Chapter Text
It had been nearly six months — half a year — since he had thrown himself into the unforgiving Seine, and Javert still hadn’t moved out of the convict’s house.
It had been wholly disheartening when the first thing he saw, after blinking the river water from his eyes, was Valjean’s concerned face floating above him. His first thought was that Hell did exist, after all, and this man’s visage would be tormenting him for eternity. But a demon, even a demon with Valjean’s face, shouldn’t be leaning over him with those concerned eyes. And if his limited church attendance had taught him anything, it was that Hell was a pit of flame and brimstone, so surely demons wouldn’t be sopping wet.
He groaned now, remembering the confusion and panic that had flooded his body at that moment. Fever followed panic, and doubt followed fever, and he passed months in a stupor in Jean Valjean’s guest bedroom. There had been a brief period of hope and clarity, during which he had collected himself and returned to his own flat and tried to put Valjean out of his mind. But then came the stilted conversation with the Prefet de police, who made it abundantly clear that Javert would be taking a leave of absence until the new year, at which time his employment with the Prefecture would be reevaluated.
Without a paycheck, his minimal savings quickly dwindled, and there was no way to afford housing in Paris. He’d previously thought being fished out of the Seine by a criminal he couldn’t bring himself to arrest must be the nadir of his life, that his pride couldn’t possibly sink any lower, but he was wrong. Without an income or a family or even a single friend, Javert was faced with only two options, equally bleak: returning to the Seine or returning to the convict. He chose the convict.
Today, the first of December, marked a month before his reckoning with Gisquet. He stood at Valjean’s window, nursing a cup of black coffee, and watched the snow. It was comforting, how well the snowflakes mirrored the pattern of his thoughts: Sometimes blown about in ceaseless circles, sometimes coming so fast and thick that everything faded to white.
Just then, Valjean and Cosette entered in swirl of flurries, all grins and rosy cheeks, and his train of thought melted away. That was the way of it, of late: When left alone, his life was simply black coffee and white snow and cold, always so cold, but when the convict and his daughter foisted themselves upon him there was an irrepressible intrusion of color and warmth.
Valjean flashed him a grin that held more kindness than he had any business showing his former jailer, then took off with Cosette in the direction of the dining room.
“Toussaint, Javert, come and see!”
He felt himself drawn to the table almost against his will, as if Cosette’s voice had some kind of magnetic effect. She set down her shopping basket and began to draw out bunches of foliage. The leaves were smooth and oval, like those of an olive tree, and the stems were dotted with clusters of plump white berries. He looked questioningly at Valjean, who was beaming.
“It’s mistletoe,” Valjean explained. He had a strangely mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Yes! There were men selling mistletoe at the market. Oh, I was delighted. Did you know, Inspector, that the English have a tradition of hanging mistletoe at Christmas — and those who meet underneath it must kiss?”
“No, I was not aware of that. It has yet to come up in police work.” Javert paused, coffee halfway to his lips, as a dreadful thought occurred to him. “Cosette, who exactly are you expecting to meet under the mistletoe in this house?”
Toussaint’s mild voice drifted in from the kitchen, where she was busying herself with preparing tea. “Not to worry, Inspector. No doubt she read about it in those romantic books of hers and is planning to invite Monsieur Marius over.”
The pink deepening on Cosette’s cheeks was no longer from the cold. She occupied herself with inspecting the mistletoe sprigs, pretending not to hear.
Javert was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Valjean was staring at him. His hazel eyes were still twinkling, his nose was as red as Père Noël’s, and snowflakes were melting in his mop of white curls. At times like these, it was difficult to remember that the man in front of him was a hardened criminal, a man who had broken parole and escaped the galleys, a man who had robbed a child, for Christ’s sake.
How was it possible that this was the same person? Could he truly be a good man? Could the law really be mistaken in condemning him?
Javert pushed the thoughts out of his mind. They tormented him at least once a day, and it was always the same maddening circular logic that reached no conclusion. The law said this man deserved arrest, so Javert would arrest him. Eventually. It was no use overthinking it.
He forced himself to meet Valjean’s gaze. When he did, the guard dog inside him, the one whose ears had perked up at the prospect of arrest, flopped to the ground with a satisfied sort of whine and fell fast asleep.
“Well, I read something quite different about mistletoe in my own books,” Valjean said. “In many parts of Europe, it’s traditional for enemies who meet under mistletoe to lay down their weapons and declare a truce.”
The guard dog snapped to attention again, sensing a trick, and something between a snort and a growl escaped Javert’s throat. “Stupid superstitions, the lot of them. It’s just an ugly plant.” He eyed the particularly bushy sprig Cosette was currently wrapping in twine. “And you’re inviting bugs in the house by bringing in all this …. nature.” He spat out the word “nature” like it was something unpleasant.
“It is not ugly!” Cosette would have sounded indignant if she wasn’t infectiously cheerful, humming as she eyed up doorways, assessing their romantic potential. “And bugs are God’s creatures too, Javert. Anyhow, Papa’s trivia is inconsequential. This mistletoe is the kissing kind, not the truce kind.”
“Why not both?” Toussaint asked, entering the dining room with a tray of tea. “And do sit down, Inspector. You will give me a heart attack if you keep hovering in the shadows like that.”
“Both?” Cosette asked, chuckling, as Javert reluctantly sank into the chair next to her. “Toussaint, don’t be silly. Kissing enemies! What a thought.”
Javert chanced a look at Valjean, who was now sitting across from him. He’d poured himself a cup of tea and was looking at Javert, again, a maddening smile on his lips.
“Hate and love can be more similar than you think, young lady,” Toussaint said. And then, under the pretense of collecting Javert’s empty coffee cup, she said very quietly, so that just he could hear: “I expect that’s something you have encountered in your police work, Inspector.”
Javert couldn’t fathom what Toussaint was trying to imply, but he could feel himself blushing anyway. Did she know about his past with Valjean? Was she implying that he … that he … loved him? And was Valjean really trying to win a pardon using folklore about a parasitic plant? He couldn’t bear to look at Valjean at the moment, but it would be too conspicuous to excuse himself so soon after having sat down. Instead, he made a prolonged moment of rubbing his temple, his eyes downcast, trying again to still his swirling thoughts.
Across from him, Valjean cleared his throat. “Well, mistletoe wasn’t all we got at the Christmas market.” Out of the corner of his eye, Javert could see the man’s hands rummaging through the shopping basket. They produced an evergreen wreath and positioned it in the center of the table. The pine branches were wrapped with red silk ribbon, and Valjean placed four small red candlesticks in brass holders amid the branches and a single, thicker white candle in the center.
“We’ll light one candle each Sunday before Christmas,” Valjean said, his mellifluous voice sounding proud, “and the central one on Christmas eve.”
“It will be lovely, Papa,” said Cosette, kissing his cheek as she swept out of the room with an armful of greenery, “but don’t forget that we’re having dinner and Midnight Mass with Monsieur Gillenormand!”
Her departure left an unsettling silence at the table. Javert finally looked up. Valjean was, of course, still looking at him with that piercing gaze. But all the mirth had faded from his eyes; now they looked concerned.
“Javert,” he said softly. “Are you ok? Should I be worried? Are you thinking about the …. the riv-”
Javert cut him off with a huff. “The river” was Valjean’s euphemism for suicide, and he was in no mood to deal with the convict tip-toeing around that subject in his hushed, strangely familial tones.
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking about,” he hissed, leaning across the table to bring himself within inches of Valjean’s face; their noses were almost touching. “I’m thinking about how you’re trying to use a stupid peasant’s story and your country charm to make me forget you’re a common thief. But you belong behind bars and I’ll put you there before you get the chance to light a single candle on that damned wreath.”
Valjean flinched as if he’d slapped him. Javert was instantly filled with regret and anger — at Valjean’s incessant kindness, at Toussaint’s puzzling remarks, at Cosette’s relentless joy, but most of all at himself — but didn’t dare take back his vow. He turned his back on the convict and withdrew to his bedroom.
* * *
The knock was barely audible, like a whispered question. Javert sighed.
“Come in.”
Valjean’s entire demeanor had shifted. He seemed smaller, suddenly, and far sadder. “May I sit?” he asked, gesturing at an empty chair next to the bed, where Javert was sitting with his head in his hands.
“I — my god, Valjean, it’s your chair. Why are you asking my permission?” But the man remained standing until he let out a gruff, “Sit.”
“Javert.” Valjean drew a shaky breath. “I suppose I thought … I hoped … that something had changed, between us. But I would have let you arrest me in June, I would have let you arrest me when you left without a word in September and turned up at my door a week later, and if you must arrest me now, I will not fight you. I am at your mercy. Only … it is Christmas, Javert.”
The inspector made no reply.
“And I thought maybe, it being Christmas, we could wait? Just until the new year?”
“God, Valjean,” he snapped. “You don’t get it, do you? You’ve never understood.”
“I suppose not,” the other man said, mournfully. “Perhaps … perhaps you could explain it to me?”
Javert studied him. As usual, his anger softened when he met Valjean’s eyes. The convict in his imagination was the Valjean of the galleys, a Valjean capable of robbing a bishop and a child, ruthless and hulking and dangerous. But the Valjean before him was a kindly old man, the mayor who had refused to dismiss him in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the revolutionary who had freed him, the angel who had pulled him from the raging Seine.
“Of course something has changed between us.” He meant for his voice to be gentle, but it came out rougher than he intended. Nevertheless, Valjean seemed pleasantly surprised; the man reached out a shaking hand and set it on Javert’s knee. It took all his effort, but he managed not to jerk away from the touch. “I’ve grown to … look, don’t go telling anyone this, but I’ve grown to … to like you. Your company is … not unpleasant. But, you see, that doesn’t matter. My feelings are of no relevance.”
It was plain from the look on Valjean’s face that he did not see.
“If you like me, and you know my crimes were long ago, and that I pose no danger to society, and that everyone else believes Jean Valjean is a dead man, why would you still wish to arrest me?”
Javert made a frustrated noise. “I don’t wish to arrest you, Jean.” He realized, too late, that he’d call the man by his first name, a display of familiarity he loathed himself for. “My god. Why do you think I wanted to die?”
“I was never exactly clear on that, actually—” Valjean broke off at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and then Cosette poked her head around the doorframe.
“My goodness, such serious faces! Well, I’m not sorry to say that you must put aside whatever is troubling you and come to dinner this instant.” Then she was off, a blur of puffy pink fabric headed for the kitchen.
Javert stood, straightened his clothes, and offered a hand to Valjean. He paused at the doorway.
“I did not wish to arrest you. That’s why. I was turning in my resignation to the Almighty.” Valjean opened his mouth, but Javert ensured his silence with a glare. “And that’s all I wish to say about the subject.”