Chapter Text
The letter was folded neatly inside the breast pocket of his greatcoat he’d triple checked its location before he left his apartment that morning. The lapels of his finest suit jacket were pristinely folded and his only silk cravat was tied - as neatly as he could manage - at his throat. He had checked the state of his dress multiple times, though out of no newfound narcissism but rather an odd restlessness. He moved slowly through the icy Parisian streets, so slowly that it had began snowing by the time he arrived at the Gillenormand estate. He was still an hour earlier than the invitation had requested, but of course that was due to the business he had to attend to before dinner.
After two swift knocks to the door he was ushered straight into the drawing room brushing the light dusting of snow from his shoulders as he went. Standing at the window observing the snow with almost a childlike glee was his partner in this endeavour. Marius turned, obviously noticing his heavy stride, greeting him with a wide smile and a quick handshake.
“Inspector! Wellcome back! I trust you’ve brought it?” The boy chirped with enthusiasm, though a nervous shifting of his feet betrayed his anxiety.
“I’d be a rather useless co-conspirator if I hadn’t, did you manage to lend the certificate?” Javert returned waving the letter momentarily before tucking it back into his breast pocket.
“Yes, I’ve got it for the week - all under my grandfathers inquiry, of course, nothing will track back to father.” He pulled a small box wrapped in brown paper out from his own coat shifting it between his hands.
“Good.” Javert grunted trying for the moment to ignore Marius’ obvious distress, he didn’t need further reasons to question their plan especially now it was so close to its conclusion.
They stood in the drawing room in a horrible silence. The only sound was the persistent crackling of the fire and of course the inconsistent shifting of floorboards beneath his young companions unsteady feet.
“Spit it out boy.” The inspector finally snarled. Glaring at Marius with the eyes of a wolf.
“It’s only…” the boy stopped moving the parcel in his hands and held it up as he continued, “Do you think he’ll take it well, there is a lot of bad news here mixed with the good…” he trailed off examining the box again as if he hadn’t realised he was still holding it.
Javert snatched the parcel from his unsteady hands looking down at the thing briefly before announcing perhaps a bit too harshly. “Jean thinks his family is dead and gone already your certificate will not shock him.” Waving the box in the air for effect.
“And the rest?” Marius asked timidly quick to retrieve his parcel to return it once more to his inner pocket.
“The man adores children he’ll at least be overjoyed at the news of the little one.” The inspector answered plainly. Though it was as much a reassurance to Marius as it was to himself in that moment.
“Perhaps we could--” he started, though he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Cosette to the pallor.
“Marius there you are,” she sighed heading towards her husband “I heard the door go and- my!” She stoped her approach to assess the other man in the room.
“Inspector! Your far too early, papa hasn’t even arrived yet!” The girl chastised him.
“We were just discussing our gift to father, my dearest.” Marius chimed in helpfully.
“Oh, our secret present, well I shan’t keep you from it then, papa deserves a perfect Christmas this year!” She sung kissing her husband’s cheek before turning back out the room and down the hall.
They continued to discuss the plan for half an hour before Marius excused himself to prepare for dinner. Javert didn’t have to wait very long and he was joined by Valjean who had been lead into the drawing room out of far heavier snow if the state of his greatcoat was to be believed. A maid helped the man out of the damp garment as javert strode across the room to meet him with a firm handshake. Valjeans shoulders relaxed minutely as he allowed himself to be lead to the seat javert had taken by the fire. Obviously he tried to resist at Javert’s insistence that he take his seat, only silenced by the inspector barking, “Quiet you old fool, I won’t have you bedridden from the flu again.”
The older man sighed as he sat and began warming his hands by the heat of the coals. Javert examined his profile. He looked well rested - more so than the last time he’d seen him, though that was only two days prior - at least the man had listened to his advice about getting a good nights sleep before Christmas dinner: he’d need clear eyes to take in all that javert had planned.
Valjean caught his gaze and javert looked away clearing his throat before remarking. “You’re looking well.”
“Not by choice, you see I seem to have acquired this awfully observant guard dog that causes a great fuss the very moment I feel mildly out of sorts.” The old con chuckled.
Javert felt himself smile - all teeth and gums a horrible sight, no more than a dogs snarl. Turning back Valjean’s face was pulled into a much more charming grin like a white fox- no, more like a--
As they locked eyes again the younger man spoke with a lighter tone “What an incredible coincidence for I find myself, most days, tending to a foolish old wolf who thinks he’s lost his pack.”
The older man quirked an eyebrow, as if examining the shape of this strange game they were playing. “They make quite the pair - your wolf and my dog.” Valjean’s words were drenched in honey sweet and sticky and, javert was certain; very bad for his health.
The man continued the game without thinking “Indeed - they are lucky to have each other” his voice had turned too soft at the end.
The change in atmosphere could be clearly read through the lines on Valjean’s face; his eyes were wide with lips slightly parted moving around the shape of words that were not spoken.
Javert forced himself to speak again before the old man had the chance, he looked away again towards the fire grumbling “Rather - with them both being so much of a pain at times - they are lucky to still be friends.”
“Javert--” was all Valjean managed to get out before Cosette entered the room and took away all of his attention. As javert watched the man with his daughter face aglow with a happiness no other could provide, he grasped at the letter in his pocket. He would see the wolf returned to his pack even if it meant he would have no further use for his grumpy old guard dog.
Dinner passed in a blur of finery and indulgence, Javert was not used to it; feeling like a spare chair at the table - or rather he would have had Valjean not seemed somehow even more uncomfortable with the elegance of his children’s Christmas. Talk was quiet and polite around the table with the odd unsolicited opinion from M.Gillenormand. When they retired to the sitting room they at last began opening presents, javert was nervous how all of his presents may be received but he refused to let it show. Marius seemed touched by his gift: a dip pen with his name engraved in its side - though he brushed it off as simply a way to prevent the boy from borrowing his at every opportunity. Cosette looked like she enjoyed the sweet tin he’d bought her, they were by no means as extravagant as the candy she’d already had at dinner but she apparently had never eaten any of this type before and the tin itself would make a lovely keepsake - or so she seemed to think. Valjean opened the presents from his children not even questioning why Javert had seemingly bought him nothing. M.Gillenormand drank until he nearly fell asleep and so was ushered upstairs by his maid cheering all the way about absolute nonsense.
It was Marius that began the first step of their plan then - when the servants had been dismissed and it was just the four of them sat around the fire, the wolf the dog and the pups. “Father” he began unsteadily “I’m afraid we have one last present for you, but it requires a fair bit of explanation first.”
“Marius, my boy, please you need not trouble yourself so; I’ve already received more than enough of your generosity.”
“It is my gift for you Valjean - I only needed the boys help with the paperwork.”
“Really javert you needn’t have--”
“Troubled myself? I seem to recall you went to a great deal of trouble for me last year when you saved me from the barricades” ‘and saved me yet again from the Seine’ (he meant but had not said) the children didn’t know about that fit of lunacy and he should like to keep it that way; Valjean understood what he didn’t say though.
“And I can’t imagine the trouble you caused yourself to drag me so very many miles through the sewers!” The boy chimed in.
“And all the years of trouble you gained in saving me father, a little girl holding a bucket that was far too big for her.” Cosette joined their pleas, moving to Valjean’s side to hug him.
Javert looked away from the tender scene remarking “You see Valjean, we seem to all be in your debt; me more so than anyone else, so allow me to at least begin paying you back.”
The old man said nothing watery eyed he gave a gentle nod perhaps not yet trusting his voice.
Marius began the explanation of how javert had came to him several months ago trying to locate Valjean’s living relatives. The story was long and convoluted taking a great many twists and turns as they followed every imaginable led. As the boy drew closer to their initial bad news he stopped pulling out the death certificate and handing it to the old man. Marius explained in gentle terms where Valjean’s sister and nephew where buried. The old man did not cry - holding on to Cosette for support he sighed.
“Thank you.” His words were quiet but steady as he looked at the unopened box. The distance in the man’s eyes was familiar It reminded javert of the night he first decided to hunt down Valjean’s lost family. The night after Cosettes wedding the old man had lamented to Javert how he felt he was going to prison all over again (as foolish as it sounded) losing everything he held dear: how he was now, as before, all alone in the world. Javert could not allow him to slip back into the melancholy that had almost claimed his life.
“The story is not over yet Valjean” Javert said - moving to stand in front of the seated man. He pulled the letter out of his pocket in one swift motion.
“Your sister made a fair bit of money in the factory here in Paris, enough to leave a will: all of her worldly possessions where to go to her youngest daughter.”
The man gasped “Joan?” Plucking the letter out of his hands and delicately pulling it open.
“She’s still alive, living in a small town just outside Rouen and she has a son: a little boy of three.” Javert elaborated as Valjean took in the woman’s wobbly script.
“I took the liberty of writing to her informing her in general terms of your situation and as you can see she’s very eager for you to visit.”
The letter stated very simply:
If my uncle has the means then he should come by immediately.
***
Javert had submitted his resignation on the first day of the new year, it felt right, like a fresh start. He had only really held on to the position because of staff shortages after the short lived revolution - well that and it had helped him investigate Valjean’s family’s background more easily. Speaking of Valjean, the man was eager to travel to Rouen as soon as possible, so it was only the second day of the new year that the two departed.
They had been travelling nine hours by coach for the past three days so it was no surprise that Valjean had grown restless and Javert had grown irritable. The last leg of the journey was the slowest, a storm had disrupted the trail they had initially been following by blowing a tree in their path, they had had to back track three miles and now it was looking like they may not be able to reach the town before night fall.
The sun was starting to set on the horizon, the day had not been as easy as the previous two in Valjean’s company, the man had been shifting in unease since the morning. “She won’t be expecting us so soon surely; perhaps it would be best if we rest a day in town instead of seeking her out quite so promptly…” he suggested, turning slightly to glance at javert who was steadfastly staring forward.
“If it pleases you; though I don’t know of any other way a man can interpret the phrase ‘come by immediately’” the others voice began uninterested though as he spoke his tone took on a mocking edge.
“No need to be snippy I was only making a suggestion.” Valjean muttered, turning his head forward to match Javert’s.
“Regardless of how long you might like to put it off you’ll need to face her eventually - you know.” Javert spoke, pushing back at the tide of irritation that threatened to overtake him.
“Who said I was attempting to put it off?” The man’s useless denial was the very last straw.
“You have! A number of times in every inn and on each slightly cloudy morning for this entire blasted trip!” The old dog roared.
The outburst was met only with a tense silence. It was almost impossible to argue with Valjean on any subject short of a life or death situation, the man simply shut down; hands clenched tightly to his knees he looked purposefully out of the window away from Javert. His inaction only further exacerbated the younger man’s ill mood; he’d now graduated to a listless rage. He needed to move to scratch and kick, he needed to tear at skin with his teeth; but more so than anything else in that moment he needed to get out of that far too cramped coach.
Javert spent endless minutes contemplating throwing the door open and escaping into the quickly approaching darkness. He did not get the chance.
“We’re here.” Valjean muttered.
Turning to look past the older man out of the window on his side there was a small church growing bigger by the moment. Valjean himself had his back hunched curled almost protectively with his arms resting across his legs, he looked less like a man and more like a scared child.
Javert sighed “We can wait until tomorrow afternoon to meet them…” Valjean turned to meet his eyes. The green of his iris caught the flickering light outside the window, it seemed to highlight his oddly youthful appearance. He seemed so small, javert felt his anger recede.
“I didn’t mean to be so… brash.” The man whispered. Apologies had never came naturally to him, he’d never sort forgiveness for his actions before Valjean; he was always quite content to accept a punishment for bad behaviour. The saint before him did not dole out punishment however, and so javert learned to punish himself, guilt was a companion he was beginning to know intimately.
“No you were right, I have been dragging my feet.” The older man confessed matching his volume.
“Why Valjean? I thought this would make you happy; to see your family again.” Javert pulled at his whiskers as he spoke and there it was the anxiety at the route of his anger. He couldn’t stand the idea that even now after all he’d tried to change to be kinder and gentler, that at his roots he was a beast born for causing harm, and nothing more.
“It does my friend, believe me it does,” Valjean reassured, taking Javert’s hand away from its nervous little tugs holding it softly between his own warm palms. “ it’s only that Joan was little more than a baby the last time I saw her. I was supposed to protect those children, feed them and keep them safe and I didn’t, I abandoned them; I abandoned her. ” his eyes fell to the floor.
“You have done no such thing. You were taken. You did not leave willingly.” Javert squeezed his calloced palm, though for a second he had the odd urge to bring the worn hand to his lips to kiss it, perhaps it was his mind still associating the man with a child in pain, his mother had often kissed him when he had fallen or was ill, and it had always helped him to feel better as if her lips had drawn all the hurt out of him.
“Does that really matter when the outcome is the same?” Valjean refused to look away from the floor.
The statement was so foolish he almost scoffed, he managed to hold the sound in the back of his throat though so instead of allowing it to escape he spoke. “My father was a criminal, a thief. He abandoned my mother before I was born, not for a jail cell but for another woman. I was separated from my mother too when I was old enough to become a ward of the state, so that she might serve the rest of her time in prison. She wept for our full final night together promising to find me when she was free. Believe me when I say Jean intent makes a world of difference in the mind of the abandoned child.” He’d never told anyone about this before. The words felt strange on his tongue too heavy and too light all at once.
The strange words had finally managed to coax Valjean’s face back into his sight. The man’s eyes were wide but his brows were furrowed.
“Did she?”
“What?”
“Did your mother find you when she was freed?”
“She died in prison.” The words were spoken in a level tone, they always had been.
“I’m sorry…” Valjean squeezed his hand slightly, and Javert remembered they had been holding hands for the last few minutes. He could feel his palms were a bit damp from the sweat and heat.
He pulled out of the other man’s grip though not unkindly, muttering “Don’t be it was a long time ago.”
“I will meet them in the morning, it is a wonderful thing you’ve done for me Javert, I won’t waste this opportunity!”
***
The house was small and run down, overgrown vegetation ran up each wall and into each of the numerous cracks splitting the brick work. The building was more of a small cottage really, on the outskirts of town with only a modest church to accompany it. It was two and a half hours after dawn - the sun was shining in a bright blue sky but there was a dry chill that persisted in the air it was only the second day in January after all.
The old grey door stood before two men: one taller with salt and pepper hair pulled into a queue at the back of his head and fearsome grey bushy sideburns; the other was shorter with curly white hair and a short white beard that framed his face in a gentle manner. The short man was shuffling his feet awkwardly.
“I shouldn’t mind if you would like me to.” Javert offered.
“Would you?” Valjean sighed.
The taller man reached out to place three firm knocks upon the door, his strikes where efficient - placed directly where they need to be to produce the clearest sound. The noise reverberated across the large empty field.
Valjean wouldn’t stop shifting about moving this way and that, seemingly incapable of containing his nervous energy - Javert wanted to hold his hand again, but that was too much of an intimate gesture for this situation. Instead he settled for squeezing the other man’s shoulder briefly in what he hoped would come across like reassurance.
All was silent inside the house until it wasn’t. The door creaked open on it’s warn out hinges revealing the silhouette of a short woman. She wore a faded blue dress with a torn white apron over top - her hair was graying with flecks of white in random patches. Her face was scrunched up drawing out the wrinkles around her eyes and forehead though after a moment of confusion her face settled into a more neutral expression. The worry lines lingered still - clinging to her brows like the woman would have use for them again soon.
“If you’re here to collect something Jean owes you, you are going to be leaving empty handed, I haven’t seen him in months.”
Valjean visibly froze. Javert folded his arms behind his back, glancing away from the house (and his companion) and towards the town, he was here to support Valjean - not do this for him. A minute passed by, then two. The air was beginning to feel uncomfortable now. Javert turned back to check on his friend only to find the spot the man was standing in before vacant. He looked back to the door - the woman was staring at him now.
“So, I assume you’re not here for Jean?”
“No, at least, not for the one you are liking thinking of Madame.”
***
In a small church in a village just outside of Rouen their lived a piano, the town was not rich enough to afford a pipe organ so every mass was accompanied by the slightly out of tune melody of the old girl; trying her best to sing just as beautifully in the early morning as any other church instrument. Her keys were in relatively good condition though a few towards the far right stuck: mostly the F’s for some reason. It was fortunate then that most of the tunes the boy, sat at the instruments alter, could play did not rely too heavily on that key at all.
The boy was about three or four he couldn’t really remember, especially since he did not know which day was his birthday. He was small enough to get lost inside the oversized shirt he wore though the undersized pants that drew too far up his legs when he walked did help illuminate his far too thin constitution. The boy’s head was covered as it always was with an uncomfortable burlap sack with two small holes cut out of the front, the only part of his head that could be seen was the hair hanging down below the hem of the sack - it was pitch black and long though it was not very well maintained sticking up in all sorts of odd angles.
The church was empty now as it was every day right after morning mass though Father Mansart would not allow him to play yet, not the full bodied powerful pieces he craved (their may still be stragglers at the door, he’d caution). So here the boy sat concealed by the hight of his instrument softly playing his scales: or at least that was his intention. He found his fingers tended to have a mind of their own once he moved them along an instrument, like they where connected to something on the other side of the keys, something much larger than the boy, Erik. Erik was pulled by the force, it moved his hands along the piano meticulously skipping each stuck key until the tune reached a painful crescendo, made up of notes that spoke to some small part of the child’s soul he did not fully understand yet.
As he gasped to catch his breath after the impromptu composition had ceased its grip of him and an odd sound caught his attention. It sounded as if someone was being slapped though if they were the boy felt sorry for them for not even in the moments his mother hated him the most had she ever hit him so very hard or so very many times to make such a sound as this. Erik wondered wether he may be imagining it until it ceased, replacing its space in the room was a deep voice that sounded far too real, and far too close.
“Bravo, maestro!”
Erik rushed to hide beneath the piano his instinct urged for him to flee, run in any direction but his only exit was being blocked by the voice of the stranger. The worn wooden planks screamed under the weight of the large man as he moved Around the old instrument. From his space on the floor Erik’s vision was almost completely taken up by two ginormous feet attached to equally hulking legs.
“Maestro?” The voice rumbled above him. It was not harsh like his mothers nor was it quiet and passive as Father Mansarts, it sounded rough, rough but not violent though not entirely gentle. It was an odd contradiction.
The man did not move for long moments. Erik remained more still than he had ever been.
Then in a horribly slow fashion he shambled down on to his knees. Erik kept his face at the floor head tucked protectively between his knees.
“Hello there, little one.” There seemed to be another man living inside the one in front of him, for the voice that called to him now was gentle, with a melodic quality the was reminiscent of a lullaby, it reminded Erik of a time after mass a mother was humming to her fussy child and the sound carried to his hiding spot above the rafters - the boy had felt wicked for stealing comfort from the sound. The tone was strangely familiar, there was some component of it he had heard before, something that had once been directed at him.
“May I hide with you?” The voice spoke again. And the oddness in that sentence alone drew his eyes up in confusion. Looking at him made the statement even more strange it was not just his feet and legs that were big but the whole of his body. The man was bigger then anyone Erik had ever seen, even crouched up beside the piano chair. His face was covered in lines and his curly hair looked soft and white. His eyes were sad. Maybe that is why he found himself nodding.
“Thank you.” The old man sighed shifting so that he too was concealed behind the piano.
“This is a very good hiding place maestro, do you spend a lot of your time here?” The man mused looking around appraisingly for a moment before his eyes settled on the piano.
Erik nodded again glancing quizzically up at the unusually strange stranger. The man spared not a passing glance at Erik’s appearance, by far this was the most unusual thing about him. He always managed to draw far more attention with his odd state of dress than with his music, except when he sang.
“Well it certainly looks like you’ve made the most of it, you play wonderfully, I didn’t expect that one so young could be quite so skilled” He spoke quietly looking past the piano now and up towards the ceiling. “but then, I do not know much of music.”
There was a quiet between them for what felt like a long time.
“I was a tree pruner at around your age you know, though I was not very good at it then, I would cut the wrong branches, leave the dead ones still attached and every night I’d come home completely covered in leaves.” The man smiled, and as he did the creases around his eyes took on the appearance of a cats whiskers, Erik noted as the man glanced down at him.
Erik didn’t really understand what was being said but he nodded all the same, unsure of what else to do. The man seemed satisfied with the response smiling slightly wider as he continued.
“My sister used to say I was born from a wolf, that my father must have found me in the woods one day, for I didn’t have human grace!” He cupped a hand about the side of his mouth as if he was sharing a secret with the boy.
“I would just laugh and say if I was a wolf she was too because there was never any doubt that we were siblings.” He continued now moving his hand to point at his own face and then oddly at Erik’s, “Our eyes were the same - you see.”
The man’s smile looked heavy, his face seemed to be having an awfully hard time lifting at the corners. Eventually all at once it fell, dropping like the world off the shoulders of this atlas.
“I was wrong though, we weren’t wolves, or rather I wasn’t, a wolf does not abandon its pack; a wolf is not taken from home without trying to find his way back.” The stranger turned away again but instead of staring at the ceiling he began resting his head in his hands.
“Goodness what am I saying?” He spoke under his breath.
Erik reached a hand out timidly patting at the side of the man’s shoulder, he’d seen people doing this in the church before, from his hiding spot. Mostly during funerals, they would sit together and pat each other’s backs. Erik had always wished someone would do that for him someday - when he was sad, but then again, maybe he would have to wait for his funeral.
The stranger jumped slightly at the boys touch, almost startling the child away but before he could retreat back too far the old man relaxed his arm once more turning his head slightly to catch Erik’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. “Thank you little one, you’re very kind.”
Erik did not know how to respond so he just shrugged. Nobody had ever said he was kind before.
“Jean.” A new voice called in from the mouth of the church, it was a harsh with a sharp edge that made the signal word in to an order.
Both boy and man, curled behind the piano, became a mirror to each other as they flinched in the exact same manner; certainly a warped mirror, like the one tucked into the attic of the church that would make a mouse the size of a cat.
It was an odd thing, Erik had never found himself looking to an adult for direction or assistance, and he certainly wasn’t looking at the stranger with anything approaching that level of care but he did for a moment lock eyes with the older man. As if perhaps the boy expected him to move.
The man and boy shared eye contact as if they had both turned to stone, though for a gargoyle like Erik the action made sense so why was it that the man’s face was paralysed in more frozen fear than the boy felt.
“Jean Valjean, I’ve been told you are dedicated to your faith but might we stall the morning prayers for a short conversation?” Spoke a familiar voice.
Erik’s stomach dropped with his head, instinctually the gargoyle cracked and shook as he curled into the smallest shape he could manage and pressed himself into the wooden back of the piano. He tried hard to breathe as little as possible letting out small shallow breaths through his mangled lips.
“Please don’t tell mama I’m here.” He whispered under his held breath throwing the sound closer to the man so that the others in the church would not hear him.
Erik then felt something; the ghost of a sensation at the top of his back right beside his shoulder. Something like a hand, like a touch of reassurance. It didn’t last long and then it was gone, Erik looked up but the man was gone too. The boy touched his shoulder and wondered if he’d imagined the sensation, that seemed to be the most likely explanation, but he couldn’t quite put it out of his mind as he shuffled further into the corner of his hiding place.