Work Text:
On the nineteenth of December, Javert wakes to find it has snowed.
It is not a welcome sight. As he eases his way out of bed, toes curling up in protest at the frigid floorboards, he stares out the window at the blanket of white with sublime irritation. Paris appears to have gotten five, perhaps six inches overnight, and Javert knows that his serviceable but aging cruiser will be buried in the driveway. There is no getting to work until he has shoveled, not unless he wants to get stuck in a drift.
Cursing under his breath, Javert dresses quickly. The house is drafty, and he feels the chill as he stands, buttoning down his starched shirt. There is no time for breakfast; he has a meeting at nine o’clock, and as it is he will barely make it. Bundling himself in his long coat and wrapping a scarf around his neck, Javert is still pulling on his gloves as he digs through the front closet looking for the snow shovel. Then he is dragging himself out the door, and the cold air hits him like a punch to the gut.
He disregards the front stoop, though Javert knows he will regret it later when it ices over and he cannot let himself inside without slipping. Instead he tromps to where his car is marooned in a frozen sea, his features written with disgust as he plants the shovel behind the first of the back tires and begins to scoop.
Javert has never liked the cold, but this year he is particularly opposed to winter and everything to do with it. The officer’s lungs are not as strong as they once were; he never guessed in June that his stint in the river would return to haunt him come the first snowfall. Of course, back in June, Javert had never expected to see December. He breathes in and grimaces as the dry, glacial air sucks the oxygen from his chest. His ribs ache. It is pathetic.
He has barely shoveled a fraction of the drive before Javert is gasping and has to stop, bracing himself upright against the handle of the shovel. He will get nowhere at this rate; the morning will be gone by the time he reaches the street. Biting back another string of imprecations, Javert concedes defeat and retreats into the house. He will have to call out of work. It means rescheduling his entire week, but that is preferable to being late. Even now, he cannot stand the thought of being anything less than perfect.
Inside, Javert grabs his phone from where it is charging on the counter and sits on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. His laptop he opens on the table’s glass surface. If he cannot make it to the station, he can at least finish some paperwork.
In his hand, Javert’s cellphone lets off a buzz. Frowning, he unlocks the screen to see he has a text alert; at that, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. There are only three people who text him, and it is a Monday morning. That means it is Jean, wanting to know about dinner. Javert will have to give him an excuse, and then spend the entire rest of the week convincing him that yes, Javert really does enjoy his company, and yes, he really does still want to get together the following Monday.
At last, he can stall no longer. He taps the notification.
Jean Valjean
8:25 AM
Are we still on for dinner? :)
What is he going to tell him? In the end, Javert settles for the truth, or the nearest to the truth he can get away with which will not cause his friend to worry.
8:38 AM
Sorry, snowed in. Can’t even get to the station this morning. Have to reschedule.
Immediately, the bubble appears which indicates that Jean is typing out a response. Javert sets down his phone, opening a number of reports to be approved and filed. His laptop whirs as it works, and Javert shakes his head. These old programs boot too slowly, he thinks.
When he glances back at the glowing cell screen, he is greeted by a flurry of messages.
Jean Valjean
8:38 AM
Snowed in? Are you okay?
Jean Valjean
8:39 AM
Should I stop by? Cosette made cookies.
Jean Valjean
8:40 AM
Javert?
Javert rolls his eyes. Jean Valjean is incorrigible. Perhaps it is simply the phantoms of old injuries troubling him, but Javert is in no mood to be coddled. He types back in a rush, hitting send in the same motion.
8:45 AM
I’m fine.
It is too terse. He sighs again.
8:45 AM
I’ll text you when I get off.
That ought to satisfy him, Javert thinks.
His next act is to call in, a thing he has not had to do since the doctor declared him fully recovered, or as recovered as he is ever going to be. When Chabouillet answers the phone, there is a tightness to his voice which does not dissipate until Javert explains his situation, and it only increases the officer’s ire. Why does everyone insist on treating him like he is made of glass? His temper is on a short fuse by the time he hangs up, and he takes it out on his subordinates, barking orders into the microphone of his headset with even less patience than usual. Altogether, it is not one of his better mornings.
It is drawing on time for lunch when Javert stretches and gets to his feet. He is finally warm again, but sitting on the floor has done nothing for his muscles, all of which make their complaints known at the movement. He turns—regulations state that he gets a half hour for lunch, and Javert will time it to the minute—only to see a figure in a fire-engine red coat bent over near his cruiser. His face contorts in a scowl. There are not many people bold enough to vandalize a police car, but it has been known to happen, and it is the last thing he wants to deal with.
Striding to the door, Javert whips on his greatcoat and finds his badge where it resides in his pocket. Whoever this vandal is, he will be sorry he picked Javert’s property to tag.
The door opens, and the first thing Javert notices is the suspicious absence of snow on his stoop. Then the figure in red raises his head, and Javert can feel himself deflating.
“Jesus Christ, Valjean,” he mutters, using the man’s surname as he only does now when he is especially vexed with him. “I almost arrested you out of sheer pique. You might have told me you were coming over.”
“I did,” Jean calls back brightly, looking far too cheerful for a man who is standing out in the freezing weather. “But you haven’t been checking your phone.”
“I’ve been working,” says Javert shortly, hugging his arms to his chest as he comes down the walk. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“Shoveling.” In demonstration, Jean removes an orange plastic shovel from behind his back and moves a hefty pile of the wet snow from the drive to Javert’s patch of lawn.
Javert stares at him, dumbfounded. “Why are you shoveling my driveway, Jean?”
Jean shrugs, wiping sweat from his brow with a mittened hand. “You were working,” he says by way of explanation, and moves another pile of snow twice as large as anything Javert could lift on his own. The asphalt is actually visible now, his car gradually emerging.
“You don’t have to do that.” He still does not understand, though what is left of Javert’s pride bristles at the idea of anyone taking pity on him. “I can clear my own driveway.”
Again, Jean shrugs, though this time Javert thinks he is avoiding his eyes. “I was already out,” he says. “There are cookies in the car—you are welcome to some, of course.”
Javert looks up to see Jean’s vehicle, a hideous green travesty, parked on the street. He should have known it was him from the start. Still, he cannot shake the feeling that Jean is making excuses, that he somehow knew Javert’s weakness the same way he sees through everything else. That is when Jean turns around, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I confess I had an ulterior motive,” he says, leaning against the pole of his shovel. Javert readies himself for the questions about his health and the condescending sympathy, but then Jean continues, “I was hoping if I dug your car out, you might still want to go to dinner tonight?” When Javert does not answer right away, Jean plows ahead, “If you’re busy, then don’t worry about it, but it is nice to have the company, and there’s that new Italian place on the Rue Sainte -”
“Jean,” Javert interrupts dryly. “You are rambling.” He looks appraisingly at the other man. They have been doing these dinner outings since July? August? Javert hardly remembers anymore, but he can only assume it is Jean’s way of making certain the officer is not in any danger of seeking out a new way to tempt fate. Even so, Javert has given up on trying to pretend to himself that he does not enjoy their evenings together. When he is not being infuriating, Jean is a thoughtful and articulate conversationalist.
“Perhaps,” Javert finds himself saying, “we could do dinner here tonight.”
Immediately he asks himself why he has offered, but Jean is turning faintly pink, and Javert rushes to elaborate as his own face heats.
“It is a slow day, with the snow. I’ll be off early. If you mean to stand out here and shovel, then you may as well come in after and warm up.”
Jean’s mouth broadens into a smile, and Javert has the sudden impression of standing in the path of the sun. “I would like that,” says Jean, and Javert breathes a little easier. “We can order in.”
“It is my turn to pay tonight,” Javert tells him firmly, though he is privately grateful the spell of awkwardness has passed. They have always been awkward around one another; at first it was out of wariness, then uncertain friendship. Now they are simply awkward. He cannot place the reason.
Jean returns to his self-appointed task of clearing the drive, and Javert stands and watches for a moment before he realizes that his timer is ticking—he has probably missed his opportunity to eat in peace. With a grumbled invitation to come in and use the facilities should the need arise, Javert shakes his head and leaves Jean in the snow. He barely has the chance to assemble a sandwich before he returns to his computer, taking bites between phone calls and reviewing tedious incident reports.
Eventually, Javert closes his computer, confident that the world has not fallen to pieces in his absence, even if he will still be painfully behind come Tuesday. Hearing the creak of the front door, he looks up just in time to see Valjean peer around the corner.
“Are you hungry?” the man asks. “I brought snacks.” He shakes the box he carries in his arms, and Javert hears the telltale sound of pastries sliding.
Truth be told, he is hungry. Javert rises and waves a hand for Jean to sit on the sofa. Pulling off his heavy coat, now sopping wet with snow, Jean has a look around, and Javert is chagrined to remember that he has spent far more time in his friend’s home than Jean has in his. Granted, Javert spent much of that time in varying states of consciousness; and still, they have never shared dinner alone together. He does not know why that catches him off balance, only that it does.
Jean makes himself comfortable, and Javert disappears into the kitchen. He is embarrassed by the emptiness of his refrigerator, but he does finally locate two hot chocolate packets left over from a care package sent by Cosette. Javert never asked how she found out his address. He thinks it is better he does not know.
Emerging from the kitchen with two hurriedly prepared mugs, he finds Jean sitting on the sofa arranging the cookies into stacks. Javert holds out a drink, and Jean cups his fingers around Javert’s as he takes it, smiling gratefully. It is... good to see him smile. Jean’s hands are like ice, but Javert permits the touch to linger a moment before he relinquishes his grip. The man’s face is still red from the cold as Javert settles onto the couch beside him. Or at least, he thinks it is from the cold, but Jean continues to smile, and Javert’s stomach does a curious sort of flip which makes it difficult to rationalize clearly. He takes a sip of his cocoa and looks away.
Then it is later, darkness falling outside but for those houses lit up with strings of colored lights. They are laughing, Jean loudly and Javert in a quiet chuckle. A bottle of wine sits open on the coffee table between the empty pizza boxes, and they each hold a dwindling glass.
“And then,” says Jean, wiping tears from his eyes, “she pouted and told Sister Jourdan, ‘Well that is how the nativity story should go!’”
Javert shakes his head. Whenever there is an uneasy lull in the conversation, he can always count on Jean to fill the silence with stories of Cosette if prompted. It is a comfortable subject for them both; Javert can be exasperated yet amused, and there is nothing in the world Jean loves half so much as his adopted daughter. These days, many of their conversations are about wedding preparations; the date is set for February, and as the day grows closer, Jean becomes ever more frantic in his attempts to ensure that everything goes perfectly. It would be endearing if not for the way his enthusiasm sometimes seems rather forced, which is why Javert is glad that tonight he chose to share an anecdote from the girl’s childhood instead.
Now it has turned quiet again without the background hum of a public restaurant, and they each take a sip of wine as the clock ticks on the wall.
“Oh, by the way,” says Jean with the offhanded nonchalance that means he has been waiting at least an hour for the right moment to broach whatever subject is on his mind.
Javert sets down his drink and turns to face him.
“I was wondering if I could ask for a favor,” Jean goes on, looking down at his lap. “You don’t have to say yes, of course—goodness knows you’re busy, and perhaps you already have plans—but -”
“Whatever it is, I don’t have plans,” Javert interrupts. “You are the only person I ever see outside of work.”
“Well.” Jean flushes and rubs the back of his neck. “It is quite a silly request, I suppose, but Cosette is having a little Christmas get-together with Marius’s family on Friday night and she wants me to bring someone.”
“I’ll be done at five on Fri-” Javert starts and then stops, a cloud of suspicion brewing as he is struck by a certain hunch. “Do you mean to bring someone as a friend, or as a ‘plus one’?”
“Er. The latter, I think. And she is still convinced that we are...” Jean gestures vaguely, his face glowing crimson, and Javert is sure he looks no better as the mortification sets in. That had been an entirely humiliating conversation, as they each tried to persuade Cosette that they were not, in any sense of the word, a ‘couple’.
“I don’t know who else to ask,” Jean says miserably. “I thought, if we could just pretend for the one evening... She worries that I’m going to be alone when she moves out, and she is determined to set me up with someone.” Javert almost snorts at the very real horror in the man’s eyes as Jean finishes, “I am afraid she will resort to playing matchmaker online if she doesn’t get her way.”
“Well, we can't have that,” Javert replies. “The only people who use online dating are either desperate or psychopaths.”
“Then you’ll come?”
If Javert had had reservations before, he cannot refuse the relief in his friend’s voice.
“I’ll be there,” he assents. “Or should I pick you up?”
He is half-joking, but Jean turns a new, interesting shade of red as he splutters out that they can meet in the Marais, that will be just fine, and Javert finds himself distracted. What is wrong with them both anyhow? Javert glares at the wine bottle; the alcohol must be to blame, that is the only explanation. He is a grown man, for God’s sake. He can indulge Cosette’s misguided good intentions for an evening without turning approximately the same hue as a tomato.
When Jean goes to leave, Javert accompanies him to the door.
“I’ll see you Friday?” Jean asks nervously, as if Javert might have changed his mind.
“Friday,” Javert agrees, though it occurs to him he hardly knows what he is getting himself into. He cannot recall when last he would have attended a Christmas party. It is possible that this idea will end only in disaster.
Jean thanks him fervently, and Javert finds himself at a loss when they clasp hands. He watches the man’s silhouette as he disappears down the spotless driveway to his car, and leans on the door frame in bemusement. Something very strange has come over him indeed.
Tuesday is every bit the cluster Javert expects it to be, and Wednesday passes in a blur. Before he knows it, it is Thursday night, and the party is tomorrow. This is also when it dawns on him that, as a Christmas party, the giving of gifts is definitely encouraged and likely expected. He cannot think if he has ever given gifts before—perhaps once or twice for an office gathering where he could not escape convention. This year, however, he finds himself wanting to; it is the least he can offer after all Jean has done for him. It does, however, leave Javert with a particular problem; namely, that he does not have the faintest clue what Jean would like for a Christmas gift.
In the end, he resorts to texting Cosette, the one other person who messages him besides Jean and, rarely, Chabouillet. Her advice is prescient, practical, and manages to avoid making Javert feel like an idiot, which is how the officer finds himself standing in the department store on Thursday night, blinking at the too-bright fluorescent lights.
He is greeted by a group of mannequins dressed in the most outlandish assortment of clothing Javert has ever seen outside of a raid at a nightclub. Garish sweaters trimmed with felt trees and blinking holiday lights sewn into the fabric clutter the front of the store with their tacky holiday cheer, and all Javert can think is that there is not enough money in France to get him to don one of those. It does, however, trigger a new anxiety. What is he meant to wear to this thing, anyway? Javert cannot go in uniform—even he knows that would be a faux pas—but the casual clothes hanging in his closet are sparse at best. Nonexistent would be closer to correct.
Pulling out his cellphone, Javert looks between Jean and Cosette’s numbers. It would not be fair to trouble the hostess, he decides. She has already helped him enough with gift ideas. Tapping on Jean’s name, Javert types out two words.
8:47 PM
Dress code?
Almost at once, he can see Jean starting to reply. Did the man never set his phone down? Then, a buzz as the screen lights up with a response.
Jean Valjean
8:47 PM
Whatever makes you feel comfortable. :)
That is not an answer Javert can work with. What makes him comfortable are slacks, an Oxford shirt, and his police vest.
8:48 PM
What are you wearing?
This time, it takes a moment for the answer to come through.
Jean Valjean
8:50 PM
Sorry, I hadn’t actually decided yet. I think I’m going to wear one of my Christmas sweaters, but you don’t have to match.
Javert eyes the mannequin display in front of him. The worst part is that he can picture Jean showing up in something just exactly like that. Briefly he questions whether he should swallow his pride for one evening, but then Javert’s senses return to him. He leaves the mannequins behind, muttering inaudible complaints about the fashion industry as he goes.
Blessedly, the aisles of men’s clothing are free from so much as a strand of tinsel. Javert grabs the first outfit off the rack which looks like it will fit him, and then he beats a hasty retreat from the two-way stand before he can second-guess himself.
With that out of the way, the only thing left is the task of actually choosing a present. Some of Cosette’s suggestions are too impersonal—Jean might enjoy a giftcard to the bookstore, but that is not the sort of thing Javert can give to someone who sat at his bedside for a month. On the other hand, some of the girl’s suggestions are too personal by far; Javert will not be buying Jean a pair of booty shorts emblazoned with ‘Santa Baby’ across the backside, no matter how funny Cosette thinks her father’s face would be upon opening it.
Javert realizes he is now picturing his friend in booty shorts, and shakes his head to clear it. Instead he opens the carefully curated list of possibilities he has saved to his phone—new tools for the garden, new gloves to keep Jean’s hands warm in the snow, or a new watch, as Cosette says the one he always wears has stopped working. They are each good options, tasteful and appropriate gifts for a friend. Clearly, Cosette has realized Javert is not a man given to overt displays of sentiment.
In the end, Javert settles on the gardening tools, because it is getting late and he has to make a decision before the store closes on him. There is a caddy with trowels and other devices Javert can only guess at the uses of; his skill is not with plants, that much he knows for a fact. One item the packaging refers to as a rake, but Javert is fairly certain it is actually a medieval implement of torture. He shrugs; what Jean does to his flowers is none of Javert’s business.
Bundling the kit into his arms, Javert also collects a present for Cosette on the way out as the sudden sparkle of a jewelry display catches his eye. He will say it is a thank you for the advice. That is easier than explaining the warmth Javert feels at being included, and the warmth of the girl’s approval. He cannot fathom why she should think he and her father fancy one another, but the feeling lingers all the same.
At the register, Javert stares vacantly through the storefront glass doors and into the dark parking lot beyond. The cashier rings up his purchases, and he thinks of Jean’s dimpled smile and the way the man bites his lip when he is flustered. Yes, the whole idea is total folly on Cosette’s part, for Javert is hard where Jean is soft, cutting where Jean is kind, and broken where Jean—for all his flaws—has always seemed to have something to hold onto. They could not be more dissimilar.
The thought makes him strangely sad. Javert accepts his bags with a scant word of thanks before disappearing into the night. He buckles himself in his car seat, and Javert vows that tomorrow will be the best Christmas party Jean has ever attended. For his part, Javert just hopes he can be worthy of the role Jean has asked him to play. He has never been in love before; he will have to rely on what acting skills he possesses if they are to convince an entire household of their relationship.
It is evidence of his inexperience that Javert thinks nothing of it when he wishes—just once, just briefly—that he did not have to pretend Jean cared for him at all.
Stepping out of his vehicle, Javert shuts the door and locks it behind him. One can never be too careful, not even in a well-to-do neighborhood like the Marais. He has parked the block down from the Gillenormands’ house, again out of caution. A police car on the street will keep any neighboring parties orderly without calling undue attention to the home of Cosette’s fiancé.
The sound of another car door draws his attention farther up the Rue des Filles du Calvaire. In the pool of light shed by a street lamp, Javert can make out the telltale silver gleam of snowy hair, and then Jean turns around, hailing him with a wave. Javert glances down to check he is still presentable; his coat is buttoned to his chin, and he smooths the creases left in the material by the drive. Determining himself to be suitably attired, he tucks several paper bags under one arm and steps onto the sidewalk. It has been properly salted, the officer notes with approval, and there is no ice to make a fool of him as crosses to meet Jean at his car.
“Javert,” Jean says, sounding slightly breathless. “You came.”
“I told you I would,” Javert murmurs in reply, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “As recently as this afternoon.”
Even in the dark, he can see Jean blush. “You might have forgotten.”
They both know that Javert has never missed an appointment in his life, and that he was unlikely to miss this engagement either, but Javert hears the words Jean is too polite to voice: he is not the sort to turn up at parties, even when he is invited.
Though it is barely evening, it is already dark, the longest night of the year upon them. Jean’s eyes are wide where he looks up at Javert, and they each stand fixed on the sidewalk, neither one certain how to proceed. Javert glances at number six. Every plane of the grand estate is outlined with twinkling lights, while a wreath the size of a tractor tire hangs under the eaves.
Javert wets his lips; his mouth has turned strangely dry. Pushing aside his nerves, he searches for the calm he associates with a plainclothes assignment, and the officer feels himself slipping into character at last.
“Well, my dear,” he says, and Jean’s blush burns anew. “We had best not keep your daughter waiting.”
He offers his arm and cannot entirely keep the wolf from his grin when Jean takes hold, but if Jean seems nervous, Javert does not get the impression that he is to blame. Jean’s hand is warm upon his arm as they make their way up the walk, passing white plastic deer lit from within by more fairy lights, and then they arrive at the front door.
Javert wavers only a fraction of a second before ringing the bell.
From inside the house, he hears a deep, echoing chime followed by a flurry of voices. The one which grows louder is chirpy and feminine, and sure enough, it is Cosette who opens the door a moment later.
“Papa!” she exclaims delightedly. “And Javert, too—I am so glad you could come!”
Javert might doubt the truth of such a statement, but Cosette’s face as she draws her father into a hug is the guileless, happy expression of a child at Christmastime. Then Javert is similarly embraced, and his false confidence flounders for a moment at the unexpected gesture.
“Ah. Happy holidays, Mademoiselle,” he says, pushing a loose strand of hair back from his face.
Cosette ushers them both inside, rattling off all the places they may set their boots and other effects, and she hands Javert a hanger as his coat is, “much too nice to leave lying about any-old place.”
Aligning his shoes on the mat by the door, Javert removes his gloves and unbuttons his greatcoat. He is hanging it in the closet when he grows conscious of Jean staring at him, frozen in the act of unlacing his snow boots.
“What is it?” Javert asks, wondering self-consciously if he has put something on inside-out.
“You look...” Valjean clears his throat and turns away, pulling off his boots with greater vigor. “...very nice.”
“Oh.” Javert glances down at what he is wearing; it is the same outfit he so hastily ripped off the department store rack the night before. The pressed grey slacks are perhaps not unusual for him, but he will admit that the knit turtleneck, so navy as to be almost black, is a far cry from his usual choice of dress. It is also much warmer. That must be why he suddenly feels too hot standing there with Jean in the antechamber, and he quickly finishes unwrapping the scarf from around his neck and puts it with his coat. Belatedly, he thinks to mutter a, “Thank you,” to Jean, whose ears are turning as red as the winter coat he hooks on the hall tree.
Adjacent to the antechamber is the salon, a sitting room with a fireplace on one wall and a window bench overlooking the street. In the corner stands a tall fir tree, its branches bending under the weight of golden ornaments and innumerable lengths of ribbon garland. Underneath are stacked presents by the dozen, and Javert feels his self-consciousness returning as he removes two painstakingly-wrapped gifts from the first of his paper bags. His job has never paid well, and though he knows Jean to have money, the man is not one to flaunt it. The Gillenormands are a different story; their wealth is obviously on display, and as Cosette reappears from the kitchen, Javert is on the verge of apologizing for his meager contribution.
Before he can speak a word, however, Cosette lifts the packages from his hands and begins to coo over the crispness of the wrapping paper—“I can never get my corners to fold so neatly,” she informs him—and Javert is distracted as he attempts to explain the technique he has perfected only the evening prior. With great gentleness, Cosette adds the gifts to the top of the heap.
“Ah,” says Javert, remembering something then. “I also brought this.” From the bottom of a second bag he withdraws a pie tin. “Store-bought, I’m afraid,” he adds. “I am not much of a cook. It is pumpkin, or at least that is what the bakery said, though I have my suspicions.”
Cosette’s eyes light up in an expression Javert is certain he has seen at other times on Jean’s face. “How thoughtful!” she smiles, taking the pie out of his hands. “Pumpkin is grandfather’s favorite, I shall have to tell him you’ve brought it.”
Javert nods jerkily, uncertain of how exactly to act around this baffling, energetic young lady, but then Jean appears from the antechamber and Cosette rushes to his side instead. Freed from his coat, it is apparent that Jean wears an oversized sweater with a smiling felt reindeer sewn to the front. He is laden with yet more brightly colored packages, and Cosette makes a show of trying to guess what each one contains as she takes the boxes and sets them beneath the tree.
Only when Jean’s arms are empty does Cosette give him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and proceed to disappear into the kitchen. By the voices and light which emanate from the other room, Javert gathers that this is where the rest of the party is taking place. He is about to suggest they join the others when he notices the look on Jean’s face. It is a look he recognizes, and does not like; dread, mingled with resignation. Jean once used to look at him the same way, and Javert does not care for the reminder.
He steps forward, curling his fingers around Jean’s forearms and tugging him nearer until they stand chest to chest. Jean’s expression shifts to one of startled surprise.
“What is wrong?” Javert asks quietly.
“You are... very close,” Jean says, and it must be Javert’s imagination which makes the words sound so dazed.
“We are supposed to be ‘an item’,” Javert reminds him. “Or so you told me. Also, you did not answer my question.”
Jean evades his searching look, sighing. “I should have declined the invitation,” he mutters. “How am I to go in there when...”
He trails off, but Javert knows now what he means. They have had this argument before, Jean insisting that he does not belong in that house pretending to be just one more bourgeois gentleman when the reality is that he is something else entirely. It also occurs to Javert that neither M. Gillenormand nor his sister have emerged to greet their guests; the officer could care less whether he says two words to either one of them all night, but the old man should at least come greet the father of the girl who is to marry his grandson. An oddly protective sort of anger starts to build in Javert’s chest at the snub; no wonder Jean is so quick to think he is not wanted.
Loudly, Javert finds himself saying, “You sit here, Jean, and I’ll go make us some plates.” He leads Jean to the tufted sofa in front of the fireplace, squeezing his friend’s hand as he departs for the kitchen. His face is set in a pleasant expression, which is as good an indication as any that Javert is not to be trifled with.
He does not step so much as stalk into the kitchen, ducking around some hanging greenery in the doorway. The kitchen is huge—the vast expanses of alabaster countertop alone must have cost a fortune—and the others are gathered around the island which is itself laden with platters and bowls of every variety of goody imaginable.
Gillenormand stands deep in conversation with his sister, champagne flute in hand. On the opposite end of the island, Cosette searches for an open spot to set Javert’s pumpkin pie. Behind her is Marius. His arms are half-crossed and he looks distinctly uncomfortable, a look which only deepens as Javert enters the room.
“Plates and cups are over here,” says Cosette, waving at a stack of china dishes. “Please help yourself! And if I can get you anything else, just let me know.”
“I think I am already quite spoilt for choice,” Javert replies wryly. “This is quite the spread, Mademoiselle.”
Cosette beams at him. “Thank you! Nicolette and I have been baking every evening this week after work. Marius even helped decorate the sugar cookies, didn’t you, dear?”
At the sound of his name, Marius trots forward, nodding and pushing his bangs out of his eyes. Javert purses his lips; the boy needs a haircut, but he resists the urge to say so.
“You can tell which ones I did,” says Marius. “They don’t look like much.”
At least he has the self-awareness to admit it, Javert thinks to himself as he begins to pile snacks on a plate for Jean. He had no idea there were so many kinds of cookies in the world, though he does recognize some as being the same variety as those Jean brought over on Monday. At a loss for what to pick, Javert winds up taking one of everything, hoping Jean will like something out of the bunch.
Cosette bustles around the counter to interrupt M. Gillenormand, who is pontificating heavily on his political opinions. She gestures at Javert in airy introduction, then asks a question about the itinerary for the evening, and Gillenormand and Javert each mutually ignore the other. The officer has succeeded at balancing perhaps a dozen cookies on the same plate and is just contemplating whether there is room for jello when Marius coughs politely beside him.
Javert turns; Marius is red in the face, but his voice is measured as he asks, “So you and Cosette’s father are... going out?”
Peering down the length of his nose, Javert gives him the most withering look of which he is capable and answers, “Yes.” He is surprised by how naturally the lie comes to him.
Marius gulps. “Oh.” He looks away. “I thought Cosette was pulling my leg when she said...”
Reappearing at his side, Cosette gives her fiancé a playful swat on the arm and says, “You see? I told you so.” Turning back to Javert, she adds, “How long have you two been together now, anyway?”
“Er...” Javert fumbles for an answer, but he and Jean have not agreed upon the details of their supposed relationship. They really ought to have prepared an alibi ahead of time.
Fortunately, Cosette has continued talking to fill the silence.
“Well you know, Marius, that I worry—Papa says he is fine, but I think of him living in that house all by himself after we move in together, and I can’t help it! So I told him he really ought to try meeting someone, only he said he already had.”
Javert blinks. A wave of confusion washes through him—confusion, and a sense of hurt which he cannot quite put a name to.
“Your father said that?” Javert asks. “When?”
Cosette’s nose scrunches up as she considers this. “I think it must have been a few months ago now,” she answers. “And at first I was perplexed, but then we met the two of you for dinner one night and I understood completely! It’s like you’ve known each other your whole lives—I haven’t seen Papa so happy in years.”
Javert is still confused but the prickle of what surely cannot be envy fades slightly. Perhaps Jean’s words were meant merely to appease his daughter. Of course, it is no business of Javert’s whether Jean is seeing someone or not. Still, if he were, Javert cannot see why Jean would not have invited him to the party in Javert’s stead. The thought is more reassuring than it has any right to be.
Returning to the salon, Cosette’s words continue to niggle at him like grit in an oyster. Javert has already reached the sofa when he belatedly realizes he has not made a plate for himself, but it is too late to go back. Jean is sitting perched on the cushions like a bird about to take flight, gazing at the fireplace. The sight makes something in Javert’s stomach flutter, and what appetite he had is gone. Utterly confounded, he clears his throat.
Jean looks up, and in an instant his face brightens.
“I brought snacks,” Javert says, gesturing with the plate as evidence.
Smiling, Jean scoots over so that there is room on the cushion for the both of them. Javert wonders vaguely at the lightheadedness which comes over him as he sits, handing over the platter of desserts.
“That is... a lot of cookies.” Jean’s melancholy seems to vanish with the officer’s return, his tone turning mildly amused. “Are these all for me?”
“Er.” Javert’s brain is lagging behind his tongue. “I may have got a bit carried away.”
“Well, at least have one.” Jean plucks a chocolate square off the corner of the plate and holds it out. “Fudge,” he says by way of explanation.
“Is that what that is?” Javert asks. The feeling in his stomach has not dissipated. The officer reaches out to accept the morsel, and for a moment, their fingers brush. A tingle runs down his spine.
Not quite snatching his hand away, Javert settles against the back of the sofa. He is very conscious of the heat radiating from Jean’s side only a few inches to his left. Put on the appearance of togetherness, those are Javert’s instructions for the evening. Purposefully, he wraps an arm around Jean’s shoulder and then bites into the chocolate as though he thinks nothing of it. The fudge is sweet, melting on his tongue, and is insufficient distraction from the way Jean looks up in surprise, only to then smile wider and settle against Javert’s shoulder. It is all a façade, yet there is a stutter in Javert’s chest as though it were not.
Behind them, he hears the sound of muffled conversation and then a giggle. Javert looks over his shoulder to see Cosette standing with Marius in the kitchen doorway. They are stationed under the greenery and—Javert looks quickly away, his face burning—they are kissing. Then he glances back again, taking more notice this time of the decorations. The vegetation tacked over the opening is sprinkled with small white berries; mistletoe, he perceives. That would explain the kissing.
In his life, Javert has not kissed anyone. It never bothered him in the past, and he does not know why he fixates on it here. Then Jean leans into him, offering up another delicacy, and Javert reaches out to take it. Their hands touch; the other shoe drops.
Javert does not hear the words as Jean speaks, but his friend’s soft smile is all he needs to reaffirm the revelation crashing over him. It is the second time in his life that it seems a veil is torn from his eyes, and Javert is left vulnerable and helpless in its wake. He was blind before; now he sees.
Javert gets to his feet abruptly. A crease appears between Jean’s eyebrows, and whatever he was saying hangs unfinished in the air between them. Hastily, Javert fishes his cellphone from his pocket and mumbles an excuse about work, ducking his head and not quite fleeing the salon for the entry parlor beyond.
Once ensconced in the antechamber, Javert heaves a shaky breath. Now the notion is in his head and he cannot dismiss it; from the start, it has been too easy to play along, too easy to pretend they are more than friends. Cosette has accepted the performance without question; perhaps it is because Javert is not so good an actor as he would care to believe. He does not know why he failed to realize before, and worse, he does not know why he is realizing now, when he can have this thing which he wants but it means nothing except as a farce.
The trouble, Javert thinks, beginning to pace circles around the rug, is that Jean Valjean is too easy to love. For all that he can be frustrating, for all that he is stubborn to the point of Javert wanting to tear his hair out, Jean is also thoughtful and generous and more forgiving than anyone on earth has the right to be.
Jean is kind, and if once Javert thought of that as weakness, he sees now the error of his ways. This is weakness, to be reduced to panic by nothing but a smile and the touch of a hand. Yet Javert cannot help himself; what is he to do, how can he face his friend, when for a moment he thought of standing under the mistletoe with Jean’s lips pressed to his?
Jean does not want his daughter to fret or to commision any wayward dating schemes, Javert reminds himself firmly. That is the sole reason he asked Javert here tonight. At best, it is presumptuous to think Jean should have any interest in him except as friends, and friends who have shared a difficult history at that. At worst, it is an abuse of trust to want such things; after all, there is no-one in Jean’s life whom he cares to entangle himself romantically with, which by necessity must include Javert himself. Were it otherwise, they would not be putting on this show for Cosette and her fiancé.
As though summoned by the train of his thoughts, Cosette chooses that moment to poke her head around the doorway.
“Monsieur Javert,” she says. “Is everything all right?”
Javert does not quite jump. He discovers that he is still pacing, one hand on the back of his neck and the other gripping his phone as tightly as though he means to crush it.
“It is nothing,” he says when a moment of silence has passed between them. Waving his cellphone, he adds vaguely, “Work.”
“Not an emergency, I hope?” Cosette steps into the antechamber, her expression too discerning, and Javert composes himself before she can emulate her father’s habit of reading his thoughts more clearly than he would like.
“Nothing like that, Mademoiselle,” Javert replies.
“Good.” The girl looks at him shrewdly, and Javert senses that despite his best efforts, she knows he is not being truthful. “Then you will join us for presents?” Cosette points toward the salon. “Marius is handing out the gifts.”
The officer hesitates only a moment before he inclines his head. His own feelings aside, he has agreed to help Jean and refuses to disappoint him. He tucks his phone away—Javert has not actually looked at it once despite his pretense to the contrary—and follows Cosette back into the other room.
The Gillenormands are gathered near the tree while Marius picks through the mound of boxes beneath. Javert watches like a hawk as the boy passes out the packages wrapped for Jean and Cosette, certain that the incompetent fool will handle them too roughly, but in the end they make it safely to their recipients. Javert has not bought anything for M. Gillenormand as he scarcely knows him, nor does he particularly care to. Moreover, he has bought nothing for Marius, as the officer considers not reporting the boy’s role in the June riots more of a gift than he deserves already. But the gifts he did bring are important, if only for the novelty of their existence, and Javert will not have Marius Pontmercy ruining them.
By this time, Cosette has led Javert back to the sofa, and he retakes his place by Jean’s side. Jean looks up as he sits, a note of uncertainty appearing in his expression, and Javert gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. The last thing he wants is for Jean to think he is angry with him when nothing could be farther from the truth. There are shades to Jean’s smiles, each one unique, and the one he shares now is small and shy. He does not let go of Javert’s hand as Marius sets a few boxes at their feet.
As the unwrapping commences, it is clear where everyone has lavished their attentions. Cosette has a small mountain of gifts beside her, most of them from Marius’ grandfather. Diamond necklaces, designer dresses, and all number of pretty things appear alongside the new book from Jean and a much-admired calligraphy set from Marius.
Javert sinks lower and lower in his seat as each parcel reveals a new luxury, knowing his own gift to pale in comparison. When Cosette at last picks up the small box, one which fits in the palm of her hand, Javert is half inclined to put a stop to the proceedings and return the thing to the store without her ever laying eyes on it. Before he can say a word, however, the girl is tearing apart the paper eagerly and lifting the lid.
Cosette’s eyes go wide, and Javert steels himself for disappointment to flash across her face, followed by a polite but perfunctory thank you. This is why Javert is caught off guard when Cosette exclaims, “These are so cute!”
“Let’s see, my dear,” says Jean, leaning forward on his cushion.
Cosette turns the little jewelry box around in her hand. Inside are a pair of earrings, sterling silver dragonflies with chips of green shell set in the wings. They shimmer in the firelight, and the way Jean’s fingers tighten around Javert’s is even more precious to him than the man’s sound of admiration.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” says Cosette, leaning across the arm of the sofa to peck him on the cheek. “I haven’t got anything like it.”
Javert is so stunned that he forgets to feel badly. When he has recovered somewhat, he manages to say, “You’re welcome,” as the attention shifts over to Jean.
“Is it my turn now?” Jean looks flustered to have been given any presents at all, and Javert finds himself suddenly determined to give more of them, if only to put the astonished disbelief back on his friend’s face.
The Gillenormands have given Jean gold cufflinks; it is an expensive present, but impersonal, and Javert knows they are unlikely to be worn. From Marius comes a surprisingly intuitive gift, a leather-bound journal full of blank parchment pages. Cosette gives him an assortment of teas, and then Jean reaches for Javert’s present.
Javert has not been so nervous all evening. As Jean extricates his hand from the officer’s, Javert sits up straight. He watches Jean carefully undo the wrappings, unfolding each crease rather than rip into the colored paper. When it all unravels in his lap, revealing the tool caddy within, Jean catches his breath. He slides a trowel from one of the kit’s numerous pockets, looking it over carefully.
“This is wonderful,” Jean says. “How did you know I needed...?”
Javert glances at Cosette, lips quirking with amusement. “I may have had a little help.”
Jean’s eyes as he expresses his thanks shine too brightly; Javert can feel his heart racing, and whatever expression he wears on his face, he is certain it must be ridiculous. The room is looking at him now, and Javert frowns at his feet; there is a large gift bag from Cosette and a small, flat parcel from Jean.
He picks up the gift bag first, pulling out an entire package’s worth of tissue paper. Underneath is a basket stuffed full of hot cocoa mix and marshmallows, and Cosette leans over to pat his hand, saying how she knows he is always cold and could use a hot drink. Javert is more touched than he cares to admit, though it could be that he is already affected by the heady sensation of Jean nestling against his side. The warm weight is impossible to ignore as he leans down for the second parcel.
As he sits back up, feeling out the shape of the wrapped object, Jean’s mouth thins.
“It is nothing special,” he warns. “In fact, I am not even sure you will like it -”
“Nonsense,” Javert scoffs.
With one crisp, clean motion, he peels off the tape and the gold wrapping paper opens. Inside is a picture frame, laying face-down in his lap. Curious, Javert turns it over and immediately goes still.
There is a photo behind the glass, and Javert knows exactly when and where it was taken. It is of the two of them, sitting side by side in a restaurant booth. Not shown are Cosette and Marius, both of whom had joined them for dinner on that occasion. It was Cosette, of course, who snapped the picture on her cellphone.
Javert is not one to take photos of himself. In fact, he is not one to take photos at all. This picture is perfect evidence of why; Javert is laughing, but his smile shows too many teeth. He has been assured by everyone from his coworkers to his mother that the expression is ‘terrifying’ and ‘just one more reason he can’t get a girlfriend’, never mind that Javert has never been inclined that way.
But looking at the photo, none of it matters. What matters is Jean sitting next to him, indelible ink capturing forever the way the man glowed affectionately as he gazed at Javert and Javert alone, despite that the officer was not even paying attention. It is candid, not staged as in so many photographs, and Javert curses the sudden lump in his throat.
He has been too quiet for too long. “It is perfect,” he says hoarsely, continuing to look at his lap. If he were to meet Jean’s eyes now, he does not know what his face would betray. “Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas, Javert.”
It may as well be just the two of them for all that Javert notices the rest of the room. Were he more daring, Javert thinks he might kiss Jean then and there. But he is not, and the others are watching, and anyway Jean has given no indication that he would approve of such a thing. There is a terrible ache in his chest, and Javert wishes suddenly that the party were over and he could go home and sleep until his feelings make sense again. Around him, the hosts start to clear away the paper debris, but Javert is paralyzed on the sofa staring at the picture frame.
To his left, Jean begins to stir. “I was thinking of getting a drink,” he says. “Would you like anything?”
Setting the picture aside at last, Javert rubs his forehead. “I’ll get it,” he says. Food is as good a distraction as any.
He rises, and Jean follows behind. Cosette and Marius stand arm in arm by the fireplace, deep in discussion as lovers are wont to be; Javert’s gaze hovers there for a moment before he moves on.
Entering into the kitchen, Javert casts about for the drinks, but before he can even find them amid all the food, he is stopped by a hand on his arm.
Turning around, Javert discovers Jean tarrying in the doorway, an inquisitive tilt to his head.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and Javert shifts his weight.
“Of course,” he says. He is not, but the purpose of the evening is to pretend.
“Did something go wrong at work?”
Javert frowns, until he remembers his earlier half-baked excuse. “Oh. No. It turned out to be nothing.”
“Good,” Jean replies, though he does not look completely convinced. He tugs Javert a step closer until they both stand in the opening. “I appreciate you being here tonight,” he says. “I thought you should know that.”
The corner of his mouth lifting, Javert replies, “Well, it would be irresponsible to leave you here by yourself.”
“You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty,” Jean laughs, but then he quiets and wraps his fingers around Javert’s. “I’ve had a good time tonight, thanks to you. I just wish I knew how to give you the same.”
Javert swallows. “I’ve never been much of a partygoer,” he responds. “But this has been... enjoyable.”
Jean starts a little at that, and the motion draws Javert’s eye upward. The greenery is there still, hovering mere inches above his head, and whether it is Jean’s speech which makes him bold or the sensation of their fingers still laced together, Javert coughs and nods pointedly at the mistletoe garland.
“We had best go get those drinks,” he says. “If Cosette sees us standing here, she will expect me to kiss you.”
It is a safe observation to make, an advance which is readily sidestepped if it is not welcome.
Jean glances across the room to where Cosette is still curled against Marius’ shoulder by the fire. When he turns back, there is color rising to his cheeks, but his tone is even as he replies, “I think she is quite occupied, actually.”
“Ah,” says Javert. It is all he can think to say; he seems to have misplaced his powers of speech.
Conversationally, Jean asks, “Do you know why it is tradition to decorate with mistletoe at Christmas?”
Javert’s stomach is hovering somewhere in the region of his shoes. “No.”
“It is evergreen,” Jean explains. “Like love.”
“Ah,” Javert says again. Jean’s hands come to a rest on his hips, and all thought in Javert’s head has stopped except for the vague, unhelpful realization that there is music playing somewhere in the house.
Jean leans closer, until their chests are nearly touching. “They say,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “that a kiss shared under mistletoe guarantees fidelity, and a happy marriage.”
“Sounds like someone was drinking too much eggnog,” Javert murmurs, and Jean chuckles. There is no room in Javert left for subtlety; he has never been a man not to say exactly what he means. Gathering his courage, he asks bluntly, “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Jean is hardly fazed by the question. “That depends,” he replies. “Do you want to kiss me?”
“That depends,” Javert shoots back. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather try online dating first?”
For a moment, Jean stares at him. Then he begins to laugh, peals of laughter which end in Jean laying his head against Javert’s shoulder and sighing. The sound has only served to draw the attention of everyone else in the household, but Javert no longer cares that people are watching. Cupping a hand along the line of Jean’s jaw, Javert tips his head up until their eyes meet.
Jean smiles; it is the smile he seems to reserve solely for Javert, the same affectionate, glowing expression he wears in the photograph. Then—and it is impossible to say which of them is the first to move—Jean’s arms tighten around his waist, and the officer’s fingers slide through downy white curls. Javert’s eyelashes flutter closed as lips, warm and pliant and slightly chapped by winter wind, brush tentatively against his own.
Their first kiss is timid and uncoordinated, but Javert would not trade it for anything in the world. They pull apart, still breathing the same air, only for Javert to kiss him a second time. It is difficult to believe that he is awake, or that this is allowed.
When he steps back, Jean is grinning like he has just run a marathon. His hair is ruffled, and Javert raises a thumb to smooth the curls back into place.
“Dinner on Monday?” Jean asks.
Javert raises an eyebrow. “I was thinking sooner.”
“Sooner,” says Jean fervently. “Definitely sooner.”
Javert takes a deep breath. There are not words for the feeling swelling in his breast; he knows in the back of his mind that there will be days this doesn’t work, days when their too-rough edges get in the way, but it is worth it. It is worth it for the look in Jean’s eyes, and for the hope which unfurls in his heart like the first delicate flowers through the snow.
Softly, Javert murmurs, “Merry Christmas, Jean.”
Jean leans his head against Javert’s shoulder, and the thought which remains long after they go to depart is that it is a merry Christmas, after all.