Chapter Text
A/N: I don’t remember what the brick said about Valjean’s living space other than that it was upstairs, so, apologies if I got everything horribly wrong.
Also: I’ve now added the Valvert tag, because while it doesn’t become romantic or sexual… when you start choosing a person over everything you’ve ever cared about, I feel like it’s serious enough to merit the tag! :-)
The door to No. 7 opened, but Valjean turned before entering. “My rooms are upstairs. Please come up quietly – Cosette is on the floor below, and I don’t want to wake her.”
“Mm.” Javert followed behind him, watchful, cautious. But Valjean made no false moves.
Instead, he opened the door the top of the stairs and again explained himself in advance: “I just need to go in for a moment, to arrange a few things and leave her a letter.”
“Mm.” Javert waited in the doorway, observing the space. It seemed that Valjean used the house’s upper floor as his own private apartment, and that he did not live as a rich man. A simple entry with a side table. A nook with battered old armchair. A room which should have been a study, but was being used for dining instead. And a door to what must be a bedroom, into which Valjean disappeared for a few moments.
When he emerged, Javert looked him over and made a face.
“Go clean yourself,” he said roughly. “That stench is offensive.”
Valjean seemed startled, and then looked down at himself uncertainly. “Shall I just- wipe off a little, or...?”
“Take a bath. I will wait.”
They both knew he was making an unusual concession; Valjean even frowned and asked: “Are you sure?”
“I’ve waited this long. A quarter of an hour more won’t matter.”
Valjean nodded. “All right. Here – there’s a chair and a bookcase, if you like.”
“Thanks.” He seated himself; the exhaustion of the day was finally catching up with him.
Almost exactly a quarter of an hour later, Valjean re-emerged, now clean and dressed simply, with his hair combed but loose around his head.
“Javert, could I ask you one thing more? It won’t take long, and we don’t need to go anywhere.”
He rose from the armchair and stood square. What, he asked with his eyebrows.
Valjean held out his hand. He moved slowly and from a safe distance away, which was well because what sat in his hand was a glittering razor. “They shave us,” he said quietly, “For lice. They are not gentle, and it leaves a bloody mess, and I’ve always found it singularly upsetting. Would you please take care of it for me here instead?”
Javert felt his mouth open, but had no immediate response ready. He considered the request, and found himself recoiling from it, from the idea of with his own hands-
“No,” he said shortly. He felt compelled to provide some explanation, and he certainly was not prepared to interrogate and explain his feeling of unease, so he said instead: “I’m no barber, I would do no better than they would, and then you’ll go in looking like some degenerate creature instead of a-. A normal person. We just bathed you to prevent that. No need to go back to it now. No.”
Valjean nodded, giving no outward sign of disappointment, and set the razor down softly on his side table. “Very well. Then, there is nothing further. You’ve been very patient. Thank you.”
“Mm. Do you have anything to eat?” he snapped suddenly. His stomach had contracted all at once. “I haven’t had anything all day and I expect you haven’t either.”
Valjean blinked. “I-. I don’t know that I would be able to eat just now.”
“You should.”
“I know, but-. well...” Valjean drew himself up. “In any event there’s you. I don’t keep much up here but I believe there’s still soup.”
“Mm.” Javert followed his gesture of invitation, to the table.
Valjean put down bread and a tureen but did not serve himself anything until Javert ordered: “Eat, I said.”
Once they started, between them they finished every speck.
Meanwhile Javert was thinking. It made sense to insist that the convict eat; people were not fed in the cells at night. And it would not be until morning that the prisoner’s paperwork could be completed, and he could be moved along from the station to the prison.
Which made him realize that there was in fact no point in conveying Valjean to the police building at one o’clock in the morning. Before he could ruminate any further or change his mind, he announced: “Do you want to stay here tonight?”
Valjean cocked his head. “What?”
“The- the secretary’s desk isn’t occupied until morning,” he explained, stammering a little. “In the meantime they would just stow you in a holding cell, and as a practical matter, your word would hold you as securely as those bars.” He shrugged. “In your case, perhaps more securely. So, there is nothing to be gained by going in now. No reason not to let you sleep in your bed.” For the last time. He did not say it, and tried not to think it.
Valjean blinked rapidly. Looked away. He heaved several deep breaths in and out, and finally nodded. He looked to be in the grip of some emotion, and perhaps not capable of calm speech, so Javert went on. “I will stay here – I don’t trust you that much! – in that armchair. You will go to bed, and not stir from your room until morning. Come tomorrow we’ll go down to the station, and I will turn you in. Swear to me that you will cooperate.”
Valjean faced him. Coughed. Finally said, soft and rough: “I swear.”
“Very well. Then, goodnight.” He rose from the table, removed his coat, and resumed his seat by the bookcase. There were plenty of books and plenty of candle, and he intended to stay up reading. With a desperate convict lurking in the next room and a razor on a table between them, it was probably wisest to stay alert.
The next thing he knew, the sun was bright in his eyes.
TBC.
If you have thoughts, please share them! I'm not yet sure how many cookies this particular mouse is going to be offered. We shall see.