloud.

The self-satisfied smile returned. “You’re an intelligent girl. I knew you would see reason.”

Her eyes darted off to the side as she made a weak noise of assent, and bit her lip as she saw the contents of the window of a Patisserie.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his eyes following hers.

She nodded.

He sighed, wishing if nothing else to get their engagement off on the right foot. She looked rather childlike, her eyes glinting with hope, and he nodded.

“Thank you, Inspector!” she jumped and clapped her hands, taking his wrist and leading him inside.

Five minutes later, they were on their way back home, and she was making little mewls of delight at the taste of her breakfast, a cream-filled confection decorated with sugared almonds.

“Is it good?” he asked.

She nodded. “Do you want some?”

He held up his hand. “I’ll be fine,” he looked ahead, arms clasped behind his back. Was it really this easy?

“I have to go back to the barricades today,” he thought aloud, “But the reinforcements are coming in before noon. There shouldn’t be many more days like this. The rebellion was childish to begin with.”

“Is it so childish?”

“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re still a child; you haven’t seen enough of the world. When you are young, it is easy to speak of things that should be changed and how much better you could run them. When you reach my age you realize the rules are there for a reason.”

How old was he? Cosette wondered silently. She took in the contours of his face, the silver and white that streaked his dark hair. His lips were full and slanted inward in soft contours that made her blush as she imagined, for a brief instant, what it would be like to kiss him.

“Is something bothering you?” his voice started her from her reverie.

“What?” she blinked, “Oh, no, I was…thinking.”

“I see,” he ascended the stairs to the door ahead of her and held it open. Inside, he removed his hat and gloves.

She began to pick at the ties on her bonnet; the bow had come out and gotten caught in a double knot when she had hung it behind her head in the Patisserie.

“Having trouble?” he asked, and she looked at him apologetically as he said, “Here, let me.”

His long fingers came up gently and began to work their way under the folds of the knot with a meticulous sort of tension. She watched his mouth again, the way the outline twitched as he tilted his head. His lips parted in concentration as he took a step closer, wedging the tip of a short nail under the silk and pulling it loose.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I should be leaving for work,” he cleared his throat.

“Yes…” she turned one way, taking a step, then back again, mind racing as she went upstairs.

She cried for hours, for every imaginable reason. She cried for Marius, and for the life they would never have. She cried for Valjean, who had raised her as his own, who had been nothing but kind for as long as she had known her, now damned to a life of hard labor. And she cried for herself, for the life fate had so cruelly chosen for her.

By the time he arrived home that evening, she hadn’t a tear left to cry.

The Garden of Evil, Chapter 3

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 13:22:03 GMT

What had she done?

Madeleine began her usual trek through the hallway, a stack of clean linens in her arms.

What in God’s name had she done?

She had made a bargain with the Devil, is what she had done. Her own virtue for the soul of another. Was she really so desperate?

Indeed she was, she realized with a grimace.

She shouldn’t pine for the Abbe, not when their being together would mean his ruin, and he had shown nothing but kindness to her. But pine she did, even as she lay freezing in bed at night. In her mind, she was a character in one of the Marquis’s stories, as was the Abbe. And he was the torn clergyman who finally gave into desire, and she his conquest. He came to her in the night and demanded her body, making her the focus of all manner of depraved and violent passions.

But then, he wouldn’t be the Abbe. He, should he ever take her, would be the soul of gentleness, she had surmised.

If it was depravity she wanted, she would have to go to its source.

The Marquis would show her no mercy, she saw in the way his eyes scraped luxuriously over her body every time he saw her. Her fantasies had been coming more and more easily, perhaps because his hapless heroines had been becoming more and more like her in appearance and nature. She knew he was thinking of her, what had she been thinking when she made her deal?

She had been thinking, of course, that even the Marquis could not convince her love to come to her.

But come he did, and as she thought it, she shook her head at the joke.

He had looked taller than normal, more sure of himself. He was not the quiet shepherd she had known when he came to her in the laundries. It was merely her and her mother; the blind woman smiled knowingly and nodded.

He took her by the hand and brought her to his chambers, ducking through hallways and past open doors.

“Madeleine,” he panted when they were finally safe, “I can’t tell you…”

“Then don’t.”

Bliss! It had been bliss, sweet, sweet bliss. They both had seemed not themselves, as if some part of the Marquis had come within them and imbued them both with the strength, the will, to do what their bodies ached for.

Lying in his bed afterward, he had even heard her Confession.

A bony hand closed around her wrist and started her to the present.

“The Bastille has fallen, yes? I want what’s due to me.”

It was him

Madeleine turned the key in the lock hastily and let herself in.

“Madeleine, my sweet…” the corners of his mouth were turned up arrogantly, “How was it?”

She smiled, and a few tears leaked out.

“Oh, dearest,” he cradled her face in his hands, “Today you and your love join the ranks of the Masters of their own Destinies.”

“And what does that make you?” she asked, dabbing away the salt water.

“Destiny itself,” he shrugged exaggeratedly and stepped back, descending to recline on his chaise.

“Conceited, is what it makes you,” she scolded.

“I? Who strive always for meekness and humility? Madeleine, how can you say such a thing!” he was grinning.

“Alright, I haven’t much time,” she looked about behind her, “What is it that you want.”

“Pressed for time, are we? I shall make haste. Come, girl, back on my lap. We’ve unfinished business.”

The Garden of Evil, Chapter 2

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 05:27:14 GMT

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Wow, um…smut. And slash. Lots and lots of slash.

A/N: Yes, some Marquis/Maddie is in your near future…but this is the “something much worse.” Also, this fic is...therapy, if you will. The plot, like a work of the Marquis himself, is rather minimal to allow for maximum naughtiness. I do have a narrative in mind for the future, but I've got to get everyone into bed first. ;)

By the time another fly had fallen into his pet’s palatial web, the Marquis was lost deep within the recesses of his own thoughts. In among the halls as grandly decayed as his own finery, he was scheming. The Abbe had in him great potential, if only he could overcome his inhibitions. A ripe young body lay beneath his cassock, and a brilliant mind lay behind his eyes. All he had to do was turn the key in the lock, and his talents and attributes would be free to breathe the air, where they might be useful.

And speaking of locks…his own door was opening.

The Marquis bent his knee and brought it in closer to his chest, propelling himself up off of the chaise on which he reclined and into a standing position.

“To what do I owe this fortuitous coincidence, Abbe?” he asked with a slight smirk on his lips, “I was just thinking about you.”

The Abbe smiled. “You lie well, Marquis,” he said, “An unfortunate habit.”

“Add it my list of vices,” the Marquis waved a hand dismissively, “What brings you indoors to visit me on such a fine afternoon?”

“I wanted to see you,” he said, “And give you this.” He pulled a bottle of ink from his pocket.

The Marquis took it and held it up to the light streaming in through the window. “Excellent,” he sighed more audibly than necessary, “You anticipate my needs so well.” His eyes fell on the unusually populated lawn, and he said more to himself than aloud, “We must be the only two souls in the ward…”

In the back of his mind, he could hear the desperate buzzing of the fly dying in his pet’s web. Yes, it was time.

“Come and have a look at this,” he said aloud, beckoning the Abbe over.

“What is it, Marquis?” he asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Over there, by the fountain,” he said, his eyes locked on the Abbe’s smooth, virginal lips.

“I don’t know what you mean…I don’t see anything extraordinary,” his smile began to fade, “Is everything alright?”

“Look further,” he came to stand behind the man, raising his arm as if to point. His hand fell back elegantly, seamlessly, and rested on the Abbe’s shoulder, sliding down to the hand by his side.

“Did you pass her in the hallway?” his voice brushed against the Abbe’s ear, “Is that why you’re flying at full mast?”

The Abbe turned around abruptly, his face barely an inch from the Marquis’s.

“I see the fire that rages behind your eyes, dearest. Whose name is it that you repeat in your slumber, hmm?” he held his lips in a questioning pout, “Is it Madeleine? Or is it Donatein?” The sneer that spread over his features was cruel.

“Marquis,” he raised his hand, “I give you a moment to step away before I…”

“Before you what?”

“Before I…”

The Marquis covered his mouth with his own, sliding his reptilian tongue from its cave and into the sweet unknown, his hands grappling viciously with the black cassock.

“What are you doing?” The Abbe staggered back several paces, smoothing his robe.

“Don’t deny it, love, you want it as much as I,” he retreated back and sat docile in his chair, placing his fingertips together and smirking anew.

The Abbe wiped his mouth. “What are you playing at?” he demanded.

“If you must know,” he turned his hand over and idly examined his fingernails, “I am staging a production of the Book of Genesis.”

“The B-book of Genesis?” He narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, and I am to play the role of God,” he held his arms out grandly, “Don’t you think I look the part?”

“You’ve gone truly mad now.”

“Not at all…Dearest Madeleine has even agreed to play the part of Eve.”

“You are more serpent than God, Marquis,” he spat.

“Are they not one in the same?” he asked, standing and drawing nearer, “Come now, don’t spoil my fun. Someone must agree to be my Adam.”

“Your Adam?”

“Part your lips, my lifeless clayform, and I shall breath into you breath of life,” he placed his hand on the other man’s cheek and drew his mouth back, more softly this time, his lips coaxing, irresistible.

“This is sin,” the Abbe whispered against the Marquis’s tongue.

“I am God, remember?” he gripped the Abbe’s length through his robes, “I decide what is sin.”

The dark-haired man threw his head back in a groan, immersed for a moment in a pleasure not felt for decades.

“Go on, get on your knees,” the Marquis cocked his chin and smiled scornfully, “Your God commands it.”

“Marquis, I can’t…”

“You can, my seraphim. But you won’t. Or will you?” The hand began to work in circles, pressing harder, “Give in to me, hm? Let me have it, I promise you it will be more rewarding than a thousand prayers.”

“Marquis,” he panted, “Please…”

“Please what?” he breathed against the Abbe’s mouth.

Something strange flashed behind the younger man’s eyes. “Not so hard.”

The Marquis cackled and pulled at the buttons of the Abbe’s cassock. “How do you stand so many layers?” he laughed, reaching into the black breeches and beginning to stroke coarsely.

The Abbe braced himself against the wall and took hold of the Marquis’s wig, tossing it aside.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” the Marquis demanded.

“I wouldn’t know,” he panted, “I never let myself dare…”

“Of course not,” they kissed again, “Now, on your knees.”

The Abbe pulled at the fragile silk of the Marquis’s breeches, unhooking the buttons and widening his eyes at the sight before him

“Scared, pet?” an elegant hand ran through his dark hair, nails scratching his scalp.

“Is it so obvious?”

“Deliciously so,” he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, waiting, waiting until…yes….yes…the tentative kiss of undefiled lips on the moist tip. He had to open his eyes and look down at his conquest, had to watch the priest as his mouth slid over the glans.

“Can the bliss of heaven be greater than this?” he sighed, sinking decadently into the feeling of the unskilled mouth, into the vulgar noises and the vibrations of the younger man’s groans. He was going to come quickly this way, there was no question.

“We will build an Eden in these walls,” the Marquis continued, thrusting into the Abbe’s throat, “A garden of desires and depravities…You and I and she, Abbe…France will tremble before us…”

He released his load directly onto the man’s tongue. “Swallow,” he demanded.

“Have you ever been closer to God than now?” he asked as the Abbe stood.

He wiped his mouth and stood dumbfounded, shaking his head.

“Now,” the Marquis panted as he passed a hand through his hair, “Go and fuck poor Madeleine, will you?”

Cold Angels, Chapter 3

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 21:58:39 GMT

It was nearly nightfall when he returned, heavy coat sweeping after him. He brought with him the smell of gunpowder, and the faint metallic tinge of blood.

Cosette sat in the parlor, trying to forget her situation by pouring over one of the novels that had been brought with her clothes. She looked up from it when he entered the room.

“I see you have found ways of amusing yourself,” he cast his eyes over her quickly.

“I have. I am nearly finished with my book.”

“What are you reading?” he asked as he picked up the novel by the spine. He rolled his eyes, “Ah, of course. A pretty little romance.” He snapped it shut and tossed it into the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, standing.

Wordlessly he crossed to the bookshelf, and pulled out a somewhat worn volume. “Read this. It will expand your mind, rather than choking it with weeds.” He flung it at her, and she caught it.

Her fingertips ran over the title softly. “I’ve already read this, in school.”

“Read it again. Your appreciation of fine literature has obviously slipped through the sieve that is your mind.”

“I beg your pardon,” she began, but was interrupted by Mme. Jules.

“Dinner,” the older woman said.

They sat in silence, Cosette picking distastefully at the broth-soaked and cheese-coated bread offered as a main course.

“It is Friday,” he reminded her.

“Have you no fish?”

“Fish?” he swallowed the bit of bread in his mouth, “At these prices the only the most putrid of the river-dwelling bottom-feeders is to be afforded.”

“I see.”

“Unlike your guardian, Cosette, I haven’t the luxury of being able to steal my fortune,” he took a drink of his wine, “If you would prefer to go out dig in the waste pits for your fish, you are most welcome to do so.”

“Forgive me,” she muttered, taking a bite. It wasn’t half bad: Mme. Jules was a fair cook.

“I have made arrangements for you today.”

“Arrangements?”

“You are to be married next week,” he scraped the remains of his meal off of his plate with his fork and ate them, “I’ve found a man who will take you, even if you are spoiled goods.”

“I am not!” she slammed her knife down.

“Do not argue,” he hissed, “Your entire neighborhood saw you sneak about with that boy, you’re lucky I can even find one decent man to take you.”

It was a long moment before she spoke again. “What is he like?” she asked at last.

“Certainly not the hero of one of your novels,” he scoffed, “But he is a good man. Honest, hardworking. You need fear no mistreatment from him, and you will be well provided for.”

“What is his occupation?”

“He is Deputy Prefect of Police,” he said with some note of pride, “Recently promoted.”

She could only pray he was nothing like the Inspector.

Once again, Mme. Jules returned to take their plates. “Congratulations, Monsieur Javert,” she said was a curtsy as she stacked his on top of Cosette’s.

“Thank you, Mme. Jules,” he said with a warmthless smile, “We’ll take our coffee in the parlor.”

Sitting uneasily on the settee, Cosette took her cup and dripped a trickle of milk into it, swirling the two liquids together. When she looked around for the sugar, she met confusion.

“I never take sugar,” he said, taking a drink of his undiluted coffee, “A waste of money, in my opinion.”

“Do you never eat dessert?”

“You’re a spoiled thing, aren’t you?” he took another drink, “If one has a proper dinner, topping it off with a meaningless sweetmeat is an unnecessary ritual.”

“I see.”

Another long period of uncomfortable silence passed between them, until she broke it with, “Why was Mme. Jules congratulating you?”

“Several reasons,” he smiled his cold and distant smile again, “The first, of course, being the arrest of Jean Valjean. The second, which is directly related to the first, being my promotion to Deputy Prefect.”

Her eyes widened.

“And the third,” he finished, setting down his cup, “My forthcoming marriage.”

Cosette swooned, catching herself against the back of the settee.

“I must say,” he continued, his air of self-satisfaction unbearable, “The situation bodes nothing but well for the both of us.”

“You have to be joking! Please, Inspector, say you are joking,” she took a long gulp of coffee.

“I am not,” he said, and the smile faded, though the air did not, “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? You are the bastard child of a prostitute and the ward of a convict, who has entangled her name with a revolutionary. You’ll not marry into the money you have grown accustomed to. You’ll not marry at all, should I choose with withdrawal my proposal.”

“Proposal!” she turned away and closed her eyes, trying not to cry, “You haven’t even asked me.”

“Oh, yes, I see,” he nodded, “You would prefer something from one of your pretty novels, would you not?”

He came on one knee before her, taking her hands and turning them over and again in his, “Dearest Cosette,” he began mockingly, “Shining Goddess of the Morn, will you deign to bring happiness to the dismal life of this mere mortal?”

“Stop,” she choked, eyes still tightly shut.

“Does it not please you?” he pressed, “Those were the words we found in the letter in the boy’s pocket. If you want composed language, I can give it to you as well as any man.” He stood and crossed back to his chair, sitting again, “Perhaps, however, you would prefer my honesty. I feel it is my duty, Cosette, to marry you. I am responsible for the death of your lover and the arrest of your guardian; therefore I must see you are provided for. As it will be impossible to find you another husband of any worth, I have no choice but to offer to take you as my own wife.”

The sobs began now, pitiful, frantic things rising in her chest and sounding in the roof of her mouth.

“Very well,” Javert said coldly, standing and looking down at her. Once again, he felt a mile tall, looking at the trembling creature before him, “You will consider my offer overnight, knowing full well that if you refuse, my hospitality will have outrun its duration.”

She tried to be elegant as she stood and hurried from the room, crying into her hand as she dashed up the stairs and closed her door heavily behind her. She sunk down into the chair beside the door, tears falling into her open hands as everything, every insult and injury she perceived had been brought upon her by this monster of a man, swamped back into her mind.

She was frozen as she heard his footsteps in the hallway stop before her door. Once more, the key slid in, and he locked her in her room for another night.