Authour's Note: Well, that was fun!!! What a cheery ending!! *beam* It was sad to write, though…but anyway. Is there a limit to how many stories you can write on Javert? There should be...it'd be safer that way.

Javert: Well, there's the space in between a charming habit for writing fanfiction and maniacal obsession.

Lawr: DARE NOT SPEAK TO ME OF OBSESSION…AND THE PRICE I HAD TO PAY… NOW I'M IN A LES MIS DEPRESSION…OH NO NOW WHAT WILL I SAY **hums Les Mis songs slightly-out-of-tune**

Thank you for your wonderful reviews, 'specially Tears at the Edge of La Seine, for sticking with my story and not curling up in pain at it! Yaay! See ya'll if I ever write a sequel to this monst-------

Joly (so picked because he is awesome): Wait! you forgot the Unnecessary but Slightly Interesting Plot Holes and Loose Ends That Need tying up! *face of shock*

…oh…oh yeah. I lied! There's one more chapter left. Look, you might be able to see it if you move very slowly!

(if you can call it a chapter.... Also, don't read unless the previous ending was sucky or cliché for you. It's just to switch things up…C: THAT'S A DISCLAIMER Y'ALL. if you don't like this opportune cliffhanger for me to conveniently have sequel material, just eat this note after you read it. )

Fantine

Epilogue

Fantine looked at him then as they dragged him in, the sad, bedraggled man, worse off than when he had originally died. But hopefully better in the soul, she thought, then coughed a laugh of scorn into her handkerchief. Javert would not learn, she knew: for the moment, he'd been caught up in the emotions, tied into a story the way the cold, distant Inspector had never been before. There was no way to tell whether or not he was a changed man. It'd taken twenty years to change Valjean; it would take twenty lives to change Javert. Fantine smiled as they approached her, still in her white nightgown and reminiscent of an angel, but she knew better. One could get into heaven and still have inner demons.

She pitied him as she watched him, dropped on the cold grey stones of Purgatory and left for living. In her hands, she let the chain of the locket slide through her fingers: it slipped through effortlessly, like water through cupped palms. The one luxury Javert had allowed himself. He'd thought he'd lost it: little did he know it was never his. Javert on puppet-strings, he was now; it was up to her whether his penance be paid or his shame be rewarded.

Take my hand, she thought. Take my hand while you can, while you have only one moment to rest.