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It was the year of 1841, and the city of M. Sur Mer was ripe with commotion. All throughout the streets, vendors hollared advertisements for their last slice of jerky, well-dressed ladies laughed from behind cafe windows, and dogs barked at the wheels of the carriages, horses trotting across the sandy road.
Just then, on the rue de Plumet, a car stopped suddenly when a shadowed figure raced across the street, hefting a large bag under their arm. The driver barely had time to yell a complaint before another man came speeding by in hot pursuit. Wearing a black vest and the signature police star, there was no doubt: this was the sherif, Javert, chasing another victim. Unsheathing his pistol, Javert ran in the direction of the bandit, who had taken a sharp left down an alley. The thief was fast, but the infamous police chief who had risen the ranks of the crime-fighting arena sooner than any other man before him was yet faster. As the thief ran further into the alley, he suddenly came to a dead end. Looking behind him, he saw a shadow rise on the wall, illuminated by the full moon above. The shadow got bigger and bigger until it was the same height as the wall, and the sherif stepped forth, pulling the trigger on his gun.
“You’ve got one chance to convince me I shouldn’t blow your nose in right now.”
The sherif’s voice was cold and convincing; it lacked any effort, as if he had been doing this his whole life and had lost all the joy he once found in it. The bandit shivered; even he had to admit Javert was scary. Especially now that his team didn’t have their leader to protect them from him. He looked up, paused, then looked back down to the sherif, grinning stupidly.
“Nah.”
The thief threw his satchel up. Miraculously, it was caught by a pair of hands. Javert’s eyes widened; he knew. Now that he looked closely, he could see them: three or four shadows along the rails and staircases of the walls, shrouded by the darkness of night. Valjean’s old team. The bandit jumped for the nearest ladder, frantically climbing up those fifteen feet. There was a dark hand offered to him; he took it. Then, to make sure Javert couldn’t follow him (as he currently seemed very intent on doing judging by the fact that he was now ten feet up the ladder), the thief kicked at the rails of the old metal cage a half-dozen times until the thing broke loose and came crashing to the ground, sending Javert with it. The bandit scrambled to hoist himself up onto the balcony and disappeared into the night. Javert, the wind knocked out of him, lay on the cold, damp alley bricks that made up the floor.
Groaning, he hoisted himself up by his hands, pulling his wet face off the ground. He reached over and picked up his hat from where it had fallen a few feet away, and secured it back onto his head. He stood and looked up at the small holes in the wall where the ladder was bolted minutes ago.
“They can’t keep getting away like this…” Javert muttered to himself, gazing at the rooftops where the bandits had run off from. “They’re not hardly competent enough for that.”
Javert sighed. He hadn’t been on his top game recently. Well, not recently, exactly. He hadn’t felt the same in years. Not since…
“Get it together, Javert.” He affirmed to himself, shaking his head of memories he didn’t want to go back to just now. He turned to leave the alley, though walked slowly, not content in having to tell his team about his latest failure in stopping the crime-doers of the city. As the paced back towards the lights of the streetlamps ahead, he stopped. There, on the wall beside him, was a wanted poster for the Patron-Minette: the very team he had just finished very heroically letting escape. As if the world was spiting him. He frowned, eyeing the poster. The bounty cash was serious, but nothing compared to what Javert used to have to face. He supposed he should be happy their leader was gone: it made the job easier for him. And yet… something in him couldn’t shake the idea that there was more to it than an easy win (and besides, the Patron-Minnete had proved to be quite capable even without a leader).
Javert was about to turn to go for real, when he noticed something strange about the poster. Behind the wanted flier, the corner of another piece of paper stuck out, as if it was trying to hide behind the new poster. He ripped the outer layer off the wall, and came face to face with…
Him. The man Javert had been trying to avoid the thought of all night. The former leader of the biggest criminal gang in Paris: Jean Valjean.
Javert stared at the figure on the wanted poster for a long time, frozen still. Inside, he was in turmoil. He thought, if he didn’t let himself think about Valjean, he would be okay, but it was clear now that was not a possibility. Valjean had gone missing eight years ago and yet, he still haunted the sherif everywhere he went.
Jean Valjean, to most, was an idea; a phantom. A scary story you would tell your children to get them to stay away from strangers. But to Javert, Valjean was neither a ghost nor a symbol. He was flesh and bone; a viscous rival that he went head-to-head against. From the moment he had been christened as the sherif of M. sur Mer, he made Valjean his life’s work: capturing the uncaptureable became his reason for waking up in the morning. Mostly because no one else had seemed to be able to do it. Valjean was just too good. He always hit where you’d least expect, he always had the perfect plan that you’d wish you’d thought of, and he always made it out unscathed and uncaught, even when every other member of his gang faced jail time.
Javert had to admit; he was impressed. It was exhilarating and awful trying to track him down; to predict where he’d strike next; to contemplate what went on inside his brain that made him so good at being bad. The first time he met Valjean face-to-face, he didn’t know what he was expecting. With someone of his reputation, you could be faced with an array of things. Having the hardened bandit genuinely laugh in his face was not something he had expected, however. From that moment on, he knew Valjean was special. That person who he had watched scale a ten story building like it was nothing before commenting on the lack of color in Javert’s outfit (though it was hard to keep up with mister rainbow flannels, he had to admit) became an idea in his head: an idea very different from the one held by the populous. An angel, a devil, whatever you want to call it, he worshipped that idea. Bringing Jean to Justice was not only his mission as an officer, it was his mission from God. Each time they faced off was utterly ethereal: with someone of his caliber, Javert was pushed to his limit to keep up. Following Valjean was an art, and he reveled in his sense of artistry. Jean Valjean and Javert danced around each other; Javert got the sense he was not alone in his feelings, and Valjean always escaped by a hair. Javert would never admit whether or not he intentionally slipped up at the last second so that Jean could get away once or twice.
With Valjean, there was a sense of purpose; of passion: a sense that the person standing in front of you cared just as much about justice as you did, and would not hesitate to fight you for it.
But it had been eight years since anyone had seen him. And since then, the rest of the Patron-Minette had been trouble in his place. But they were hardly a replacement for Jean Valjean: they had no light, no vigor. They stole baselessly, they had no sense of musicality. Javert didn’t feel challenged by them, he didn’t feel enthralled; he just felt annoyed. Fighting these guys was like going through the motions without any sense of direction. Part of him knew he should be glad Valjean was gone: crime was down, after all. But the other part knew what he really felt: it was never about the end goal with Valjean, never about the capture. He had felt this way since he met Valjean, and had felt empty since Valjean left. He knew he did, he just wouldn’t admit it until now.
Staring at the portrait of Jean Valjean brought up memories Javert had yet to feel compelled to touch with a ten foot pole. Memories from eight years ago: the last time he ever saw Valjean.
The year was 1833, and on the streets of M. Sur Mer, danger was awry. Everyone was awaiting the next attack of the scourge of the land: Jean Valjean and his Patron-Minette. The gang was notorious for raiding pubs, taking over city streets, and looting shipyards profusely. No one knew where they were going to strike next, but the young and firey sherif Javert was determined to find out. After months of searching, he found a building which he suspected to be the gang’s meeting place: an old, run-down theatre. Knowing they would just run if he tried to attack, he sent a spy their to pose as a member of the gang and gather information. He was awaiting the spy’s arrival now.
Javert stood from his desk and looked out the window of his office to the city streets below. One of these very buildings, somewhere in his city, he knew, Valjean was planning to attack. This one, he knew he could stop.
Suddenly, the office door flew open and a young deputy stormed in: the spy Javert had sent.
“Sir, we know where they’re going to attack.”
Javert could ignore the disrespectful barging in this time, simply because he was so eager to know what the deputy had found.
“Where?”
“They’re going to the church.”
Meanwhile, Jean Valjean felt on top of the world. He was at the top of his game; he had successfully led his team through the bulk of Paris, stealing a fortune and evading capture. Their last stop was just up ahead: the Montreuil Abbey Catholic Church. They knew that inside that building lay the M. sur Mer church alms collection: a sum of over 2,000 francs just waiting for them to come in and snatch it up. Valjean’s team left at sundown, and snuck through the city under the cover of night, taking care to avoid streetlamps and keep to the rooftops. They made it to the location without a hitch, and Valjean couldn’t help but smile as the familiar cross became visible from among the crests of the roofs. He was buzzing with anticipation, eagerly awaiting his next adventure. The rush he felt whenever he found himself someplace he knew he wasn’t supposed to be; the possibility of capture always nipping at his heels and pushing him forward: this was what he lived for. Sure, he could make a living legally, but what was the fun in that? It was exhilarating being chased down, hunted as the scoundrel he was; he adored the infamy, drank it up like sweet wine. And the new sherif of M. sur Mer made things so much more interesting. Committing crimes knowing there was always someone in hot pursuit, someone who would stop at nothing and would move the world to make sure you were brought to bay: it made the crimes worth it.
“So, what’s the plan?”
Valjean’s right hand man, Babet, spoke up as the gang overlooked the church.
“The plan,” Valjean’s started, voice as smooth and unperturbed as ever, “is that we go in through the back and take out anyone who’s still in there. Then we split up.”
“And whoever finds the goods, keeps it!” Gueulemer, the burly powerhouse of the team who was not always all there, twisted his hands in a wringing motion at the idea of walking away with such a sum of money to himself.
“And whoever finds the goods…” Valjean started offhandedly, “shares it with the team.”
This was not exactly true. See, unbeknownst to his team, Valjean had visited this church as a child and knew its layout, including—most importantly—the location of the alms collection. He, in fact, was planning on making off with it himself. No one ever said crookery was fair.
“So, how do we get in without setting off alarms?” Montparnasse, who had a knack for overthinking things and getting everyone caught, chimed in.
“We elect someone to go in through the back and make sure the coast is clear. If it is, they’ll light a candle and leave in on the window as a signal for us to join.” Valjean explained.
“But who will go in first?”
Unable to resist a chance to mess with the rookie of the team, Valjean grinned balefully. “As the leader, I elect… you.”
Montparnasse’s face turned a garish shade of cherry-blossom pink. “Why do I always have to do the dirty work?”
Valjean laughed. “You’ve got this; I believe in you.”
Babet sneered. “I don’t.”
Montparnasse rolled his eyes, sighed, and crept toward the building, wondering why he even joined this gang in the first place if no one ever took him seriously. Slowly, he made his way up to the back door of the church. He tried the knob and, to his surprise, the door opened into a black cavernous room. Strange, he thought, that the door would be unlocked like this. Almost like someone…
Montparnasse looked up just in time to see a cudgel collide with the side of his head. The world went dark.
Outside, the rest of the team waited patiently for the signal. After about twenty minutes, one of the windows lit up with the flicker of a lamplight. From those fifty yards away, behind the cover of the nearest alley, Valjean grinned: it was showtime.
The gang raced to the back door of the church: Babet in lead, followed by Gueulemer and Claquesous, and finally Jean Valjean in the rear. Babet barged through the door and into the church’s back room, and froze. Beside him lie Montparnasse’s unconscious body, blood from his head pooling on the floor. That was much less concerning, however, than the swarm of police officers standing around the room, holding him at gunpoint.
Before he could react, Gueulemer entered the room with him, then Claquespus, and finally Valjean, all of whom were met with the same warm greeting from the half-dozen soldiers standing guard.
“In the name of the law, put your hands in the air!”
Valjean scanned the room, looking for someone. Strange, he’s not here…
Realizing he had more pressing issues at the moment, he made a split-second call to direct his teammates.
“Scatter!” Everyone dove in different directions, just barely evading the fire of gunshots that rained down on the spot they had just been. The gang split up, each member taking on an officer (except Gueulemer, who, with strength of three men, easily took out a full half the officers) as the room turned into a pell-mell of punches, kicks, and other various blows to the cerebral area.
Valjean, being pursued by an officer, kicked the man in the guts before stealing his battering stick and slamming the tip straight into his forehead. The man crumpled onto the floor below him. Looking around, Valjean realized he could use the present chaos to his advantage. He stayed to the wall of the room, quickly slipping away through a door and deeper into the church before anyone noticed him. Scanning the corridor he had just entered as well has he could (the lamp-light didn’t reach that far, especially with the door closed), he regained his bearings and realized where he was. From this room, the stash of money was just up ahead. Jean Valjean smiled.
Running through the corridor, Vajlean had the sense he was heading towards fate. Everything had gone even better than expected for him; who cares if his team was caught? They’d be out in a few months time anyway.
The corridor opened up, and Valjean was struck by the light of the cathedral, blinded for a second. He couldn’t help but freeze and take in the room he hadn’t seen in years. The chapel was grand: rows and rows of mahogany benches led up to the alter, adorned by a tapestry of Christ. Sconces bathed the room in a mystical yellow glow. But perhaps the most striking image of all was the windows: massive stained glass portraits lined the walls, decorating images from the Bible in entrancing reds, yellows, greens, blues, and every color Valjean didn’t know the name of. As he stared, the colors of the glass danced around him, swirling into a massive conflagration in front of his eyes. Churches always had this way with him: he stepped into one, and he suddenly couldn’t tell the difference between the Earthly and the Godly; he was hit in the gut by a wave of holy light, and it hurt. He remembered why he stopped coming here.
The door from which Valjean entered put him out in the middle of the room. He looked to his right—the direction of the altar. There, he knew, was his prize. He was finally here; no one to stop him.
Valjean walked slowly towards the altar, passing through the middle of the pews. His eyes were fixed on the tapestry. He stepped up, passing the podium. He crawled over the guardrails separating the tapestry from the rest of the space and put his hand on the fabric with calculated precision, ready to uncover the secrets behind it.
Valjean heard the loading of a gun from behind him. His blood ran cold.
“Jean Valjean. Just the man I had been hoping to see.”
Jean turned around slowly. There, behind the row of pews at the main cathedral door, the cold, stern eyes of the sherif bored into him. He held a gun, barrel pointed at Valjean’s heart.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t disappoint, mister sherif, sir.”
The sherif’s cold stare remained unchanged. He lifted his gun higher.
“Step away from the altar.”
Valjean smiled. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”
Javert’s glare hardened. Well, at least Jean was getting a reaction out of him. “You don’t think? Try some shit and we’ll find out.”
Valjean’s smile didn’t falter. They stared at each other, silent, for a long moment. You could have heard a bee’s wings flap. Suddenly, Jean swerved towards the tapestry and ripped it off the wall. Javert ran. Behind the wall was a door; Valjean fumbled with the knob. Javert was ten yards away when Jean finally pushed through the door and bolted through the hallway behind it. But Javert was fast, and ruthless. He caught up to Valjean and pulled him by the arm, sending him tumbling down onto the floor. He flew back through the length he had just run and landed in the doorway. Javert chased after him, firing at him through the enclosed area. Jean quickly got to his feet and dove past the gunshots, back into the chapel.
“Hey!” Valjean snapped. “That’s not fair!”
Javert, at the doorway, gave him a joyless smile.
“Life ain’t fair, bitch.”
Valjean, wether through passion or stupidity, grinned—honestly grinned. This is what he lived for; this chase, this cat-and-mouse. He bounded towards the sherif, claws out.
Dodging a gunshot, he went to punch Javert in the face. He dodged to the side, but Jean only used that as an opportunity to knee opponent in the gut before he could recover. With the cold clang of metal on stone, Javert’s gun flew from his hands, landing ten feet away. He glared at Valjean, then, a split second later, sent a punch straight to his nose. Jean toppled to the floor, holding his nose. His hand, now covered in blood from having touched his nose, shot out and grabbed Javert’s foot. The sherif had but a second to react before he was pulled onto the floor with Valjean. They tumbled around the floor as they traded an array of punches, now Javert on top, now Valjean. Heat exuded from their two forms as they struggled against each other; they were a hurricane of passion and fury. In the heat of the moment, neither man felt anything but the most primal need to dominate against the other. This wasn’t normal hatred, no, it was so much more than that. It was obsession. It was fervor. It was letting another person take up so much of your thoughts that when the time came, nothing needed to be said. They both knew. And as they clashed on the floor of the cathedral, the light of the stained glass windows from above washed them in the colors of desire.
But Valjean knew the moment couldn’t last; he had a job to do. So he scanned around for an opening, and found it in the pews. Quickly and without hesitation, he took the sherif’s head and slammed it straight into the nearest corner of the bench. Javert gasped, his head spinning as he lay on the floor. Valjean stood, his expression uncharacteristically frigid.
“Sorry, mister sherif, but I can’t let you catch me yet.”
The sherif pulled himself up against the pew with effort, beginning to see stars. Struggling, he spoke.
“My name… is Javert.” He pulled himself up to stand. “Don’t you forget it.”
Valjean just stood there, unmoving. Javert, in a last ditch effort, lunged at him. He caught Javert by the arms, watching him struggle in his grasp. Even on a good day, Valjean knew he was stronger than Javert. He had no chance now. With a sigh, Valjean did what he knew he had to do to protect himself.
“I won’t.”
Javert’s eyes widened as Valjean raised his arm, striking his foe in the heart. He heard the crack of his enemy’s ribs. He heard him fall onto the floor. Valjean did not look down. He did not pause. He merely turned back to the alter and mechanically walked up the steps, in through the door and the hallway, and into the safe room.
“I see you made your choice.”
Valjean looked up, surprised at the presence of another person in the room. He faltered. It was the bishop, sitting casually at a table.
“Monseigneur Bienvenu.”
“Hello, Jean.”
He didn’t want to fight the bishop; as far as he knew from the short time he came to the church, the man did nothing to deserve violence. And yet, if it was what he had to do…
“I wish not to fight, Jean, I simply want to talk.”
Valjean looked away, unable to hold his gaze on a man so holy without feeling as if he himself had failed.
“Just… give me the money.” He managed.
“It is yours.”
Valjean froze, unable to respond. He looked back at the priest, who only motioned towards a chest on the table that had gone unnoticed until now.
“I only ask that you hear me out.”
Bienvenu, taking Valjean’s inability to speak as an affirmation, continued.
“I know you can do good, I see it in you. You think it is not there, you will tell me, ‘shut up, old man.’ But I see it. You did not leave the sherif alive for nothing.”
“He’s as good as dead,” Valjean interjected, if only to contradict the bishop somehow.
“And yet, you wish you had it in you to bring him to safety.”
Valjean stared at the man in front of him. He said nothing, for what could he say? He didn’t want to hurt Javert; he didn’t want to hurt anyone, but what choice did he have? It sort of came along with the territory. He wanted danger, he wanted infamy; he could deal with the consequences of his actions. Besides, Javert would be fine. He had nothing to worry about.
Content in having convinced himself he was doing no wrong, Valjean regained his composure.
“You can’t tell me anything that will make me change who I am. But thanks for trying.”
With that, Valjean took the chest, promptly turned to the door, and left. He didn’t look back to see the priest’s disappointed frown. He made an art out of not looking back.
Valjean made it back to the chapel, alms money in hand. Screw them, he thought. Screw them all. He was fully inclined to leave the chapel, leave the church, leave Paris if he had to. His gang could fend for themselves. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, after all. It wasn’t his fault that the figures on the stained glass windows seemed to be staring straight into his soul, as if they knew what he’d done. What he did was bad, of course it was bad, and he knew it—but he had to do it. Valjean wasn’t in the right comfort to be able to act selflessly. And as long as no one was getting hurt, he didn’t feel bad about taking a few pennies from the business tycoons who surely wouldn’t miss them.
Jean Valjean was about to walk out, when something that can only be hypothesized to be the light of God overcame him. It compelled him to do the one thing he had been avoiding since he entered the room; since he started his life of crime—maybe since he had been born. He looked back.
Javert lay cold on the ground. A layer of blood pooled under him. The window above him flooded his body with a sickening red glow. He’s not going to make it if I don’t do something.
Suddenly, Jean realized what it meant to live the life he had lived: to be a criminal doing what he can to run from the law. He was struck with horror over the life he had chosen, as if he had just been pretending that the last ten years of his life were somehow fake, and had just come into the fact that they were very much real. His whole life played out in front of him, and it was all too real. He realized he didn’t want to be selfish anymore; he didn’t want to take and take and break whatever he had to to get what he wanted. He used to draw the line at hurting people, but recently that line had come full circle, and that circle’s jaws had opened wide to swallow him whole. He couldn’t run anymore; not this time. He wouldn’t run from Javert again. This man, whose name he had just learned but whose shadow followed him wherever he went: he deserved better. Their game had been fun while it lasted, but Jean realized he it needed to end now. He couldn’t keep hurting Javert—couldn’t keep leading him on like this, taunting him (a professional) with his baseless shit. It wasn’t fair. As much as he didn’t want to, he needed to let Javert go.
Standing there on the cold chapel floor, gazing at the bloodied figure of the man he respected so much, Valjean felt terrified. He was used to his spontaneity getting the best of him, but now he was about to do something he had never imagined he would be able to do, and he wasn’t mad. The bishop was right: he did wish he had the power in him to rescue Javert. And right now, bathed in the holy light of the rainbow specters all around him, he realized he did. The world spun around him; it seemed to grow tenfold in that moment, beckoning him towards Javert. His breathing intensified as the figures in the windows jumped out of their frames and danced around him with sighs of grief, and joy, and some other emotion Jean didn’t have the power to name; some spectral entity which came down from the clouds of Heaven above to kiss him on the head and bless him with feelings so overwhelming it was degrading, and mystifying, and torturous, and beautiful all at the same time. He heard the voice of God, and it was the priest’s voice, and Javert’s, and it told him be anxious for nothing, my son, and Jean sat there on that cold stone floor in that bright ephemeral room next to Javert and he cried. Jean Valjean, for the first time since he was a child, let himself cry. He finally let himself cry, and he let himself feel. Hours seemed to pass as he felt the floor below him slowly carry away his body heat, and he shivered.
Finally; finally, Jean stood. He looked at Javert: his adversary, his friend, the most important thing in his life at the moment (which wasn’t bad at all, considering Jean had done more living in this one moment than he had his entire life up to now). With a renewed sense of honor and tranquility that comes only from those moments when God overtakes your soul and fills you with wonder and light, Jean was finally without doubt. He knew what he needed to do. And he did it so purposefully that he didn’t notice the priest, smiling at him from behind the altar.
Javert sighed as he sat at his desk. He was perpetually bored of doing paperwork; it was the one thing he hated about becoming the sherif. It had been about a month since he had lost the Patron-Minette, and work was slow at the station, so Javert was taking some time to sort through the piles of cases that had amassed as paperwork always seems to (no, It wasn’t Javert’s fault for putting it off, mind you). He skimmed through a case about a mysterious benefactor who went around doing good deeds for people. He knew of this already; in a small town like Montreuil, it was hard for gossip like this not to make its way around. Apparently, the guy had been going around fixing up people’s houses, donating to institutions, and sending various sums of money to the needy. In particular, he had sent a considerable amount to the local orphanage, directing it to one little girl, Cosette. Ah, well, it didn’t seem like it was that much of an issue if this man wanted to be a philanthropist. That was fine with Javert.
He put the paper down and looked out his window. The street was as usual, but that didn’t make Javert feel any more fine, or normal. He hadn’t felt normal since Valjean disappeared. The last time he saw the man was when they fought at the cathedral. Valjean had kicked his ass, obviously, and Javert thought he was done for. But then, somehow, he woke up in the hospital. No one saw who brought him in, but it had to have been someone. Javert often wondered about why the person wouldn’t have declared himself. He would by lying if he said it didn’t eat him up at night the fact that he would never know who saved his life that day. He asked everyone who worked at the church, including the bishop, who was there that day, but no one knew. Stranger still was that the alms money was still in place; he thought for sure Valjean would have taken it. Sometimes, late at night when his inhibitions washed away and he floated through the murky waters of his mind, Javert wondered if it was Jean Valjean who had saved him. The thought made him flutter for a moment, but he would always push it down. He had no way of knowing what happened that day.
Suddenly, Javert’s door was broken in again, and the voice of the deputy rang out.
“Sir! There’s been a break-in at the congressional building!”
Javert thought that it would be nice if he got a lock on his door. He stood.
“What do they need?”
“You need to come quick; it’s the Patron-Minette.”
Javert frowned resolutely. At least there’d be some action in his day.
When Javert arrived at the scene of the crime, just outside the capitol building, his officers were already there, standing guard. He went to an officer near the door.
“Where are they?” Javert asked, not bothering to specify who ‘they’ were. The officer understood.
“They’ve been detained; we were keeping them in a back room until you got here. We’re having some, uh…” the officer faltered, “troubles.”
“What kind of troubles?”
The officer didn’t answer immediately. “You should get in there and check it out.”
Javert frowned, confused. He entered the building not knowing what to expect. What he definitely did not expect to see was the very object of his so frequent contemplations, out in broad daylight as if he hadn’t been gone eight years. None other than Jean Valjean stood across from a group of officers as they blocked a doorway, getting into a fight with them.
“… I’m serious! I’m not trying to break them out!” Valjean pleaded with the officers, evading their arms as they tried to detain him.
“That’s likely.” The officer in front of the door smirked.
“Please, just give me a few minutes with them; I’m trying to help you out, goddamit!”
“Everyone leave.” Javert’s voice echoed through the room, and at that moment, everyone stopped in their tracks as it struck them who now had the power in this room. Valjean turned around, realizing who the voice belonged to, and smiled joyfully when he saw the sherif’s familiar face.
“Javert! Finally, someone who understands what I’m trying to do here!”
Javert did not smile. He did not move. He kept his eyes locked on Valjean’s as he restated his command: “Everyone out. I’m serious.”
Begrudgingly, the other officers left. It was just Javert and Valjean in the room. Jean faltered, worrying he’s read the situation wrong, and that he’d been reading the situation wrong for eight years.
“Javert?”
Javert was completely still. For Jean, that moment lasted forever.
“… EIGHT YEARS!” Javert finally cracked. He let Hell loose on Valjean, who could do nothing but look away, guilt written on his face.
“You disappear for eight years—gone! Out of existence! And then you just show up like it’s nothing—! You have no right—“
“I’m sorry! I know, I fucked up! Okay, I did a lot of shitty things.”
“You think?”
“But if you just let my talk to my old crew, I could talk them out of it; I know I could! You have to trust me on this.”
Javert thought for a moment. “Not before you tell me where in the Hell you’ve been.”
Valjean smiled bashfully. “Well, remember… that day at the church?”
How could Javert forget? It’s been playing in his mind over and over like a broken record for eight years.
Javert nods.
“Well… I had something of a… spiritual revelation. And, since then, I’ve been trying to give back. Use my powers for good.”
Javert blinked. “You’re the one who’s been sending random donations around town, aren’t you?”
Valjean laughed. “Guilty. I just figured, I’d had enough fun, done enough trickery. You know, happens to everyone.”
Javert thought that everyone most certainly did not have spiritual turnarounds from wanted criminals to philanthropists. He frowned. “I should arrest you right now.”
Valjean’s smile turned stale. He looked around, seeming to try to formulate a response. He finally gave up, sighing. “Okay.”
“… what?”
“You’re right. You should. I’ve done terrible things, I know. If you’re going to arrest me… I will go with you. All I ask, is that you let me talk to them first.”
Javert was perplexed. Valjean was… handing himself in? He couldn’t understand why someone would want to do that. Perhaps Valjean really had changed in these eight years, had come to terms with himself. Perhaps he had stopped trying to run away, like he ran away from Javert the moment he got to the hospital because he couldn’t fathom the thought of being punished for his actions. Perhaps… he had grown. Javert realized that he, too, had grown in these eight years. No longer was the the jovial up-and-coming sherif who was trying to prove himself to the city. He had had time to come to terms with his feelings; most importantly, his feelings about Valjean. Eight years ago, Javert would have arrested Valjean without a second thought. It was his ultimate goal, and he knew it was going to have to happen one of these days. Back then, they were enemies. Now, though, Javert had had time to think. He realized, he wouldn’t truly be happy with Valjean behind bars (especially now that he’s stopped committing crimes). He realized that what truly made him excited to chase Valjean back then was not the chase, it was Valjean. He knew it went against his mission statement not to arrest a criminal; he knew it was unthinkable in his profession—it had been unthinkable to him. But standing here, face to face with Jean Valjean after eight years of what can only be described as pining, Javert felt like he was finally ready to admit the truth: he didn’t love chasing Valjean because he loved the chase, he loved chasing Valjean because he loved Valjean. So yes, he was just barely willing to shirk his duty this time.
Content in his decision, there was only one thing left unsolved for Javert. “Tell me… was it you who saved me that day?”
Valjean was taken aback, not expecting that question as a follow-up to his declaration of submission. But he couldn’t lie, not to Javert; and so, hesitantly, he nodded. He saw Javert’s chest fall: a sigh. The sherif looked down in thought, then, finally, back up at Jean, his eyes filled with resolve and… something else. Javert nodded.
“I see. Thank you for telling me.” Javert looked back at the door Valjean had been fighting to enter twenty minutes ago, then back to his face. “Do what you must.” And Javert nodded, and turned to leave.
He had almost made it to the door when Javert felt a tug on his hand. He looked back, and there was Valjean, hand clasped in his. He gazed at Javert, his eyes asking a silent question. Javert glanced at their interlocked hands before looking up at Jean. When their eyes met, it was all Jean needed to understand what Javert meant: I’m letting you go. Valjean’s hand fell from Javert’s, and he smiled. It was just a small, warm smile, but to Javert, that smile meant the world.
“I’m sending in my men in in twenty minutes sharp to collect the contents of that room. I pray you are not part of it at that time.”
Jean Valjean smiled, looking back towards his mission in the capitol’s back room. Javert turned to leave, but before he could get in two steps, Valjean’s voice called to him.
“Hey.”
Javert stopped. He looked back at the man he had been chasing fifteen years; the man he was about to let go free.
“Thank you.”
Javert nodded. It was just a simple nod, but to Jean Valjean, that nod meant the world.