Obligatory Copyright Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Les Miserables. Also, I have no valuable possessions and make just barely enough to support myself, so if you sue me, you will be very disappointed.

This is my first Les Mis story, not to mention my first post. Reviews/comments are appreciated.

Everything hurts.

The realization jarred Javert's mind awake, though his body was far slower in responding. His head rang with a headache, his bones and joints screamed with pain even though he was at rest. He tried to open his eyes and shut them once again, the light too bright to bear. Every muscle felt as if a great wave had smashed him into a rocky shore.

Waves. . . water. . . rocks. . . the Seine. Falling. . .

Where am I?

He forced himself to roll over onto his side. He was lying down, that was certain. Not in his bed, nor on the ground. As he lay there, the exertion of simply turning over having driven him to near exhaustion, he could smell fresh-cut hay. Slowly he raised a hand to his eyes to shield them, then cracked his eyelids a tiny bit. The light did not seem so bright any more, and he discovered that what little illumination there was came from a covered lantern hanging just above his head. It swung gently, casting flickering shadows across the canvas roof.

Canvas roof? Why is the lantern swinging? Mother of God, it's not my imagination, we're actually moving.

The cart--with his head clearing, Javert could tell he was riding in a cart--bounced and creaked slowly down the road. It was obvious that the driver was in no hurry. Javert lay in a blanket-covered pile of straw, with another blanket, tattered but still warm and soft, thrown over him. He carefully raised himself on one elbow to look around. He was facing the back of the cart, which allowed him to see that the sun was rising just beyond the hills. He could hear somebody whistling a cheerful jig behind him, probably the driver. The cart itself was nearly empty except for him, the straw, a small wooden trunk on the left side, and a dark vest, pants, and shirt hanging from one of the roof supports. Occasionally, a drop of water would fall from the garments, splattering on the floor of the cart.

At this point, Javert realized he was not dressed.

- - - -

A cry somewhere between anguish and anger from the back of the cart made the driver jump, his whistle dying mid-tune.

"Finally awake, me boy?" the man called back uncertainly. The only response was a furious rustling and thumping about, mixed with muted groans of pain. The man reined in the horses and jumped down from his seat, fearing that the poor soul in back was having some sort of fit. When he clambered up into the cart, however, he found the man fumbling with the buttons of his still-damp trousers. The driver sat back on his heels, watching the man with a smirk and shaking his head.

"Ye'll catch yer death wearing those. Ain't like there's a woman 'round ta see ya anyway. Be sensible and let 'em dry first."

Javert grunted and cinched his belt around his waist. Every movement shot pain through his body, but his sense of decency would not allow him to stop. Finally, with the belt fastened, he knelt panting and shirtless atop the hay, completely spent, shivering from the clammy feeling of the fabric. His hair hung in stringy, hay-flecked tangles around his face, making him look like a half-deflated scarecrow.

The driver sighed. "Now that M'sieur is dressed, may we continue without yer puttin' up a fuss back here?"

Javert lifted his head and scrutinized the driver, who shifted uncomfortably under the piercing, grey-eyed gaze.

"Who are you?"

The driver doffed his blue felt cap, revealing a halo of gray curls around the balding crown of his head. "Tobar, at yer service."

"Where are you taking me, Monsieur Tobar?" Javert was trying to sound intimidating, accusing, but all he could manage was a slight irritation.

The old driver shrugged. "Home. Er, my home, rather. Ye've been out cold since I pulled you out o' the Seine, lookin' like a drowned rat. Couldn't just let ye lay there--ye might have died! And thinkin' on it. . . what were ye doing out for a swim in the middle o' the night?"

Escaping. Dying.

Javert couldn't bring himself to voice either of those answers. He sat, head hanging, gooseflesh breaking out along his arms and shoulders. But the man didn't go away, and finally he responded, "You should have left me."

Javert closed his eyes and did not open them until he heard the driver resume his position at the reins.

"Let's get you somewhere warm," the man called back. He sounded tired. Javert nodded to no one in particular, wrapped the blanket around himself, and lay down again in the straw.