7This is set predominately in London in 1832 for simplicity's sake. In this AU, (set roughly after "One Day More,") Cosette and Valjean have moved to London to escape Javert, unbeknownst that Javert has been following their every move, (in this version Javert does know of their location, it is not just Valjean being paranoid about the Patron Minette.) At this point in the Sweeney timeline, Sweeney is still incarcerated.
Enjoy!
London's Docks, 1832
Cosette stood at the front of the ship, knuckles white on the wooden railings. Ribbons of hair fluttered to her throat and shoulders. She looked upon her new home of London with a grim observation; the sky was bleached black, plumes of smoke clogged the throat of chimneys and water sloshed darkly at the edges of the boat. To the sailors flanking the river she seemed to glow against the grime, but even they couldn't miss the pinkness of her tender complexion. One docker turned to his friend with a coy grin as the boat rocked forwards, Cosette helming it like a prow. "Malato d'amore," he said, pointing her out: 'lovesick.'
Valjean approached slowly behind her, placing the palm of his hand on her shoulder. To see her upset hurt him, but he knew that he'd done what was necessary to protect her; she was safer here—with the squalor and the polyglot tongues and him—than alone in Paris. Under his grip, her shoulders dropped like they'd suddenly gotten heavier.
"We're almost there: look," he pointed forwards, where the Tower Bridge parted in front of them. Tilting her chin to the black sky, Cosette tightened her grip on the railings as wind forced more hair to part from her face. Feeling the boat slow, she let go of the railings promptly, watching as it turned into the shaded docks. Ropes were flung, zigzagging in the space between the boat's edge and the side of the docks, whose high walls were slick with algae. Valjean's arm tensed in Cosette's grip as two navy-clad policemen idled past the dock, puffing smoke from mustached lips. She never asked why police officers elicited such a response, just as he had not asked why, exactly, she found the idea of life in England so abhorrent. She looked down at the slice of blackened water between boat and land—as big as the rift that age and distrust had driven between her and her father.
Her thighs felt like jelly when she was finally on still land. This was not only due to the nauseating contrast that five days of seaborne travel owed her, but for the pandemonium of London's streets: the women bustling by with baskets of fruit on their heads, the butcher holding slices of fly-infested cadaver out in grubby hands, the fishmongers packing great slabs of meat onto their scales and bakers zipping in and out of lines, trying to make a profit without the hassle of actually setting up shop: " 'alf a penny sir, 'alf a penny," a small, impoverished boy parroted, wielding bread buns like a scepter. Jean gave him a polite smile and pulled Cosette close. They boy, noticing the small scrap of acknowledgement, honed in on him. "Come on sir, you got orf chump?" he insisted, waving the bread under Jean's nose. The man continued to smile, belying the fact that he didn't understand a word the child was saying; though well-versed in the English language, he hadn't been expecting accepts that were quite so thick. "They sell it for double down at Covent Gardens—oi, mind the grease!" the boy was exclaiming to a hooded man who had knocked heavily against his shoulder, causing one of his products to fall in the mud. Valjean tensed. Feeling equally sorry for the boy and anxious as to the identity of the hooded man, he fished money out of his pocket, looking over the child's head the whole time. Before he knew it, he was half a penny poorer and clasping a bread roll he had no appetite for. The boy had disappeared into the bustling crowd and as had, it seemed, the man.
Jean tried to steady himself; he was sure that he had seen the hooded man before, on the boat. He had never surrendered a clear view of his face but Jean had tried not to let it worry him, putting it down to the work of disfigurement or disease. The lack of traffic control sent pedestrians trudging down the right side of the road as carriage thundered past them, spraying mud onto Cosette's already grime edged dress. Tired, cold and thoroughly homesick, she dropped her gaze to the floor until it warped with tears. Had she been looking up she might have noticed the harried, heavily bearded face of Javert.
Five days on the boat, hiding in corners, breathing in the fetid stench of unwashed bodies. Five days since he had missed Valjean by mere seconds, forcing their cat and mouse pursuit to carry them to the other side of Europe. He had hidden his identity, certain that Valjean would go to ridiculous means of escape—even if it meant leaping into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Now, on land, he was ready to reap the rewards of his thirty-six-year penance. His arm reached out for Valjean.
All of a sudden Valjean felt an arm grab his throat. Panicked, he began to struggle, freeing his arm from Cosette's to pries the grip away. Noticing him leave her, she whipped around, startled to have lost him in the swarm of people.
Javert had dragged him into a clearing. He told himself to be succinct—all he needed was to restrain the prisoner—but days of sleep deprivation seemed to have stirred anger within him. Soon his fists were beating down on Valjean's head, clawing at his face, yanking his arms to keep him in place. Valjean's confused memory didn't allow him to conflate Javert to his assailant. He merely had the impression of greying hair, a full beard, and bloodshot eyes. Assuming it to be a robber, he struck him hard under the chin, sending him toppling into a nearby crockery stall.
The almighty noise roused attention. "Hey!" a Police Officer barked, striding towards the struggling pair. "What the 'ell's goin' on 'ere?" Valjean pushed with all his might, managing to free himself from Javert's grip. Cosette elbowed her way through a ring of gathering witnesses. Her eyes widened with horror when she saw blood dribbling from the scratch on her father's cheek. The two men stood facing one another, like animals raising their hackles. Gradually, the fug of confusion slid away from Valjean's mind. He looked into his attacker's eyes and felt a cold pang of recognition.
"Cosette?" he called, scanning the crowds for his daughter. With a grunt of effort, she freed herself from the side of a portly gentleman and rushed towards him, her hands immediately seeking his bloody face. He yanked her hands away and clung to her, ready to run the moment the British police officer's back was turned.
Javert's eyes didn't leave Valjean's face as he spoke. "Sir, I have been pursuing this man for almost forty years. He is a criminal; he broke his parole and has been travelling unlawfully through France trying to evade detection."
"No!" Cosette cried, before she could stop herself. Her frenzied mind clung to mere fragments of English. "My father, good man! Good man!" she insisted. Her eyes turned to Valjean's face, desperately searching it for a sign of confirmation. He remained still, dazed in shock. "Papa?" she gave his arm a shake.
"You what?" the officer said, confused by the whole affair.
"This man," Javert pointed towards the paralyzed Valjean. "Is an ex-convict, who broke his parole and has been on the run for years." He could feel himself swell with pride. This was it; he could sleep easy in his bed now. Cosette shot him a murderous look, her fingers tightening on Valjean's arm.
"What was his crime?" the officer asked, playing with his facial hair.
"Theft. Escape attempts… this man is a threat to society."
The officer had heard enough. Removing his baton from its holster he advanced upon Valjean. "Come on, let's not make this difficult," he said.
Cosette, who had failed to wake her father from his trance, stood in front of him, masking her helplessness behind determination. The officer seized her arm and tossed her aside. She landed against the blockade of the crowd, much to their amusement. This finally stirred a reaction within Valjean. He seized the officer's throat and began to throttle him. Neighboring officers noticed the struggle and rushed to assist. They dogpiled Valjean, whose strength seemed to cut through them still. The crowd booed and cheered like it was a show of Punch and Judy, the crack of a baton against skull eliciting particular pleasure from the crockery seller, whose smashed plates were being gathered from the floor.
Cosette watched in horror as her father was carried away, head lolling drunkenly between the three officers, who struggled under his slack weight. And Javert, with an unfathomable flood of triumph and relief, didn't seem to notice the girl stumble into the mud, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Kiri's Lane, London, England
Johanna's eyes remained open in the dead of the night. She never gave into the throes of sleep, no matter how enticing it seemed. It was a mirage in a desert; dreams no longer protected her, for when Johanna's eyes slid closed, the click of the door sliced through the silence like a guillotine.
At first she'd pretended to be asleep. Sometimes he wouldn't touch her but he would always touch himself; the rustling of skin of skin would be magnified in the hushed darkness, along with the ragged breathing and the occasional murmuring of her name. No matter how burrowed down her face was in the covers she could always feel his eyes on her.
Later he'd moved onto trying to wake her, shushing her as she made sleep-addled grumbles of confusion. His weight would cause the mattress to sink. He would toy with the fabric of her nightgown, feeling the soft pale flesh of her thigh. His clammy palms on her leg made sickness swill in her stomach, his heavy breath stirring her hair— but she would stare straight ahead into the darkness, pretending that he wasn't turning her onto her side, that he wasn't tugging her skirts from her legs…
And systematic thrashing would ensue. Not that it ever made a difference, for Johanna would soon succumb to him, fall limp on the bed as he had his wicked way with her. Although in the darkness he didn't see the small white glisten as tears of hate stung her eyes.
Please review with any constructive criticism :)