Chapter Text
He blew out the candles. A soft huff; fingers pinching the wick until the light was extinguished in between them. Valjean regarded him with an odd look in his eyes, his face an expression indiscernible. There was not a word exchanged between the pair of them; only the sound of his steps atop the hardwood floor, and the sound of Valjean’s breaths—each breath of his shallower than his last—in the house.
They hadn’t talked about anything. Hadn’t talked about Cosette, or the reason why Valjean was in bed still: with his mind in delirium and his body weak. Hadn’t talked about the doctor that visited weekly, sigh upon his lips as he examined the man with his fingers pressed against his chest. He pulled Javert to the side, brows furrowed with all the professionalism of a man accustomed to death. There is little I can do to save him, said he, his speech curt. He suffers an illness not of the body, Monsieur, but one of his mind. You shall speak to him; a discussion about the arrangements after his death would be appropriate.
The portress sobbed. Javert supposed the old woman cared for the man—or as much as she could, given her limited acquaintance with Valjean; so he suppressed the urge to shield the man from her gaze when she bent down by the man’s bed: hands clapped together as her lips moved to mutter a silent prayer. She raised herself to her feet before giving Javert the slightest of nods; the corner of her eyes red still. Then with some hesitation she fetched the coins that Javert had paid her a week prior—for Valjean’s lodgings, and for both their dinners—from her pocket.
She counted the coins. Tucked half of them back into her coat pocket before pressing the rest into Javert’s palm.
“I shall bring his dinner to him at a later hour,” said she. In silence she made her way down the stairs.
There was pity written all over her features. Then there was something else: a feeling akin to understanding, perhaps; something that felt terribly like sympathy and more. A bond formed upon the death of a man known to the pair of them. A moment of understanding; a rough, jagged breath in face of the shadow of death looming over those alive still. Deaths were an ordeal terrible. The death of someone known—someone familiar, someone dear to another—even more so.
Javert wondered if the same thought had ever crossed Valjean’s mind when the man pulled him from the waters. When he stared back at Javert with his eyes bright, moonlight casting a glow over his hair like a halo; his chest heaving as water dripped down from his body. “You are alive,” muttered the man. A statement. A fact. “You are alive, Javert—”
He stumbled. Collapsed at a point next to Javert, arms straining and legs shaking still as he breathed. A beat. Then another. A laugh tore out of the man’s lips, and he laughed and laughed and laughed as Javert shivered from the cold breeze in a summer night that was supposed to be warm. His ribs stung. Javert pulled his lips back to form a snarl; fingers twitching by his sides. He turned his head to glance at the man’s face—
It mattered not, he supposed, when he was bed bound with all the time in the world at his disposal; that it was him standing at the quay. It was relief that he recognised on the man’s face, and it was relief that Valjean felt when he pulled yet another soul that should have—would have—been condemned to death back into the land of the living. A life for a life. A soul for a soul. Young boys with their blood splattered over the floor, blood drying into brown stains across the cobblestone floor. There were only so many lives one could save in one night.
There was only one soul that Javert wanted to save in his lifetime.
He straightened his back from where he was standing. Glanced down at Valjean the way he used to look down on men like him: with his arms behind his back and his lips pursed into a thin line. A look of disapproval, albeit for reasons entirely different from the ones in their shared past.
“Valjean,” Javert muttered, voice low.
He sat himself by the side of the man’s bed, bowl of soup in hand and the bread that he had purchased earlier in the day in his lap. The curtains were drawn; the room was dark. Perhaps he should have kept the candle on, yet there was a sense of unease that remained in his chest still; the thought of a lit candle sitting atop the surface of the fireplace across Valjean’s bed almost insufferable. It was daytime still. There was no place for lit candles and drawn curtains in a room of the living.
There were cracks scattered over Valjean’s lips. The man turned at the sound of his name, gaze unfocused; eyes casting to the spot where Javert was sitting upon and also not. His lips moved: to speak, perhaps; or not. His hands were trembling, arms shaking from the strain of the act; and the scene itself was one unimaginable to Javert from a year ago. A year ago he had imagined the man invincible; a year ago Javert had considered the man a creature to conquer, rather than a man as fallible as he was. There existed not a spark of recognition in the man’s eyes. He didn’t stir when Javert fed him the pieces of bread that he had soaked in soup just moments before; softened just enough to make it something palatable.
He waited until the man finished the last bits of bread from between his fingers. With his touch almost gentle Javert pushed Valjean’s curls away from his eyes—
“I shall return tomorrow,” said he, barely suppressing a shiver himself as he saw a tremor run down Valjean’s spine. The man looked up—helplessly, lips parted—at him, though there was not a sound to be made. “You need a doctor.”
There were days when Javert wondered if his presence was unwanted. That he was an obstacle rather than an aid to the man’s recovery. That he should have stayed away, perhaps: there was a place reserved for him still amongst the land of the living, yet the same couldn’t be said about Valjean. For even men like him—that was to say, someone rigid and unbending who had been uncompromising for the better part of their life—knew when their presence was an unwelcomed one. He had spoken to the man’s portress; she shall ask for a doctor tomorrow. There existed not a purpose that he served in the household, nor was there a role that he served: not as a police spy, no; not anymore. He had picked up an odd assortment of jobs at the docks, his fingers now rough with calluses across his palms and fingers. A labourer’s hands. The one thing that had piqued his suspicion against Madeleine at Montreuil-sur-Mer now a feature on his body.
“You shall return tomorrow,” repeated Valjean. His voice was hoarse from disuse. He blinked—quick and furious—as if he was dazed still; his mind remaining in a state of delirium. “You shall return tomorrow. Yes, of course! You shall return tomorrow. I will not run. I shall run no more; I will not escape. I shall be there tomorrow, Inspector; when you return. Perhaps you would have your mind made up by then.”
He smiled at Javert. Something weak, lips trembling; blood stains upon his lower lip from where his teeth had been digging down into. There was sorrow, and there was fear; a feeling so coagulated Javert felt choked by it. His face was pale: anything paler and he would have been taken for a corpse. Perhaps he was mere steps away from that state of his, with death’s kiss upon his brows and angels awaiting his return. There was only so much a man could do in face of death.
Javert paused. He curled his fingers into fists by his side. The soup was drying on the tip of his fingers. Valjean was looking at him still.
“You need a doctor,” said he. “Not an Inspector. I am an Inspector no more, Valjean.”
“A doctor, you say,” murmured Valjean, his words almost indiscernible. He casted his eyes to his hands, then to his lap; lips moving as he ranted on. “There exists not a difference between a doctor or an Inspector in the eyes of a dying man. Perhaps you are here to fetch me to the place that I belong—then yes, Javert, I do need an Inspector. It can be you, or not; you can call on one of your colleagues to facilitate my arrest. I do not seek to escape, Javert, not anymore. For all my life I have spent running—”
His words came to an abrupt halt. Valjean blinked; tears rolled down his cheeks. Javert was certain the man was speaking to him no more.
-
His mother’s bony fingers upon his face. Her voice, raspy and low; her cheeks sunken and her eyes weary. Javert turned—his gaze on her a bleary one, for sleep was scarce these days—and blinked. “You are awake,” he said instead, and there was a glimmer of hope—hope, yes; he was but a boy still in his mother’s presence. He had resented her for the better part of his life, but he loved her too; and wasn’t it a terrible thing: that something as pure as love could be tainted by feelings of hatred and confusion and resentment. Still he returned like a young bird returning to its mother’s nest; for the second time in his life Javert found himself behind the same bars that he had sworn to leave—and had left—behind.
He took in the way she shivered despite the layers of blankets wrapping around her. The way her food remained untouched by the side of her bed; then of the way her water jug remained filled to the brim, placed at a point just out of her reach. With some hesitance Javert added—
“I returned as soon as I heard. The trip took longer than I expected.”
It wasn’t an explanation. It wasn’t intended to be one, though it mattered little to his mother, for her face lit up as if she was just granted leave from her enclosure. “Oh,” she cried, “oh, Javert; come closer, I can scarcely see your face!”
Javert leaned into her touch, his palms flattening against the edge of her bed. She tightened her fingers around his face, her eyes never leaving him. Javert knelt by her side, and he stayed: frozen, paralysed; as her hands pressed against his eyes, then the tip of his nose. A feeble attempt of a dying woman to remember her child moments before her death.
She took her last breath in his arms. He scattered her ashes at the pauper’s grave.
And what of the concept of death? That that was considered a rite of passage. That it was something peaceful rather than terrifying, with loved ones by their side and the knowledge that they were loved. That there was life in one still: despite the way their heart had ceased to continue beating, and their body unmoving and unresponsive; so long as there remained another soul in the land of living that remembered them somehow. That it was a concept equally haunting and beautiful—
His fingers twitched uncontrollably in the pocket of his trousers. Javert hissed: a sharp sound from in between his teeth. A curse was sitting impatiently at the back of his throat; a creature waiting to strike. The clock was ticking. Valjean was running out of time; the man’s days were limited. There was little he could do to reverse the clock.
He could hear the portress’ voice—low and hoarse—speaking to her husband. Her speech rapid, a hushed argument exchanged between the pair. He is dying, cried the old woman; her cry a sound of despair. He is dying, oh, isn’t it terrible—
Javert descended the stairs.
The sky was dark; he departed the flat at Rue de l’Homme Arme after Valjean had supper. He had taken a few bites out of his stew, the water jug half empty. Javert considered it a victory of sorts: a miniscule one, perhaps; but it remained one to him. He supposed he needed it. He needed to feel something—anything—before dread crept up to him the way it did many nights before this one.
He kept his head bowed and his arms pressed against his back. Javert walked; legs dragging as he took his step—one after another—each step of his taking him further away from Rue de l’Homme Arme. Away from Valjean. He took another step. Passed in front of the Blancs Manteaux. Took a sharp turn to the left, until he could see Rue de l’Homme Arme from the corner of his eye no more. The azaleas bloomed at one of the gardens at Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. It reminded Javert of the garden at Rue Plumet, then of the tiny potted plant that he had gotten Valjean after his recovery. He knew little of flowers and fruit plants and the sort of things that Valjean liked, but he seemed to like the gift enough. The man beamed at him—lips pulling back to form a bright smile—as he wrapped his fingers around the pot.
“This is wonderful,” said Valjean. His voice was warm; cheeks flushed red and his eyes twinkled. “Oh, Javert; thank you—"
The damned thing was probably dead by now.
He fumbled in his coat pocket, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sharp edge of his house keys; before he pulled them out with a huff under his breath. The coins jingled in his pocket. A soft, mocking sound. Javert slammed the door shut behind him.
There was little that he possessed in this flat of his. There was little he liked in this flat of his: most of his possessions destroyed in the waters or sold to another. He kept his chair and his table. His old bed was replaced by a smaller one; the wooden frame from his older bed dismantled in exchange for a handful of coins. He left them on Valjean’s countertop and found them returned to his coat pocket alongside some bank notes. He never figured out how the man managed to pull that off—he had kept his eyes on his coat during the entire duration of his visit—but Javert supposed that was one of the few things with Valjean that never quite made sense to him. Valjean the saint was a creature paradoxical; Valjean the man had all the vices seen in others like him. He was only better. Nicer. Kinder, in spite of the temper that bubbled underneath his skin still. There was a fire burning within the man that Javert couldn’t quite extinguish, no matter how hard he tried.
He knew little of Valjean. Knew little of his life before Toulon, or that after Montreuil-sur-Mer; the bits and pieces of information that he managed to scrape together were scarcely enough to form a paragraph on his report. Even when he lived at Montreuil-sur-Mer he had barely spoken to the mayor—he preferred observing in silence—Madeleine’s words and acts dutifully recorded in his mind. He knew of Cosette, and of her marriage to that boy of hers; whose life Valjean had taken considerable effort to save. That was the extent of his knowledge. He knew not of their whereabouts, and he no longer possessed the authority to search through the records for their address. Valjean was a terribly secretive man. And Javert didn’t think he understood the man—not now, not ever; it mattered not that he had lived with the man for months: he only knew of the parts that the man was willing to reveal to him. He thought about pushing—for the truth, or for something more; Javert was uncertain. For all his life he had walked a path straight: with his chest puffed out and his back straight; steps steady and his mind certain. The law was just. There were classes of men who served the society, and there existed men that sought to destroy the system from within.
He thought he knew what he wanted in the past. He was a lot less certain about the matters of his heart now.
A splash of water against his face. Javert shook his head the way a dog would with its fur wet; his hair stuck onto the side of his face. His fringe had grown longer. He would need to take a trip to the barber’s when the ordeal was over. But when shall it be over? I shall run no more, muttered Valjean, voice hoarse from disuse. I will not escape. His gaze was unsteady, and his lashes fluttered—furiously, rapidly—as the man tried to stare into Javert’s eyes once more.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. Javert had rehearsed his speech for far more times than he would’ve liked: something short and curt, concise enough to bring his point across to a man who was more delirious than not. The facts. An objective statement. I have left the police force. I possess the authority to arrest you no more. Then softer; a plea, almost. A speech urging—hoping—Valjean would listen to him for once. I am a different man than the one I was before.
Words felt—were—inadequate. Something light and flimsy; a pebble carelessly tossed into calm waters until they sunk into the depths of the river and left a trace no more. On one side of the scale sat his declaration; on the other side sat Valjean’s history with men like him. With the pain that Javert had inflicted, both from his actions and from the system he represented, the wounds raw and shiny and bleeding out still. Trust was something delicate that had no place among the likes of them. Valjean had no reason to believe him.
Still Javert hoped. That his words carried some weight somehow, that they would ease his worries and sooth the furrow between his brows.
An eye for an eye. A life for a life. A soul for a soul. If God were fair Javert would have remained someone forgiven then forgotten. Instead he was playing nursemaid to a man whose life was rapidly slipping out of his body and the happy ending that Valjean deserved happened to remain in a place just out of reach—
He shall return tomorrow. Or he shall not; Valjean would benefit from Javert’s absence. His presence was something unpleasant, the sharp edge of a knife pointed towards the man’s chest. A painful reminder of their shared past. Of all the matters that plagued Valjean still.
Javert breathed. A rough, jagged thing. Squeezed his eyes shut before forcing them open again. The man in the mirror stared back. His eyes were red, almost wild; chest heaving as he dug his elbows into the cold surface of the sink. Then his body crumpled—back bent and a retching sound at the back his throat—while his hands flew to the sides of his head. He let out a soft, broken sound; something between a cry and a sob. A sound painful, something raw; his reserve crumbling into pieces in the comfort of his own presence. He thought of Valjean: of his cracked lips and pale face and shallow breaths. He thought of the tiny copper crucifix that stared down at him as he tended to the man; of the cold, unwavering gaze from the son of God. The struggles of men taken in by a higher being. He thought of the copy of the Bible sitting by the side of Valjean’s bed: the same phrases that the man had read to him once parroted to him; one of his many attempts to comfort the man while he wiped the sweat from Valjean’s brows with a wet cloth. He thought of a great deal of things and nothing at the same time, mind turning and turning and turning until his thoughts came to a sudden halt—
His knees hit the ground with a loud crack. Javert curled into himself; arms wrapping onto his legs as he pressed the side of his face against the ice-cold surface. He could feel the touch of his mother upon his face still; her bony finger grabbing onto the one being that she loved more than life itself. Perhaps Valjean’s touch would linger the way hers did; a lasting mark upon his soul. Valjean’s tears, rolling down from his cheeks and onto his collar of his shirt, eyes shiny with an agony that couldn’t quite be named. A pain that couldn’t be alleviated by the likes of him.