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Chapter Text

He stared at the strawberries.

The tiny fruits stared back.

They were ripe—blood red and sweet and expensive—and Javert wondered how anyone could ever afford those things. He rarely bought berries even on a good day: God knows he barely bought fruits at all, for there were better things he could have spent his money on. But there was a tiny voice—something insistent and annoying that sounded like Valjean’s. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge in certain fineries sometimes, said the voice, even though Valjean was the worst person when it came to food, and he had certainly never said something like that. He wondered what Valjean would say about the berries when he bought them home, whether he would reprimand Javert for spending money on something that he could grow in his gardens.

He supposed he wouldn’t. Valjean rarely spoke to him unless he was addressed these days.

Javert counted the coins in his purse. The owner of the stall was glancing at him warily, and maybe he should have taken his uniform off before walking to the stores. He stared at the paint peeling off the wood supporting the stalls and wondered if he should repaint the walls in Valjean’s house.

“You need to get some fruits or leave,” snapped the owner, then almost as an afterthought he added reluctantly, “Monsieur.”

He paid for the strawberries. The fruits shone under the bright light from the sun. They almost looked glossy—something artificial and fake and disgustingly sweet—and Javert knew close to nothing about strawberries, but he was almost certain Valjean’s strawberries didn’t look like that. But his plants thrived under his care, and Javert had never seen another who had a talent like his; so perhaps it was not a fault of the stall owner’s, but a particular attribute of Valjean’s. It almost felt strange to think of Valjean that way—without disgust or indifference, rather as someone that he cared for. Or attempted to care for, at least.  

He walked straight ahead with the bag of strawberries in his arm, his head held high; he walked like a man with a purpose; or a dog with a rabbit in his mouth, waiting to show his master the hunt he had caught during the day. The sun was shining bright above his head, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face; his hair plastered onto his forehead. His hair had gotten longer. He should get a trim sometimes.

He wouldn’t. He still remembered the way Valjean touched his hair with soft fingers and wistful smiles. “I used to have longer hair too,” said the man. And that was new. That was something that he did not know about the man. Valjean was no longer looking at him, but at his hair; his fingers tugging at Javert’s hair lightly. And that cemented his decision to never cut his hair again.

He took another turn. Then another onto the main streets and took the steps dutifully. He didn’t pause to knock on the door anymore—he was probably more accustomed to the area than Valjean was at this point. The door creaked open with an ear-screeching sound, and Javert made a mental note to fix the issue as soon as possible. He placed the strawberries onto the table, then turned to look at the man on the couch.

“Valjean,” he said plainly. And he watched as the man trembled—a full body shudder—as if he had just witnessed something equally majestic and terrifying. “Have you been sitting here for the entire day?” He continued, and Valjean’s eyes glazed over; it was evident that the man was disinterested in continuing with the topic on hand. “Valjean,” he repeated, firmer this time, and this seemed to have done the trick; for Valjean’s eyes snapped up to him this time. “Did you eat anything?”

The answer was sitting on the table: the bread and soup untouched. The baguette would have been rock hard by now.

“…What time is it?”’

“It is now seven.” Javert told him. “I get off work at half past six; it would take me twenty minutes to walk here.”

“That would make it ten to seven then.”

“I am glad your mind is still working as well as before.” He paused to take in the state of Valjean—and what a sight he was, Javert thought. He wondered if the man’s daughter would even recognise him in this state: with his sunken eyes and fragile body, and the way his body trembled if he even tried as much as to get out of bed these days. The loss of his daughter devasted him, and he wondered if the girl knew how important she was to her father. He wondered if she would feel a hint of guilt, something akin to remorse if she laid her eyes on her father now; if she would gasp out loud before flinging her arms around her father. She didn’t abandon him—that Javert knew at least—she had left out of her own accord: children grow to become adults, and adults ought to start their new lives. Javert did the same with his mother, and he would be a hypocrite to chastise the girl for doing the same thing that he did when he was younger.

Perhaps it was unfair to blame the girl—for it wasn’t her fault Valjean chose to self-destruct in her absence—but she should have anticipated the consequences of her leaving the place. There did not exist a house which could survive without a master, and she had left the house without ensuring the smooth transition to another. It only made sense that there would be someone who suffered the consequences of her inaction.

Javert thought about his own mother like this sometimes: a thought that almost felt fleeting, yet it lingered longer than he would like when it appeared. He was too young to consider the consequences of his departure then, and he wondered if his mother ended up in a state like Valjean’s; then promptly decided it was probably not the case. Valjean shared a much stronger bond with his girl than Javert did with his mother.

“Ha!” Valjean let out a bitter laugh, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I suppose you should have arrested me then and there.”

“Not even Toulon would accept you in this state.”

“Of course you would know about it.”

“You will not be deemed in a state stable enough to stand trial. They do not want to find a dead body in the cells.”

“As if they have never seen one there!”

“It matters when you are on the verge of death. I doubt anyone seeing you in this state would find you capable of living until the day of the trial.”

Perhaps he made a terrible excuse of a caretaker. Javert tried to imagine what the girl would say to her father now, if she was here instead of him; with her worried eyes and soft voice that sounded like a lark’s. He didn’t belong to their household; she did. He was still an outsider, someone that never quite belonged to this house.

Valjean’s eyes slid shut. His lips were dry—the dry skin peeling off his lips—and Javert wondered if he even took a sip of water from the glass beside him at all. He listened to the man’s harsh, laboured breaths; as though the exchange had taken far more than he had at the moment. Just months ago he could drag the boy out of the sewers and return to pull Javert out of the waters; now he was nothing but a hollow sack of skin and bones.

“You need to eat,” Javert finally said. Valjean’s eyes remained shut. He wondered if the breaths would grow weaker and shallower, until his chest stopped heaving and his breaths came to a complete stop. “You are killing yourself.”

Valjean flinched at the bite of his words. Perhaps the truth stung more than his harsh words. He had tried yelling at the man, then snapping at him; until impatience won and he forced the scraps down the man’s throat. Valjean choked on the food and he gagged—he spluttered and there were tears running down his face—but those were the first scraps that he had taken in in days.

He brushed the curls out of Valjean’s forehead after that. Something tender and wholly out of place in their relationship—something that almost felt like affection and care. Something that Valjean did for him months ago. Then Valjean stared up at his face helplessly, with the same look that he had when Javert returned home today—as though he was looking at the face of a monster that he created.

“I do not want to die. I am not—I do not seek to—”

“Your body says otherwise.” He tapped a finger beside the man’s lips. “I bought strawberries.”

“I—”

Javert tutted impatiently. “Open up.”

He watched as Valjean opened his mouth obediently. There was a stray curl hanging on Valjean’s forehead, and Javert brushed the curl away with his hand as he tilted his chin backwards. He pushed the strawberry into the man’s mouth and watched as the man bite down on it in reflex, the red juice dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He could have forced a few more fruits into Valjean’s mouth, just to observe the way the man would choke on them; but he didn’t want to inflict pain onto Valjean now—not now, not anymore—and so he waited until Valjean swallowed the fruit in his mouth. He pushed in another strawberry. Then another. And watched unblinkingly with equal parts of fascination and mesmerisation as the man took in the fruits.

“I do not think I can take in any more of the fruits,” said Valjean. Javert glanced at the box of strawberries: there was still half a box of strawberries left.

“Just one more,” he insisted. He expected Valjean to put on a fight—to yell at him and throw him out of the house for his orders—but nothing happened. It was as though every last bit of strength had left the man’s body, and all there was left was the empty shell of the man that was once called Valjean. It almost felt mechanic: a routine checkup with another prisoner back when he was in Toulon. He pushed his thumb in between Valjean’s teeth to push his mouth wider open. He used to do that to the prisoners—and perhaps he had done the same to Valjean, once upon a time, for no other reason than to make sure they had not hidden something that they should not. To ensure they were alive. They were better off alive than dead—and the prisoners knew that too—they were chained to another one of theirs, after all. Then to the bed at nights. There was the ever-persistent pain of the chains dragging them down, and he could still see traces of the bagne on Valjean. His ever-present limp was one of those.

Valjean clearly arrived to the same conclusion as he did. “Am I your prisoner then?” He asked, but he wasn’t expecting an answer—because the man leaned in and took the strawberry from between Javert’s fingers with his teeth. “I suppose this is a step up from where I am supposed to be in,” Valjean continued, and it was supposed to be a jibe; something aimed to hurt. But it mattered little—Javert had said worse; had done worse—and that was the first thing he had eaten today. Javert watched as the man finished the fruit before he took one from the box.

The strawberries were sickeningly sweet. He had no idea how the man managed to finish half the box of berries—they were like sugar in the form of a fruit—and abruptly Javert remembered the same fruits that Valjean procured from his gardens just over half a year ago, with bright smiles and light eyes and his cheeks flushed red. It almost felt like a lifetime ago when he last saw the man like that, and he barely remembered the taste of the strawberries now. He didn’t like them—there are better fruits out there, he told Valjean. You can buy apples enough for a day for the price of those berries. And Valjean smiled—one of the few rare smiles that he directed to Javert—

“Well,” he said, “I guess I am fortunate, for I grow my own fruits in my garden.”

He did not have a garden now. Not at Rue de l’Homme Armé, and Javert wondered if Valjean would have been in a better state if he was kept in the Rue Plumet house. Yet he couldn’t risk bringing the man out in the open, not when he was in a fragile state such as this—and he found Valjean at Rue de l’Homme Armé, so he supposed Valjean had his reasons for choosing this location for his self-imposed exile. His temporary exile, at least. Javert unpacked his bags when Valjean was asleep in his bed the other night. He was almost certain that the man would be out of reach if he was given a chance—as if Javert would leave him alone after seeing the state he was in—and he wondered if he should have called for the girl.

“I can get you more strawberries tomorrow.” Javert told him. “You seem to like them well enough.”

The man didn’t respond to his words. Javert did not expect an answer anyway—between them he had somehow become the one that spoke more now—until the reply came softly, almost inaudible.

“Cosette used to love strawberries,” mumbled Valjean. His gaze was hollow, as if he was seeing another soul through Javert. He reached out—to touch someone, and he shivered when his fingers hit Javert’s arm instead. “You need not spend the additional money on…there's money in…”

Javert frowned. Valjean tried to lift himself out of the couch until he fell back onto it again. He sat on the edge of the couch with his hands in his palms, and Javert held onto him to steady his body. He pressed down on the man’s wrist, and he knew Valjean was nothing but skin and bones now; yet it still shocked him to feel it directly under his finger. He could barely feel a pulse—and he opened his mouth to say something—anything—but Valjean managed to stand up on his own this time. “I think I should go to bed,” he said, and his body was swaying unsteadily as he walked towards his bedroom. His movements were jagged and sluggish; a stark contrast from what the man used to be before. There was the sound of something collapsing into bed, and Javert knew he would not see Valjean move from the spot until he drag him out of bed the next day.

Perhaps he should write a letter to Valjean’s daughter to inform her of her father’s conditions. The issue was that she had moved out of the house, and Javert knew from experience that there were rarely people who would want to take up the position that they had relinquished. She had moved on to another family now, and as much as Javert doubted her choices he was in no position to offer his judgements. Your father is dying, and he requires the mistress of the house, the letter would read. Or if you are unable to return, please send another in your place. The girl would probably take a glance at the letter and huff incredulously. God knows M. Chabouillet would if he dared disturb the man in his retirement, not that Javert ever would; he knew where he stood after everything that had happened, and even before then he would not have dared to risk his patron’s wrath for something so trivial.

He should probably get another box of strawberries. After all they seemed to be of Valjean’s liking.

Chapter Text

Javert observed the girl. He couldn’t help it; she was her father’s main concern—and there had to be something about her. He dug through the documents in the stationhouse, and perhaps his obsession with Valjean had finally worked in the man’s favour for once: he scanned through the notes that he had made of her all those years, then of her husband’s; and he grimaced at the thought of the Pontmercy boy. He still remembered him—the stuttering, spluttering fool that couldn’t even do his one job well—he would have been the boy that Valjean had saved from the barricades then.

He wondered if Pontmercy knew of Valjean’s heroics. Then he decided it wouldn’t have mattered, for Valjean had made his thoughts on the matter perfectly clear. “They have their own lives now,” he said, as if that explained everything, “Love is the garden of the young.” He almost sounded resigned, yet there was a sad smile on his face, as if he was reminiscing something—and Javert did not know enough of young love to comment on that. He did not know enough of any kind of love to even comment on Valjean’s bond with Cosette, though he supposed it might have hurt, to be severed of the bond that had bounded two people together.

For the first time in his life Javert felt inadequate for something. And was it not an odd feeling—to realise that one was in fact helpless in face of something crucial, or to realise that the skills that one had taken pride of for years did not come into handy at a time of need. He circled around the house like a dog chasing its tail, and Valjean looked at him with an almost amused expression. “Why,” he asked, almost curious, “have you felt affection for another before, to feel your heart lighten at the sight of them, to bask in the comfort of their presence?”

Affection! He glowered at Valjean, yet the man seemed undeterred by the ferocity of his expression. “There were quite a lot of ladies eyeing you at Montreuil,” he continued. “I did not lie when I said that you are an admirable man, and I am certain people do notice that.”

It explained everything and nothing. Javert bit down on his sandwich, and perhaps he should have noticed then that Valjean was not eating at all. Though at the time he was stuck in the turmoil of his thoughts, and for once he was unaware of anything beside him, and they sat in silence—something that could almost be considered companiable silence if they were anything like friends—until the sun disappeared behind the horizons.

Valjean had not taken a bite from his sandwich, he noticed much later than he would have liked. Valjean had left for bed by then, and he thought about waking the man up, to ask if he had eaten anything at all; but he decided against it. He wasn't going to challenge Valjean’s decisions—they weren’t close enough for him to comment on his terrible eating habits—and it wasn’t his duty to do so. Valjean was more than capable of making his own decisions, and maybe he had eaten a hefty meal.

Now he wished he had pushed a bit more then. To prod and question and interrogate until the man relented and ate, yet here he was, trying to keep the shell of a man that he once knew alive.

Javert heaved a heavy sigh. He shuffled the documents on the table and picked up a quill to start drafting the report that he should have completed hours ago. Damn Valjean and his issues, why couldn’t the man choose to just embrace happiness without any reservations—now he was stuck with Javert as his caretaker instead. Or jailor, as Valjean so nicely implied. He did not think the entire ordeal was kinder to Valjean than it did Javert.

“You bought strawberries yesterday.” Beaumont pulled his chair towards him with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Should I be expecting some good news anytime soon?”

Javert turned to shoot a glare at his fellow officer. “Shut up,” he hissed hotly. “I do not think you should bother yourself with what I do after work.”

“We worry about you,” Beaumont said, “well, at least I do. You were awfully quiet after…what happened, and for a moment we were worried you would be gone—you have been off duty for a while, if I am not mistaken, and you came back with a haunted look on your face. You look better now: less haunted, yet you are anxious; the signs of one being enamoured with another.”

Javert fidgeted with the quill in his hand. The paper curled between his fingers.

“I am not—”

“Do let me know if you need any help,” said the man. “I am married, after all. I suppose I have more to say in the relationship category than you do.”

Javert hesitated. He was reluctant to ask for help—yet he needed help, and he wasn’t so full of himself to not realise an offer for help when he needed some. “What do you do,” he mumbled in a hushed tone, “if a parent is terribly heartbroken after the loss of their child?”

“Loss?” Beaumont’s brows furrowed, and that was the moment Javert knew rumours about his illegitimate child would probably be flying around the stationhouse the next day. He could practically see the gears turn in Beaumont’s head as the man studied him with an odd expression on his face. “You would need to be more specific.”

How should one explain the delicate situation of Valjean’s? Javert scowled at the thought of the man, then at Beaumont. “The daughter is married.”

“That is wonderful news! A parent would no doubt weep tears of joy.”

“I suppose it is not the case with my…” How should he describe his relationship with Valjean? “…Friend. He has been distressed after her departure.”

“I suppose it is to be expected when the father cares deeply for his young child; it is after all human nature to worry for a loved one, even when they are all grown and married. My mother was reluctant to let me go when I was going to marry. You are still young, she cried; never mind everyone I knew was already married with kids then.”

Javert resisted the urge to groan. He doubted Beaumont’s expertise would really help with Valjean’s case now; at least he was right in his assumption that Valjean’s reaction was not a common one. “I should return to my report,” he declared, and he stared at the words in his report to drive his point home. He put up his pretence until he heard Beaumont walking away, no doubt muttering something about Javert shutting him out after he had provided invaluable insights into his situation.

There existed a class of men who had never been taught how to love another. The feeling of love was something natural, one that flowed whenever one laid their eyes upon those whom they felt so strongly towards; yet the act of loving another required trials and errors. One man’s love did not translate well to another—and even among couples that loved the other more than their own needed to learn how to love another properly. Valjean and Cosette were fortunate in that aspect: their hearts were touched upon by the other, and the tendrils of love embraced them and reignited the love that had been frozen for long. Yet men were never meant to just love one person—there existed the danger of placing too much of their love onto that one person—and Valjean had only one person in his life to place all his love on; and for that reason the loss of his child devastated him. His love suffocated him, broke him and reduced him to pieces; and if Javert had known of love he might have recognised his feelings as such. The irony of the situation—fate would have laughed out loud at her plans if she looked down upon the pair of them—was that a man who had never known of love was tasked with caring for a man who had too much love. And that the same man was too blind to recognise the situation as that.

Cosette Fauchelevent. Javert scribbled two lines on the report before he gave in to his impulse to look at her documents again. He didn’t know what she looked like—Valjean had always been careful to keep them apart—but last he knew Cosette knew of his existence, and he did her; but that was the extent of their acquaintance. He knew little of her relationship with her father, and he imagined she would look like her mother—there was no one else he could base her appearance off on. He was almost tempted to walk past her current place of residence, to look—just a look at the girl that Valjean loved—though he was almost certain Valjean would throw a fit if he knew what he was thinking.

He wondered what Valjean was thinking now: whether he was asleep or up mourning the loss of his daughter; whether he was eating the lunch that he had put together before he left for work in the morning. It was an unsatisfactory combination of cold cuts of meat and vegetables that he found in the kitchen—Valjean was the better cook between the pair of them after all—and Javert tried to recall the way Valjean used to care for him, when he was the bedridden one and Valjean the caretaker; yet he was unable to come up with much. He used to be the defiant one; Valjean the long-suffering saint. It was almost amusing to see Valjean being the defiant one now. And was he like that to Valjean during his earlier days of recovery, snapping and snarling at the man at every opportunity? He didn’t recall being that stubborn; though karma surely had a way of sneaking right back at him.

Javert flipped through his report impatiently. Then listened intently to the clicking at the clock. Never in his life had Javert imagined he would be counting the hours until his work was over. He had the updated address of Cosette’s residence; he could just send her a note—surely she would know how to deal with Valjean in this state—and Valjean hung to her every word like the gospel anyway; something that he would never do with Javert. And it was fine, it really was; she had a bond with Valjean that Javert did not.

Javert stomped down on the urge to groan again.

Some days he was driven mad with frustration, by the urge to yell at the man; other days he was calmer, more collected. He analysed his interaction with Valjean’s with a strange kind of coldness, not unlike how one would observe a butterfly under a magnifying glass. Then Valjean would look at him with sad, pathetic eyes and the feeling would dissipate like it was never there, and the familiar tendrils of panic ceased him instead—

And when had anything that involved Valjean ever been simple?

Valjean barely acknowledged his presence when Javert returned with another box of strawberries. He was sleeping again—he seemed to have taken up a preference towards the couch—and for once he did not stir from the sound of Javert’s return. It was almost alarming to see the man in this state: once upon a time Javert would have considered this a sign that the man no longer deemed him a threat; now there was only concern creeping up his chest. He approached the man like one would a cornered animal—cautiously and quietly—and he watched as Valjean turned to look at him.

Perhaps he hadn’t been sleeping after all.

“Javert,” muttered Valjean. “You have returned.”

“Unfortunately,” Javert’s lips curled back to form something odd that almost seemed like a snarl than a smile. “You sound surprised.”

“I thought you would have given up by now.” He heard the soft sound of Valjean’s clothes rustling against the cushions on the couch. “Any debts you owed are surely repaid twofold.”

“You frustrate me.”

“The same can be said for you,” continued Valjean. He took a small sip of water from the cup that Javert handed him, and wasn’t it an achievement, for him to willingly consume something that would keep him alive. “You speak of debts to be repaid, and while I do not ask for this…payment, surely you have done more than you should now. You have been kind enough to let me live my life outside bars, and this would have dissolved us of any debts we had. I do not think that any of my decisions after that should concern you.”

Javert let out a loud bark. “Concern!”

“You are not bound by duty,” Valjean pointed out. And there it was—Madeleine used to be quiet, and he thought the mayor to be meek; then he was quickly proven wrong by the words that the man spoke. A man of little words chooses to speak the words that bear the greatest weight. “There is no obligation on your side to care for me.”

“You seek to die. This itself is a crime, and I am seeking to prevent this wrong against society.”

Valjean snorted. “And has the spirit of charity possessed you at last? Should I remind you that you talked about unneeded kindness and mercy which disrupts society, one that you have so kindly reminded me when we were—”

He did not finish his sentence. He did not have to; for Javert felt the blood drain from his face, and that seemed to be enough of a reason for Valjean to swallow whatever biting retort he had in mind. “I apologise,” the man muttered, “the fatigue has gotten to me.” And there was nothing to apologise for—Valjean was right, of course he was; and he had never hated the accuracy of a statement more than anything until now. Javert could walk away now with a clear conscience: he had made up his mind, he had let the man go. Whatever decision the man made with his life was not something he should burden himself with.

The man shifted guiltily in his seat. Then almost as a peace offering he reached out to take one of the strawberries from the box, and Javert watched—without processing a single thing—as Valjean bit into the fruit. In his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, the balance that he so carefully curated now tilted to the side. It was duty, he reasoned, when he bought the strawberries for Valjean from the store. It was duty that bound him to Valjean. He could not let the man die. He could not let the man die like that, not after everything that had happened, not after Javert had realised that perhaps there were wrongs in his ways, and that the man did not deserve to be prosecuted that way; he had a duty to make amends. Now the line was blurrier, a creature of uncertainty. He watched as Valjean took a careful glance at him and swallowed another strawberry. He was eating—the man was eating voluntarily for the first time in days, and he should feel the sweet taste of victory on the tip of his tongue—and when had he started caring for Valjean as a man, instead of seeing the task as another duty?

Javert raised up from his seat. “I should go,” he mumbled, and it was a mess, he felt like a mess; it was like he was at the waters again, his heart rebelling against his mind. The realisation struck him on the face: something hot and hard and painful and he couldn’t look Valjean in the eye; he could barely look himself in the mirror these days—and this? This was new. This was foreign territory. This was something that he had never envisioned, and there he was: standing eye to eye with Valjean, and he had been playing nursemaid to the man for the past months. “I should go,” he repeated, and perhaps his traitorous mind was imagining too much but was the panic that he felt mirrored on Valjean’s face?

He pulled the door open. Javert walked out without a backward glance.

Chapter Text

Javert walked with his hands behind his back. He bowed his head with an expression that almost looked mournful on his face. It used to be something unfamiliar to him—he had never known indecision before the fateful night before the Seine—but life was different now. Reflection was still painful, and it was still something that he practiced rarely; for he still preferred to act on instinct rather than on his thoughts. He supposed it was something that he could not lose—not now, not ever—and he thought of Valjean again, then pondered upon his sudden affection towards Valjean.

He took in the sight of children playing on the streets. Just months ago the same street was in ruins—and look how everything had changed in just half a year! He used to be a different man too, a creature unbending and unyielding, a representative of the law; now he was nothing but a shell of the man he once was. Not unlike what Valjean was now.

Acceptance was a difficult thing. It was an ongoing process that required a person to contemplate their every action, to think about their past and their present, then about the future that they wanted to hold. And it was hard, for Javert at least, to envision a life without duty. If he could not carry out his duty to the law, he reasoned to himself, and his resignation to God was not accepted; then perhaps he could take up this new duty that his superior had assigned him. Anything beyond that was incomprehensible to him then, and his mind was quick to grasp on something that made sense to him—it needed something that was familiar, something comforting so badly that it was willing to latch on a misconception—and so Javert carried on with his duties. He tended to Valjean as the man tended to him then, albeit with inexperience; and he mistook love for duty. The sudden bursts of warmth in his heart when Valjean smiled at him was his satisfaction for a job well done. The tenderness that made his body tremble when Valjean touched him was his reaction to a well-deserved praise. And Valjean—as much as he had had experience in familial love, was in the same state of disarray—the loss of Cosette devasted him too much to consider the growing feelings in his own, and the man hadn’t even noticed the way he lashed out to Javert sometimes in moments of frustration. Men do not express their frustration to another unless they were certain that the other person would take up the brunt of it. He tried to push Javert away as he did Cosette, yet the man stayed—stubbornly, loyally—two things that stemmed from love and love only. Even as Javert left Valjean the man remained in his thoughts; it was like he had never left Valjean’s house.

Javert shivered. To be consumed by the thought of another, to have them occupy your every waking thought, to think of them when you look at something that they liked—what a troubling realisation it was! The strawberries were never part of his duty. He didn’t need them to keep Valjean alive, yet he bought them because he noticed the way Valjean’s eyes lit up when he laid eyes on the strawberry plants in the garden. He bought them not because he wanted to ensure a job well done, but out of his selfish desire to please the man—and perhaps this was another sign that he had fallen so low in life that his personal affections had reigned their ugly head against his commitment to duty. But when had anything been simple when Valjean was concerned?

“Cosette,” Javert mumbled under his breath. “Cosette.” He repeated, this time louder, his voice firmer. He thought of the doctor that came around to the house, who pulled him to the side of the room and told him that the man was dying of a broken heart. “I have seen men like him,” said the doctor, “there are times when the loss of another person dear to them was too much to handle.”

But Cosette was not gone, and if she was anything like Valjean the girl would be the last person to abandon her father. She would revive Valjean’s will to live—they needed each other. Valjean needed her, and Javert had been too blind to notice that all along—he should have brushed the man’s protests aside and dragged the girl to the house at the first opportunity. He walked along Rue Saint-Louis and took a sharp turn to reach the corner of Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.

Javert knew the way by heart. He had traced Valjean’s steps in his head for far more times than he could count.

He pulled on the rope attached to the bell.

“Monsieur?” A softer voice, something songlike that belonged to a young woman; then a lower one that belonged to a man. “Cosette? You should have waited for…who is it, Cosette?”

Javert’s lips curled back to form a grimace. “Pontmercy.” He said curtly, “marriage life is treating you well, then.”

The boy’s face was pale. He was shivering as though he had seen a ghost, his fingers clutching Cosette’s shoulder so tightly that it must have hurt—but Cosette didn’t say a word. She covered her husband’s hand with hers, and she stared at him defiantly—it reminded him of Valjean, not that he would ever say that to her face. “It is late.”

It was. In Javert’s distracted state he hadn’t notice how late it was. But it was urgent, and he wasn’t certain if the impulse to see the girl and talk to her would overcome him again. “This is about your father.”

The girl’s brows furrowed. “My father?” She paused, as if she was thinking hard about something—what is there to think about? Javert wanted to bark, but for some reason he kept his mouth shut. “Monsieur Jean,” she said, “well, what about him?”

Javert narrowed his eyes. “Monsieur Jean?”

“That’s what he insisted on. Though I suppose it would be silly to refer him as such when he isn’t around…Well, he hasn’t been making much sense lately. He told me he was away for a trip—”

Javert’s bark was loud and sharp. “A trip!”

“A trip he said,” Cosette repeated, “he didn’t tell me otherwise. Why, is it a lie?”

“You should see for yourself. He is dying,” Javert said curtly, and pretended not to notice the way Cosette and Marius flinched at his words. “I do not know what misunderstandings have been brewing between the three of you, but should you decide to allow this to fester he shall be with God soon. The choice is yours, though I advise you to choose wisely.”

Pontmercy stood there with his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. Javert wondered—just for a brief moment—what did Valjean’s daughter saw in him. He supposed love made people blind, but surely she couldn’t be that blind to—

“But Monsieur,” Pontmercy began hesitantly, “you are dead!”

“Evidently not. I expected better than this from you.”

“But—” Pontmercy stuttered, his hands moving wildly in short, stilted motions. He glanced nervously at Javert, then at Cosette; as though he was trying to ascertain if his wife was able to see the man before them too. “He shot you, didn’t he? Monsieur Fauchelevent shot you with—”

“And here I am,” Javert tutted impatiently. His patience was running thin. “He did not shoot me, instead he let me go. Then he carried you home to safety—the damned man of a saint dragged you all the way from the sewers and saw me there. He pleaded to me for you; he would have exchanged his life for yours. I was there to witness the entirety of this unfortunate incident. I do not suppose he would be very pleased to see the one person he sacrificed his life for turn out to be an ungrateful creature. Even dogs know to give credit when credit is due.”

“Marius!” Cosette cried, agitated. “What did you think happened?” She turned to Javert, her eyes sharp. “Where is my father?”

“At Rue de l’Homme Armé.” Then with a stern gaze he stared down at Marius. “He saved your life, Monsieur. I have never lied about anything; nor would I start lying about them now.” For a moment the irony of him defending Valjean—of all people—struck him: Javert started laughing hysterically while Marius and Cosette exchanged worried glances. “Ha! To think that I would be speaking in favour of him in this lifetime. A wretched soul I am, but even wretched souls like me learn new things.”

He must have looked like a madman before the young couple. Pontmercy was muttering something under his breath, though his breathing had gotten steadier now. “He said…I thought…” he murmured, then with guilt he clasped Cosette’s hands in his, “We should see him now. He will be my father too, just as he was yours; oh, Cosette, what a fool I was!”

The fiacre arrived. Javert climbed into the carriage without a second thought. Pontmercy opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, though a smack on his arm by Cosette shut him up more effectively than anything. He crawled into the carriage next, then Cosette. “No. 7 Rue de l’Homme Armé,” said Javert.

“How did you get to know my father?” Cosette asked curiously. “I have never seen him with a friend; I didn’t even know he had any!”

“We were…” How does one go about describing a relationship like Valjean and his? “Acquaintances. Your father saved more than one life that night.”

She looked as if she wanted to press for answers, then upon a glance at his face she decided not to ask any other questions. Javert wouldn’t know what he would have done if she did decide to ask other questions about her father’s relationship with his: would he have lied? Would he have told her the truth? It wouldn’t have been his story to tell, though wouldn’t it be unfair to everyone involved should he choose to lie?

“He is a good person.” He admitted instead. “I was too blind to see that then.”

Cosette nodded. All the while Marius was trembling. Javert took a small amount of sadistic pleasure from it: it was hilarious, to see another fear him as much as the criminals did back then. He nearly missed the fear that he incited whenever another laid eyes on him. He was less fearsome now, having turned to be Valjean’s personal guard dog; though he still missed the chase sometimes.

The fiacre came to a halt. Cosette stumbled out of the fiacre, then without steadying herself she ran towards the house. She knocked on the door frantically, then without waiting for an answer pulled the door open. “You didn’t even lock the door!” She scolded, and Javert watched as the girl flung her arms around her father. Valjean placed his hand on hers uncertainly, then as he caught side of Pontmercy he heaved a sigh of relief. “Have I been forgiven?” He asked, and Javert wanted to scoff: as if he had done anything wrong this whole time!

“You have to cease telling half-truths, Valjean.” He said, and Valjean raised his head slowly as though he had noticed Javert’s presence for the first time. He watched as the man shivered, his head bowed as Cosette sobbed into his shoulder. “You will not martyr yourself under my watch. I have corrected their beliefs, though I believe that might not be all. The boy there,” he gestured at Pontmercy, “has some things he would like to say. Don’t you, Pontmercy?”

Pontmercy stepped forward. Then with unsteady legs he knelt and held Valjean’s hands. “How could I go about—I have misunderstood everything, and with that prejudice against you I have wronged you. Yet you took all of that in stride, and I shall spend the rest of my life making it up to you. You are coming with us. You are part of us. You should be my father as much as you are Cosette’s—and your hands are cold, father, I won’t allow you to spend another day in this horrible place!”

Valjean’s lips moved slightly. He glanced helplessly at Cosette, then at Pontmercy; he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, yet no words came out of him. “Marius is right,” said Cosette, “I do not know what you have been doing yourself, but I know you well enough to guess what you would have inflicted upon yourself. I do not know about your past, Papa, though I have heard enough; we will be talking about this later, when you are feeling better, though nothing will change my mind about you—you have been loving and gentle and kind to me my whole life, and you are the first person to teach me love. None of this would change because of your past.”

They pulled Valjean to his feet: Cosette on his left, Pontmercy on his right. Valjean leaned heavily on Pontmercy, and Javert pulled the door open for them—they wouldn’t be able to open the door at this state. For a second he thought he felt Valjean’s gaze on him, and so he looked down to Valjean’s eyes. Valjean’s lower lips were trembling, and he waited with bated breath for something. Anything. He thought Valjean would yell at him for going behind his back to stage everything, but he couldn’t—he couldn’t just let the man die. Not after what he had done to him. Not after everything he had done to keep the man alive.

“Javert,” Valjean wetted his lips with his tongue. Javert tried not to stare at his mouth too much. “I—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The fiacre was still waiting for them outside the apartment, and it wouldn’t be right to keep the driver waiting. Cosette tugged her father’s arm impatiently, her eyes still wet with tears; though her steps were light, and her smile was bright. “Papa,” she said, “we should go now. Oh, you cannot do this to me again—I do not think I can suffer through this ordeal once more. To know that I have come so close to losing you!”

Javert watched as they climbed into the carriage. He shook his head when Pontmercy asked wordlessly if he wanted to come along. The wheels rattled against the rocky surface of the pavements, and he wondered if Cosette would interrogate Valjean instead, if she would ask the man about him: Valjean’s resolve would crumble like a pile of bricks. He would—he could see that as clear as day—Valjean could never say no to his daughter. Javert only wished that he would be kinder to himself as he did to other people in his life.

He wondered what Valjean would say about him. Whether he would finally tell the whole story. Whether he would be welcomed back in his life again.

Then with unsteady steps he made his way back to his apartment.