Chapter Text
The large Fauchelevent house on the coast of La Manche may have been intimidating to some, but to Cosette it was home.
The Mayor, as he was collectively known, was practically a saint in the eyes of the French people. Far removed, yet so close they could touch. A tall, foreboding figure that one might’ve recoiled from had they not heard the tales, whispered among the back alleys of Paris. Monsieur Madeleine, the benevolent mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, the living saint, the people of Paris called him. Monsieur Leblanc, some people called him. Ultime Fauchelevent was what they called him at the convent.
The Mayor was glorified in the heart of Paris, a kind soul who helped in any way he could. He was nameless, timeless, boundless. But at the Fauchelevent house on the coast of La Manche , he was Jean Valjean, an old, tired man who had retired from the public eye so that he might get some peace.
Every year, Cosette made the journey to that house so that she, too, might get some semblance of peace. Every year, Cosette left the bustling streets of Paris, where she was the benevolent Madame Pontmercy (she’d never cared for titles, and neither did Marius), and returned home. Home, where she was just Cosette, just Papa’s little girl.
Marius stayed in Paris most of the time with the little ones, bless him, because usually it was just her and Papa, a chance for them to relax for a little bit. But this year he would be coming with them, and a friend of his would be taking over a bit of the work (who was it? Courfeyrac? The names blended together sometimes).
“I didn’t have to come, you could’ve taken the children along with you and I could’ve stayed home,” he said, climbing into the carriage with her.
“Yes, but I think Papa needs more company than me, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
“He hates me.” Marius said this quietly, firmly, with the conviction of a man who had never been sure of anything but was sure of one thing.
Cosette shook her head. “He does not. He’s just not used to having people around. I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”
Marius only smiled and kissed her hand, no response.
The journey to the Fauchelevent house was long and bumpy, and their children became restless. To pass the time, Marius insisted they play a game where he called out various things that they had to spot.
“My aunt used to play it with me whenever I had to travel,” he explained later. “And when I went on a road trip with Courf and the others, they also took to it. So it’s become a bit of a travel thing.”
To his credit, the game was not the worst thing. Marius got creative, and their kids kept looking with a keen eye. Felix was able to spot the owl that the others could not (and Cosette had better eyesight than Marius, anyways), Julie could clearly state the name of the tree Marius was looking at (“Must’ve gotten that from her Uncle Combeferre,” Marius quipped), and the others were slowly catching the little things their father pointed out.
But then it was time for them to disembark, and to walk towards the big, foreboding house that Marius swore it was haunted. Had Cosette not been here several times, walked through the halls so many times she lost count, she would have agreed. The house was big, stony, and was probably built decades ago, yet still stood. It was a lone house, on a cliff overlooking La Manche , and if she had seen it on a gray, rainy day, alone on the cliff, she would have turned and ran in the other direction. (If she were sensible, but according to Toussaint, she was not, and instead had a penchant for doing the not-sensible thing.)
But even if she were sensible, she would’ve walked to the door, for this was home. And so instead of running, she walked up to the door and knocked five times.
The door opened to Toussaint, who instantly greeted Cosette warmly. “Come in!” she said, and they did. “And-And Monsieur Pontmercy, what a surprise! And these, these must be your kids.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Where is Papa?”
“He’s, he’s um, he’s in the study, but I’m sure he’ll be out to greet you in a minute.”
“Thank you.”
~*~
Valjean had slowly grown accustomed to the presence of another person in his house. When Cosette left, he had adjusted better than he thought he would have, but then Javert appeared, and he had to adjust all over again.
He did not mean to invite Javert to his house, but he could not bear to witness what might’ve happened on that bridge that fateful night. For as much as he disliked Javert, despised, even, he did not, could not, wish for his death.
It led to many difficult conversations, with Javert, with God, with himself. Why did he save Javert that night? Even he could not answer that. And yet he still wanted answers.
Those answers would have to remain a mystery for another day, however. Today he would enjoy the company of his beloved daughter.
“Is someone at the door?” Javert asked from where he was in the large garden next to the house.
“Only my daughter.”
Javert said nothing, only grunted in response.
Valjean made his way to the sitting room, where Cosette was already waiting for him. “Cosette.”
“Papa!” She ran over to hug him, deeply and tightly. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been better,” he admitted. There were days where he could not bear to move. Could not bring himself to the garden, could not tend to his flowers, his crops, his paradise he had cultivated. And then there were days where it was better, when he could move, when he could bear the pain. When he could muster the energy to speak to the other two residents of the house.
He had never been more grateful for Toussaint, and oddly, Javert. Oh, Toussaint was lovely, she did a portion of the chores and was a nice companion for the days where the pain was unbearable. But Javert . . . Javert had also been a constant during those troubling days. He helped with the garden. He did not speak much, but Valjean could fall into an easy silence all the same. He liked it that way, for he was not one for words or small talk, and he suspected Javert was much the same.
Valjean almost thought back to the day where Javert had tended to him (for what reason, he did not know; he never thought of Javert as a nurturing type and he wasn’t sure where he stood with him), but Cosette brought him back to the present.
“Are you okay? You seemed lost in thought for a minute.”
He thought for a moment. Should he? But there was no point telling her if he himself did not know. So he only said, “I am fine, my lark.”
He also shook hands with Marius Pontmercy, who seemed to be quite nervous, but calmed down after Valjean gave him a quick smile. After many years, he could not bring himself to dislike him with such vitriol the way he had used to. He was far too old to have a grudge against poor Pontmercy, and Cosette was happy, and that was all that mattered. And he suspected, from what Cosette had let slip, that Pontmercy was all too much in need of reassurance. It amused him to no end how much he disliked the man, yet when he laid eyes upon the boy, he couldn’t have imagined how he hated him so. He was a man of six and thirty years, yet looked only one and twenty. He spoke not softly, but with an air of uncertainty, and winced at the suddenest of noises. Yet he was affectionate, smiling hesitantly at Valjean, but with the brightest and most sincere of smiles at Cosette, at his children. He bounced them on his knee, spoke gently with them, and gave Cosette his unwavering attention.
Valjean noticed all this when Pontmercy thought he wasn’t there.
He wondered what must have happened to make a man as nervous as this, but that too, would have to be answered another day. Perhaps he would never know. Perhaps it wasn’t even for him to know.
Still, Valjean wished to build up an acquaintance, if not a friendship with him. After all, he only had so long to live, however much his beloved lark did not want it to be so.
“Don’t speak of such things,” she whispered. “You still have a long life ahead of you.”
Alas, such a thing seemed impossible, as Valjean could feel his seventy years (and more) weighing on him by the day, but he did not want to trouble Cosette with these morbid thoughts. These days would be spent relaxing and enjoying themselves.
He noticed Javert standing at the door, as if wanting to both be there and not at the same time. He tipped his head as if to say, “Come in.” Javert did not. He left it at that.
Later, Javert would tell him that he did not wish to intrude, and Valjean would simply state that he would not be intruding. He could never intrude, not in this house. Not where he lived.
“But it is your family,” Javert said. “Not mine.” And Valjean did not know what to say, for that was a simple fact. Cosette was his daughter, not Javert’s. Yet, there were words Valjean wanted to say to dispute this, but he could neither form them nor say them.
Javert was, in a sense, family to him, but how would he say that? Javert was a constant. A companion, in the most unconventional sense. And he still struggled to comprehend why he even bothered with Javert. According to their history, they would have been far away from each other, praying their paths would never cross. But exactly the opposite happened, all because Valjean could not bear to see his nemesis (or so he supposed) die.
It hurt his head to ponder. It was simple, he did not believe people should die, even for something as big as what Javert did to him, though he supposed Javert did not wrong him much. Yet why did he take Javert in? He could see the former inspector was troubled, but they could have gone their separate ways once Javert recovered. Valjean tried to argue that Javert would need more time, so they couldn’t part, not yet. But then why was Javert at his very personal home? Besides the fact that it was private, away from prying eyes.
Valjean decided to not linger on it, for that would only take up too much time. Sometimes Javert told him he thought too much.
“Thinking can be a burden,” he said, in the few times they had spoken, and Valjean had to begrudgingly agree. Sometimes his thoughts were a burden, and he longed to be rid of it, though he did not wish to burden another.
Alas, he would have to stop thinking for now. Charlotte, the youngest, was now asking him to play with her, and who was he to deny a child the right to play with their grandfather?
“Shall I race you to the gardens?” he asked her.
He let her win, and her smile banished those troubling thoughts for a moment of time.
~*~
“Papa, Papa, Papa!” Julie cried, tugging at Marius’ sleeve. “You promised me you’d tell me about the night sky tonight!”
“Yes, yes,” he replied, turning towards her, “but it’s not nighttime yet.” The sun was slowly sinking beneath the sea, shining its golden rays across the water. He sighed. The sunset was pretty, but was a source of . . . well, he couldn’t quite place his fingers on the feeling, but he always watched it with a sort of regret. There was always so much to do, and Marius always wished he had a bit more time to finish up things.
He had planned to finish a translation over this vacation of sorts, but it was bothering him because he didn't want to do it, and it was honestly rather difficult because German was difficult. And while he loved German and wouldn't have wanted to stop learning it, it was rather frustrating, because there were too many cases to keep track of, and he swore he wrote them down, really, but now they were nowhere to be found, so now all he had to rely on was his thick dictionary that he hated carrying around. It didn't have any annotations or notes; those were on separate sheets of paper, and it bothered him because now he had to parse through lengthy amounts of text without his own words to guide him and he wished he didn't have to do this, but it was necessary.
“You should take a break,” Cosette had whispered when she found him holed up in one of the many rooms in the Fauchelevent house. And he protested, but she insisted, and he could never say no to that face. Many would have called it a weakness, but he loved his wife so, and she always had words of wisdom to say.
(It always made him giggle when he said “my wife” or anything of the sort. Not because he was childish, or anything, oh no, he just thought it was so amazing that Cosette was his wife. That she chose to be with him for as long as they lived. It made him giddy. He fell in love with her more and more each day. Christ, he loved her.)
He took her advice, and followed her downstairs to take a break, which he might not have taken if it wasn't from her, Courfeyrac, or Combeferre (but only because they would drag him away from his desk, and anyways, Combeferre was one to talk). He followed her down the hallways that were dotted with several paintings, spaced apart oddly, and he swore their eyes were following them.
“Well, I don’t think they’re moving, but we can have the paintings covered if you’d like,” Cosette said when he told her of his suspicions. “It’s not like they’re important ancestors, I think they belonged to the previous owner anyways.” Marius thought that it was quite odd of them not to bring these paintings along; he knew Grandfather would throw a fit if Marius even suggested leaving a painting of the Duchess de la Fontaine behind (who was a great great great great-aunt or something, honestly, Marius could never keep track of the family tree), even if it was old and peeling.
He tried to contain his fears, because surely the house wasn’t haunted. The whole idea was simply ridiculous--ghosts didn’t exist! (Though Combeferre would have almost certainly disputed this, because he believed in nothing and everything at the same time, and would have wanted to make sure for certain, and he thought about how much fun Combeferre would have with ghosts. Actually, that was a terrifying thought.) Yet he thanked Cosette anyway, because that would do wonders to alleviate his fears.
Marius didn’t know what it was about the house that seemed haunted. It seemed to be a mix of little things: the paintings, the wind blowing through the open windows that he really wished would be closed, because the seaside wind made him cold and he didn’t want to have to wear his coat inside, it was weird. But the wind blowing made a sound that made him swear he could hear something, and he knew it was a trick of the mind, but it was unnerving nonetheless. And then there was the aura of the house, that he couldn’t exactly place a finger on, but it scared him. Too open, too big, too dark? Maybe that was it, the depressing nature of it all, but that didn’t mean it was haunted.
Marius decided to follow Cosette downstairs and not think about it.
“Papa, Papa, I won!” Charlotte cried as she ran into Marius’ arms. He picked her up (Christ, she was getting big . When did that happen?) and spun her around, the way she liked, which was held at an arm's length as she laughed and clapped and cheered while Marius spun her around and around until he got dizzy and had to sit down. Cosette sometimes gave a little toss which she especially liked, but he didn’t like doing it because he was scared he’d drop her, and he nearly had a heart attack each time Cosette did the toss, and the only people he trusted to do the toss were Cosette and Courfeyrac, and even then--
He wished he could spin the other children around, but alas, they were too big or on the verge of being too big. It both pained him and delighted him to see his children growing up. To think that just yesterday he was holding Julie in his arms, laughing softly as her tiny fingers latched onto his.
“She’s got your smile,” he’d told Cosette. And Cosette had laughed, thus proving his point.
“But she’s got your eyes.” And he didn’t know if that was true or not, because he’d never bothered to look in a mirror long enough for that. Courfeyrac told him he had magnificent eyes, ones that could bewitch anyone he came across, man or woman, but he had yet to see proof of this. He didn’t really like his eyes. Grandfather kept telling him they were a bit dull, and he looked dead inside, and he was right, they were a bit dull, not like the brilliant blue his mother had. Marius didn’t even inherit her eyes. He looked like his father through and through.
Cosette told him his eyes were bright enough. Courfeyrac told him he didn’t need to look like his mother. Bahorel reportedly told his grandfather to, quote, “go fuck himself,” which he appreciated, really, no matter how red he got when Grantaire told him the news. And really, it did help, truly. Now everyday he woke up and was able to look in the mirror longer than a second. Now he could stand his curls and his green Pontmercy eyes and his awkward long limbs.
Now he could look at himself without hating every aspect.
“Marius?” Cosette was looking at him. He’d been in his thoughts again.
“Uh, yeah,” he responded, feeling dumb. He probably looked like a fool, fixating on a spot beyond the trees, saying nothing, only blinking once in a while as his thoughts darted around.
And then the rest of the evening passed by in a blur, where he played keep-away with his children (that he was still marveling at how fast they grew, surely Felix wasn’t that tall?) and promised Julie he’d tell her about the planets and Galileo later, and glanced over at the shadowy figure that stood at the edge of the garden every once in a while.
Sometimes he’d be uncomfortably aware of Monsieur Fauchelevent watching him, like an eagle. Except he wasn’t like an eagle, not really. Eagles weren’t very muscular, he didn’t think. He didn’t know much about eagles. Birds weren’t his thing; in fact, they scared him. There was something about them he didn’t trust . . .
He wasn’t sure what to make of Cosette’s father, but he was sure of one thing: Monsieur Fauchelevent did not approve of him. That had been clear from the moment they had been introduced to each other. He only hoped to gain the approval of Cosette’s father eventually, even if it was but an impossible dream. After all, he thought Monsieur Fauchelevent would be a nice man to know, should he ever gain his approval. He didn’t want Cosette’s father to hate him.
Cosette kept insisting that he didn’t hate him, but Marius wanted to hear it from Monsieur Fauchelevent himself, and he was still sure that he hated him. There was just something, he couldn’t place his finger on what, was it the way he stared, or the stormy look in his eyes, or. He didn’t know. He wanted to know; it would’ve been better to know. Or not. There were times where he desperately wished he hadn’t heard pieces of information, like when he overheard Grandfather and Aunt talking and--
Marius hissed inwardly as he remembered. He didn’t want to. It was ingrained in his mind, but he didn’t want it to be. He loved Aunt dearly, but Grandfather always made him feel a certain way, and he couldn’t place his finger on it. He loved him, yes, why would he not? But sometimes he would feel a bit, what was the word? Heavier? Certain comments, certain expressions, certain tones. He didn’t understand sometimes, why Grandfather was disappointed, why Grandfather was angry, why Grandfather did these things. It was a thing of his, he supposed. Grandfather was just naturally displeased sometimes.
Monsieur Fauchelevent was nothing like Grandfather, he supposed. No, there was really nothing alike, in terms of disposition. He didn’t think he would start yelling at him like Grandfather would, or threaten him with the cane (not like Monsieur Fauchelevent was in any position to discipline him), or start making comments about how he should be more like his mother.
Then why did he feel the same wariness around him?
It was only natural to feel wary around him. He was big, he was tough, he knew he could be dangerous if he wanted to be. So surely Marius was right to be wary. But it also seemed irrational. He wanted an answer. He needed an answer. He didn’t want to be wary. He was tired of being wary around Cosette’s father. Surely they could be cordial!
Marius decided to leave it until tomorrow, when he could ponder upon it longer. He always did his best pondering in the early mornings anyways, when there was nothing of the day to distract him.
Besides, the sun was about to set, and he did remember he’d promised to give Julie a lesson about the stars.
~*~
Javert did not expect to happen upon Marius Pontmercy at this time of the night, with his daughter, but he supposed being awake at night was not an unusual occurrence. In fact, he himself woke in the night to study the night sky.
He was not a man of science; he did not devote his thoughts to the study of the stars. No, he merely used the time to reflect a bit, though he did not wish to ponder too much. It was quite painful, thinking. It could dredge up things that were best left covered. Thinking was dangerous, sometimes.
However, there had been a touch more thinking ever since that night. He did not know why, but he suspected it had to do with the appearance of Valjean. Once, when he was being held captive on those barricades, Valjean was able to make him think a little. To ponder the existence of something other than black, or white.
Javert did not like that he thought for a bit after Valjean freed him. He did not like thinking.
Yet, he was slowly warming up to the idea, and so made his way to the nearby hills where the stars were brightest and the clearest. The stars did bring comfort to him. A beacon of light in what could only be described as a dark childhood. They were what kept him going, knowing that he could catch a glimpse of their glory every night, when he was living in that miserable pit.
He climbed the hill, only to discover Pontmercy with his daughter at the summit, saying something he could not hear clearly. Javert did not wish to disturb them, for this was what seemed to be an intimate moment. However, his wish did not come true, as Pontmercy happened to hear him coming up the hill.
“Oh, I-I didn’t expect to see you here, um, what brings you here?” he stammered, turning around.
Javert deliberated for a minute on whether he should answer. Answering would require him to actually speak with another person, at nighttime no less, but not answering would be considerably rude.
He decided to answer. “I come up here often to collect my thoughts.”
Pontmercy nodded, apparently not deciding to pursue this further. Good. While Javert was warming up to the idea of thinking, he was not in the habit of exposing those thoughts to others. Certainly not those who he did not know well, and Pontmercy was in such a category.
The stars were numerous tonight, as they always were, but Javert thought he could spot a few more than he did yesterday. Here, on the hill by the sea, he could see them more easily. They shone through easier, rather than in the bustling streets of Paris where the buildings blocked them out. Here, it was calmer. Calmer, slower, away from others.
Javert much preferred the Fauchelevent house to Paris, unsurprisingly. He was not a fan of the house; it was too large, too spacious for his liking. He preferred smaller, cozier houses. Yet he supposed this one was fine to live in, for the scenery more than made up for it. And the stars. Yes, the stars were much more brilliant here.
“They’re quite amazing, aren’t they?” Pontmercy’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Hmm? Oh, I suppose.”
“I remember R telling me something. Something about how they’re really far away, so the light we see could be millions of years old. Really makes you think, doesn’t it?”
Javert did not reply for a moment. The stars had always been special to him; they were his reassurance when he had to fight for scraps on the streets. When he had to work his way up, fighting to prove that he wasn’t a criminal bastard from the streets. They had never abandoned him, when his own mother had. They never would. Strange and distant, yet so near to his heart.
Once, the stars did abandon him, but he did not like to dwell on that. No, if he did, he might spiral back down--
He did not know what to make of the information Pontmercy had given him. The stars, old as time, shining eternally. Their light, millions of years old. How was he even to make sense of that? No one could fathom such a timespan. No one could fathom such a distance. It made him feel distant, as if these stars were distant beings that he would only ever observe from the ground he stood on. Yet . . . Yet there was still a sense of closeness that lingered, despite this new information. The stars were a constant; they would always be there for him. Shining for millions of years, shining for millions more. At least he had their constant light to reassure him.
(He would not think about the time they were not there. When he could see nothing but the harsh night sky. He would not think about it. He would not--)
“Monsieur?” Pontmercy seemed to be staring at him with concern. “Are you alright. You’ve, um.”
It was at this point that Javert noticed he’d been crying. Resisting the urge to growl at this momentary display of vulnerability, he merely nodded and headed back down to the house. Infuriatingly, Pontmercy and his daughter followed him. He resisted the urge to snap at him.
At the house, Pontmercy opened the door before turning to Javert, which only annoyed him more. Did the man not see that he wished to be left alone? However, Pontmercy only had this to say, “I have to get Julie to bed, but should you be up for it, I am available to talk. If you want to, of course. I’m-I’m not gonna force you or--”
He held a hand up to cut off before Pontmercy could ramble any more. “Thank you.” That will not be necessary , he wanted to add, but he supposed it would be nice to have someone to talk to that was not Valjean. Therefore, he only nodded, and entered the house.
Tonight, he would have to sleep, for his fatigue was catching up with him. Tomorrow would be the time for more thinking.