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Winter had come to the small bungalow that stood in the Rue Plumet. The young woman who had lived there with her father had moved out almost a year ago, and was now married to a young gentleman in the Marais. Her father had given up his apartment in the town and moved back into the house in the Rue Plumet, accompanied by a friend who was lodging in the hut that stood inside the garden. This friend was a dour-looking fellow, an inspector of the police, who was never seen on the street without his black coat and a scowl on his face, which was framed by ferocious, graying whiskers.
Both men were so private that even these little details had only been gathered by the neighbors after weeks of observation. The mystery had only been solved when the young Madame Pontmercy came to visit her father, and the carriage's driver was persuaded to part with this information by the neighbor's curious cook.
Once the news spread through the street, what little curiosity had there been about the house with its strange inhabitants quickly died away, elderly fathers and agents of police being rather less entertaining than what people had expected from this mysterious, overgrown garden with its rarely-seen inhabitants.
None of the house's neighbors managed to make the connection to the articles published in the papers several months before, relating to a kidnapped gentleman and his rescue from the Catacombs.
As it was, this unnamed gentleman was the same M. Fauchelevent who now resided once more at the Rue Plumet with his companion, the fearsome M. Javert.
As the weeks turned to months and the curiosity of the neighbors turned to new mysteries, M. Fauchelevent and M. Javert continued to live so quietly and unobtrusively that soon, the occasional view of a carriage arriving or the always humbly clad M. Fauchelevent walking to Mass on Sunday morning was a sight that aroused as little interest to the inhabitants of the surrounding houses as the sight of the water-carrier in the morning or the ringing of the church bells at noon.
At the same time, the two aging men continued their quiet lives in the house and the garden with complete unawareness that their presence had ever been considered a mystery. Had they been aware, they might have withdrawn further from public speculation, hiding inside that overgrown garden—or they might have considered themselves lucky, for there were deeper secrets yet concealed beneath that respectable facade. For in truth, M. Fauchelevent was the ex-convict Jean Valjean, and his companion the man who had hunted him.
Now, with the seasons passing, they had slowly settled into their new homes, striving to leave the past behind them. And with the arrival of winter, more often than not the stove in the small hut would stay unlit, and Javert would spend the night in the bungalow's single bedroom on the first floor, sharing the bed of Jean Valjean.
It was the day before Christmas when Javert woke in this bed as well, perfectly warm with Valjean's arm resting across his chest, blinking blearily at the snow falling outside the window at last.
There it was then—the snow Valjean's daughter had so impatiently wished for, and which Javert could not help but observe with a certain frustrated annoyance. After all, it would make the streets slippery, and when it melted, would soak his boots and feet as he tried to cross streets—and of course, Valjean would drag him out to walk in it regardless.
At the thought, warmth spread inside him. Carefully, he sat up, trying not to dislodge Valjean's arm from where it had wrapped around him. Once more he marveled at the soft texture of the fine, white hair that clung to his fingers as he touched it with gentleness.
No, he would gladly cross puddles for Valjean—even rivers, if he demanded it. It was still strange to find himself settling down into this life by Valjean's side; sometimes, the quietness of their reclusive life unsettled Javert after the past events. Not so long ago, they had fought for their lives after all, trapped in endless underground caverns, with all of Patron-Minette on their heels. Now, there was nothing but Cosette's visits to disturb their home. It should have been a relief, but a part of Javert was too used to a life devoted solely to the pursuit of criminals. The peace was unsettling. Could such a thing truly last for two men with their past? Would not any moment some new danger spring forth, some ugly secret from the past rearing its head once more?
“Good morning,” Valjean said, his voice still rough from sleep but his eyes full of happiness as he blinked up at Javert.
For a moment, Javert allowed his hand to remain where it rested in Valjean's hair, stroking the silken locks while Valjean continued to smile at him, warm and relaxed from sleep and utterly beautiful.
“Good morning,” Javert finally said and forced himself to straighten.
Barefoot, he padded out of the bed to draw the curtains, shivering at the coldness of the floor as he added wood to the embers in the stove. Then he turned and found himself struck by the sight of Valjean leaving the bed, half turned away from Javert as he removed his shirt with some of the modesty which, it seemed, would always remain with him.
Even though they had spent the night wrapped in each other's arms, Javert felt a twinge of guilt and embarrassment at the eager way his eyes drank up the sight: the profile of Valjean, the powerful haunches, strong shoulders bending as he drew off the shirt. A familiar need twisted in Javert's stomach at the glimpse of that broad chest covered with a carpet of gray hair.
Then Valjean turned completely, pouring water from a pitcher into the washbasin, and Javert had to force himself to look away from the scarred back and firm buttocks.
How many nights had he shared Valjean's bed now? At first, even here in their own home, it had felt forbidden, and shame as well as fear had driven them out of each other's bed to spend lonely nights parted, Javert in the small shack, Valjean in the house. But day by day, the fear diminished, smothered by the joy of the growing familiarity of lives shared, meals taken together, evenings spent reading in front of Valjean's fire.
It mattered little to them whether they spent the days in Javert's hut or in Valjean's bungalow. Neither was used to luxury, and so at first they had found themselves in Javert's narrow bed more often than not. But as the weeks passed and they grew freer with their affection and more at ease with this strange, bewildering love that had sprung up between them, the ample space provided by the bungalow saw more and more use. Now, with winter having arrived with full force, they appreciated the sturdy walls and heavy curtains, and kept the fireplace going all night out of worry for the other's comfort.
Once Valjean was finished and dressed, he strode towards the window. Javert took his place at the washbasin instead, slowly and meticulously shaving away what stubble had grown while Valjean pressed a hand against the window, staring out at the falling snow with a smile.
“The Seine has frozen, did you hear? Perhaps we could walk along the quay today.”
It had been terribly cold for more than a week now—too cold for snow, although the current, heavy fall heralded that the temperatures had risen a little.
“Do you intend to skate across the river?” Javert bit back a small smile at the ludicrous thought.
Valjean's cheeks had flushed a little when he at last turned away from the window to look at Javert. “I would not know how. The last time the Seine froze, Cosette begged me to see it. When we first came to Paris, I was too scared to go out during the day. I would only go out at night. But after we left the convent, there was a particularly harsh winter—you might remember it. In my eyes, she was still the small child I had rescued. It was almost Christmas again, and she smiled just like she had when I carried her away from that inn. Hand in hand, we crossed the Seine on foot, near the Pont Neuf...”
Ah. There was the heart of the matter then. Surely Cosette would be happy to accompany her father on a walk through the snow—but Valjean probably thought that this was a thing of the past now, for she had Pontmercy to go on walks with her.
“It is a good day for a walk,” Javert said simply.
Not much later, after they had drank the coffee Toussaint had prepared and read the papers while watching the falling snow from the warmth of their small house, they at last ventured out, wearing warm coats, scarves and gloves. Javert had gone so far as to suggest a carriage to bring them to the banks of the Seine, but Valjean had laughed and taken his hand into his, and had said gently, “The cold will not hurt me. But we can take a carriage home, in case we feel the cold.”
“I will buy you some hot chestnuts to warm your fingers,” Javert muttered, pressing Valjean's hand before he released it reluctantly. And then they walked, snow falling gently down on them as they walked all the way from the Rue Plumet past the Place St. Marguerite to the Quai de Conti. The air was clear and cold, the sky nearly as white as the ground.
The people wandering past them were wrapped in heavy coats, but despite the cold and the closeness of the holidays there was a serenity in the air, as though the falling snow had quieted the city, the usual bustle of the quays with its washer-women and bathing boats and vendors all covered with a blanket of white.
Valjean's shoulder brushed his own. They were walking slowly, despite the cold, content to pause every now and then and look at how the heavy snowfall turned the town they knew so well into a strange new place of whimsy, where gargoyles wore white caps and St. Michael brandished a sword sheathed in a translucent scabbard of ice.
“There!” Valjean exclaimed with such rare elation that Javert could not keep from staring.
They had reached the edge of the quay, and now Valjean was gesturing at the river that spread below. But Javert did not care about the river or the snow. Javert was entranced by the way Valjean's face had come alive: a rosy flush colored his cheeks, his eyes shone with a new light, and the usual pensive lines of his face had been smoothed away by an altogether unusual animation.
Javert could not look away. His eyes lingered with loving covetousness on this wonder, the heart in his chest that had come alive only a year before still full to overflowing with the emotion that moved him when he looked upon Jean Valjean.
“There. The Seine has frozen.” A smile spread on Valjean's lips. “Look, they are crossing it on foot.”
Not only that, Javert realized when he finally managed to tear his eyes away from Valjean. There were people skating on the ice as well, in addition to the flaneurs who strolled across the Seine arm in arm, wearing heavy coats and warm hats against the snowfall, laughing and holding hands to brace themselves against the slipperiness of the ice.
“Should I have bought Cosette skates, do you think? I never thought... in those days, when she was so small, I did not dare to go outside in the day, and after the convent—she wanted dresses and hats, not skates...”
“She is a sensible woman, “Javert said, then, thinking of her standing fearlessly in the Catacombs amid a group of policemen, he added, “most of the time, at least. If she wants skates now, she will buy herself some—or get her husband to do it.”
Valjean made a soft sound of agreement. “Still, I wonder, that first winter in Paris... The two of us, we could have been one of them, if I had...”
Here he faltered, and Javert reached out to take his arm again.
“Nonsense.” Javert's voice was firm. “You had good reasons. In any case, knowing your daughter, there'll be a grandchild eventually you can take to play on the Seine. Furthermore, there's no sense regretting the past, and it is too cold out here to waste our time.”
“That is reasonable.” Valjean gave him a small smile, then inclined his head in surrender. “Truly, I think the cold brings out your common sense.”
“It must be this damned river,” Javert muttered, which was the first time he had come close to joking about his attempt to end his life.
“In any case,” Javert then said, forcefully enough to stop Valjean from uttering any worried questions, “the thing is frozen, and as that is a rare spectacle, or so I have been told all day, it would be quite reasonable to cross it ourselves today.”
“If you insist.” Valjean was smiling slightly, although his look was intent—still, whatever he had to see in Javert's face must have pleased him, because he now took hold of Javert's gloved hand.
Together, they made their way down the quay to where it was possible to step onto the layer of ice that covered the Seine. Here a man stood selling chestnuts, and before Valjean could protest, Javert purchased a bag and put it into the pocket of Valjean's coat himself.
“It'll keep your hands warm,” Javert said with so much contentment that Valjean did not even start to protest. “Don't look at me like that,” he then added a little sheepishly. “You can share when we get home. If we don't tarry too long, they'll still be warm.”
Valjean inclined his head. Then he reached out for Javert's hand, and together they moved past a young couple on skates to make their way across the river.
It was strange to see the town from this perspective. They were not far from the bridge, yet even so, Javert had spent too many years in this city to not be bewildered by this sudden change in the face of Paris. Usually loud, boisterous, dirty and grandiose all at once, today Paris was quiet, the air filled with serene expectation. Even the revelers on the ice did not break this strange quietude, for the falling snow muffled all sounds until it became a curtain of gentle, distant mirth that surrounded them, but did not intrude upon their comfortable companionship.
Javert held on to Valjean's hand. The ice was slippery enough where the snow had been trodden down or blown away that it was good to have the support. Of course, what no spectator could know was that he knew every finger, every scar and wrinkle of Valjean's skin intimately, and that in this gentle clasp of hands he carried a love with him across this river of ice that was as baffling and overwhelming to him as it had been when he first became aware of it.
Right now, what he wanted more than anything was to thread his fingers through Valjean's hair and draw that face close to kiss the taste of snow from Valjean's mouth.
He could not, of course. Not here, in any case. But perhaps, if they made their way home through an empty park—or in any case, they could take the way back home through the Rue du Babylone for old times' sake, to kiss and hold hands in the secret passageway like students drunk on wine.
“Look,” Valjean said softly and pointed towards a small group of children playing at the opposite river bank.
What was Valjean seeing as he watched them, Javert wondered as they slowly crossed the ice. Was he imagining Cosette in their place? Was he remembering Cosette as she had been?
Javert had no recollection of her; even his sharp policeman's memory could not conjure up more than the dark silhouette of a child against the night sky when long ago, a man and a child fled across the Pond d'Austerlitz. Madame Pontmercy was an impressive young woman, whose origin, which was so at odds with her character, to this day still baffled Javert—though he would not say as much to Valjean. These troubling thoughts were for him alone to gnaw on like a nut.
Still, from Valjean's recollections, she had been a child quite unlike those cheerful bourgeois with their warm coats and their balls and dolls and governess watching over them with the tired, indulgent mien of an old guard dog.
Was Valjean seeing her as she had been then even now? The frightened, starved girl with chilblains and a black eye? Javert could think of no reason why one should think of such things upon a day such as this, save that it was Jean Valjean who stood beside him, and Jean Valjean's thoughts often seemed to center on what he thought lost, rather than on what there was or could be.
“In ten years, I wager Pontmercy will have you amuse a brood just like that out on the ice here,” Javert said firmly, and felt relief when Valjean chose not to argue with him for once.
Valjean turned his head towards the children at play once more, looking wistful. “It's rare to have it freeze like this...”
“You need not have them on the river, of course,” Javert said a little impatiently. “Take them to the Luxembourg, or for all I care find some frozen pond in this city. What matters is, there'll be more winters than you can count, and you'll be here with me to live through all of them.”
Valjean turned towards him, a tinge of surprise on his face even as Javert realized just what he had given away.
“I am sorry,” Valjean said gently. “If I made you worry—”
“No, you fool,” Javert muttered, looking fretfully at the strands of Valjean's white hair that had escaped from beneath his hat. He wrung his hands, the need to pull Valjean close and kiss him breathless suddenly overwhelming. Sometimes that was so much easier than to try and put into words what he felt. “I'm not worried. I'm just—when you get all maudlin, I wonder—I wonder if you know how cherished you are. By your daughter,” he added, his face heating because Jean Valjean knew very well that he had not only talked of Cosette.
“Not only by her,” Valjean said in response, his voice still gentle. He reached out to talk hold of Javert's hand and pressed it lightly. “I know that well, Javert. Thank you.”
Again Javert felt his heart swell in his chest. He tightened his own fingers around Valjean's, and then, silently, slowly, their shoulders brushing against each other as they walked, they continued to cross the river.
How strange and peaceful it seemed to have the Seine frozen in its course. To think that a year and a half ago, he'd been tossed around by the currents, drowning in the dark waters that pulled him deeper into the abyss—and yet that terrifying precipice was now covered by a firm blanket of snow, a white hand brushing away the past to give them a blank slate.
Javert turned his head to look back. Behind them, the stretch of snow bore their footsteps, but even as he watched, the snowflakes kept slowly falling. Soon even these signs of their passage would be gone as well.
How wondrous it was to walk on this river now and feel nothing but contentment. There were so many questions that continued to gnaw at him. Every day brought new doubt and new battles to be fought. Sometimes he wished that Jean Valjean would take charge of this turmoil he had caused in his soul, and give him a new, straight path to follow. Should one's soul, once realizing its fault, not cleave to a new superior?
But Valjean in turn seemed pleased by Javert's struggle with his doubt, and so Javert struggled on. Still, there was a certain consolation in seeing the path they had made across the ice—together, even here where Javert had been nearly swallowed by darkness. He had forced Valjean to rescue him then; later, he had rescued Valjean in turn. Perhaps the world would never cease to vex him with its contradictions, but at least in this, there was little doubt left. This path they had taken was right. And so far, neither his doubts nor Patron-Minette had been able to part them.
When Javert turned back around, he saw that Valjean had stopped to watch the children at play. They were close enough now that Javert could make out the name of a small boat next to them, tied to the quay by a rope although there was no need for it—the ice held it more securely than any anchor. It was not one of the boats the washer-women used; it might have been a boat transporting goods into the city that had been surprised by the ice, for it was laden with boxes that would certainly go nowhere now for a few more days.
Valjean turned his head, and, at seeing Javert watching, smiled and held out his hand. The moment their eyes met, once more warmth spread through Javert, just as a light animated Valjean's features. Valjean's eyes seemed illuminated by a flame within, the strong body—despite its age and the burdens which these shoulders had been forced to carry—graceful and young once more as he stood in the swirling snow. A slight breeze was tugging on his scarf as he waited for Javert, love smoothing away the lines of the years behind them.
It was at that moment that Javert became aware of the child behind Valjean. The boy of the group they had observed earlier might have slid too close to where, perhaps, a man might have tried to saw a hole into the ice to try and fish in the morning. Or perhaps, with the added burden of the heavy boxes, the current of the fierce river beneath had pushed and pulled at the boat's keel, until at last something gave and a weakness was introduced into the ice.
Yet regardless of how the event had occurred, what was of importance was that at that moment, with Valjean stretching out his hand to encourage Javert to close up to him, and Javert watching Valjean's features with loving covetousness, a soft groan echoed through the ice. A faultline had been introduced, and now it spread, slowly at first, then as fast as lightning. In the matter of a heartbeat, the little boy in his warm coat of navy wool staggered, a terrified look spreading on the narrow face—and then he sank into the freezing water like a stone when the ice gave way beneath him.
The remaining children and their governess cried out in terror. Javert, who had watched the tragedy unfurl with mounting horror, hastened forward, only to stop when he saw the cracks in the ice spreading towards where Valjean was standing.
Distantly, he was aware of other cries of alarm when more and more people on the ice became aware of what had happened—but all he had eyes for was Valjean.
At that first sound of panic, Jean Valjean had turned, in time to see no more than that little boy's hat sink beneath the water. Beneath his strong body, the ice was shivering, cracks spreading rapidly as though lightning was making its path through the ice. Any sane man would have tried to find secure footing, away from where the ice might break away completely any moment and swallow them all.
Not so Jean Valjean.
Without a moment's doubt, Jean Valjean had taken a step forward.
As the ice beneath him trembled, he went to his knees, still making his way forward. Despite the danger, all he seemed to have eyes for was the spot where the ice had burst. Javert in turn could only watch as Valjean moved slowly forward until he reached the water. The ice was groaning as it shifted beneath him, a deep, hollow sound of frozen agony that made fear clench like a fist around Javert's heart.
Jean Valjean seemed to have no regard at all for the danger he was in. He ignored the treacherous, unstable ice that might break away any moment. Instead, he leaned forward, his own hat falling from his head as his arm entered the water up to his shoulder, trying to grasp hold of the child.
Had he touched the boy beneath the water? Had there been the brush of water-logged coat against his fingertips, or the pressure of a small, desperate hand grasping and sliding out of his own?
Javert did not know. Even as he watched in frozen terror, all he saw was the pallor of Valjean's face as he turned his head. Their eyes met, only for the time of a heartbeat—then Valjean pulled off his own warm coat and slid into the water without a word.
A groan escaped Javert's chest when he watched Valjean vanish.
The water was freezing, and even with the river frozen, the current had to be strong beneath the ice. How long could a man survive in such a situation? And, even should Valjean find the child down there—how would he be able to make his way back against the current to find this hole in the ice?
Fear drove Javert forward. He ignored the cries of panic from the onlookers. He could only think of Valjean lost beneath the ice as he went down onto his hands and knees, desperately crawling towards where he had seen Valjean vanish. There were cracks in the ice beneath his hands. When he moved, he could feel the ice give a little, an instability that worsened the further he made his way forward. Still he could not stop.
He held no illusions as to his own strength. He was not Jean Valjean; he could not dive into a frozen river and rescue both a man and a child. But perhaps, if he was at least able to drop his scarf into the hole, Valjean would see it and know where to return to...
A loud crack heralded a further bursting of the ice. This time, the boat that had been frozen in its grasp shook, water lapping up its side as a sheet of ice splintered away.
Javert held still for a terrified moment as the ice beneath him quaked. The cracks kept spreading—but, miraculously, the ice still held. He was close to the hole now. How long had Valjean been in the water? How long until a man froze to death in such conditions?
Again the ship groaned as the ice encasing its hull shifted—and then, from that new hole that had opened up by its side, to Javert's right, a familiar figure appeared.
Wide-eyed, Javert watched as Valjean's head burst forth from the water. Valjean was paler than Javert had ever seen him before, nearly as white as the ice. In a show of nearly impossible strength, Valjean managed to hold on to the broken ice and heave the little boy onto it, and then struggle until he had managed to make it onto the unstable ice with half his chest, the rest of his body still submerged in the freezing water.
Javert forgot all fear at the sight. Disregarding the dangerously groaning ice, he made his way forward as quickly as he could, staying on hands and knees as the ice beneath him continued to groan and shudder. Yet Javert was beyond fear now. If it splintered, let him drown with Valjean. If it held, let them both live. No other outcome was imaginable.
He reached the boat where Valjean was still struggling to make his way out of the water almost simultaneously with two other men. One of them scooped the child up in his arms and carried it back to safety, the other ignored the danger of the ice that might splinter beneath their feet any moment, kneeling down by Javert's side. Together, they grabbed hold of Valjean's shoulders and hauled him out of the water.
Javert's heart was pounding as he looked down at him. Valjean's skin was still white, his lips blue. He recognized Javert—his eyes flickered weakly towards his face, even though he was too weak to struggle to his feet on his own.
“Thank you,” Javert said to the stranger, his voice breaking, “thank you.”
There were tears in his eyes as he looked down at Valjean. He tried to speak, but no word would come out. Then the ice made another agonized sound, and they grabbed hold of Valjean's shoulders once more to drag him away to firmer ground as quickly as possible.
A crowd had gathered now, but Javert had no eyes for it, nor for the cheering that greeted Valjean. To his right, the governess was sobbing, the child now wrapped in her furs as another gentlemen hustled them away to a carriage.
The sight cut through some of the daze that had taken over Javert's mind; all of a sudden, he saw with terrifying clarity the frozen water dripping from Valjean, the uncontrollable trembling of his muscles, the way that Valjean was leaning heavily onto him.
“Monsieur, if you please,” he said roughly, “a carriage—”
“He needs a doctor!” an onlooker cried out, and another “Quick, a hot bath! That poor old gentleman!”
“Take my coat,” a stranger offered, and Javert took hold of it and wrapped it around Valjean's shaking shoulders.
The Rue de l'Homme-Armé was closer than the Rue Plumet; they would not have Toussaint there, but the landlady would run for a doctor.
“A carriage,” he begged again, and then, blinking, saw that a fiacre had already halted before them at the quay.
“Your friend is a hero, monsieur,” the man who had helped him said fervently. “Can I offer my home—”
“He lives close by,” Javert replied, his lips numb, becoming ever more aware of Valjean's trembling and the uncommon silence. “Thank you. Thank you, monsieur.”
The man pressed a coin into the driver's hand, and a moment later, Javert found himself bundled into the carriage together with Valjean as the horses raced off.
Valjean was icy cold in Javert's arms. He did not speak. Tremors wracked his entire body, his clothes dripping freezing water into the carriage's velvet. With trembling fingers, Javert pushed the stranger's coat off and then quickly pulled the wet shirt from Valjean's body. Valjean did not resist. His eyes were closed and his face looked ashen, sending another jolt of terror through Javert.
But there was no time for panic now. Valjean needed him. Any moment now they would be home, and he would make sure that Valjean regained his spirits.
“Here,” he whispered, pulling off his own coat. Then he drew Valjean's unresistant body against his chest. He wrapped Valjean's arms around his own body, ignoring the coldness of his limbs, and then draped the coat around them.
“Hold on to me,” he muttered. “Don't fall asleep. We'll be home in a minute.”
Valjean did not answer, but his arms seemed to tighten around Javert, who wound his own arms around Valjean's back to pull him even closer. Briskly, Javert began to stroke up and down Valjean's torso, trying to rub some warmth back into the frozen muscles.
Valjean's head rested on his shoulder; even Valjean's breath seemed strangely cold where it brushed against Javert's skin. How much longer? Javert craned his head and thought he had caught a glimpse of a familiar street.
“I'll draw you a hot bath,” he whispered hoarsely into Valjean's hair. “And then to bed with you. You'll be as good as new tomorrow. I promise.”
There was no reply from Valjean. A part of Javert knew that he was only trying to allay his own fears—but was it not true that Valjean was inhumanly strong? Had he not survived both the ocean and the Seine before? Surely this short return into the river would do him no harm.
The river could not have him yet. Not now. Not ever.
The carriage's wheels screeched on the cobblestone as the horses were reined in. The grateful strangers had paid the driver generously at the river. Together with the story of what Jean Valjean had done, this impelled the man to help Javert lead Valjean all the way up the stairs to Valjean's old apartment. The commotion had called forth the portress too, who clasped her hands in front of her chest at the sight and then hurried away at Javert's terse command to start heating water for a bath.
They had not used this apartment in a while, but there was wood left next to the stove. Javert set forth to kindle the fire as soon as he had Valjean settled down in a chair, the wet clothes pulled off him and an old blanket wrapped tightly around him.
Then the portress reappeared with the first of what was to be many buckets of warm water. It took a long while to fill the bath; at first, Valjean would rest in the bathtub deathly pale, his entire body shivering as though he was still submerged in the icy water. But with every bucket of warm water Javert added, his limbs gained color, and little by little, some life seemed to return to him.
When the bath was filled at last, Javert could coax him to drink a cup of hot broth the portress had quickly heated for him. Afterward, Javert used a cloth to gently wash Valjean's face with hot water. He ran it tenderly all over the broad nape and the damp forehead, squeezing warm water over the sodden tresses of white until Valjean's face was warm to the touch when Javert traced the lines of his face with worried fingertips.
“To bed now,” Javert murmured and helped Valjean stand. The bed had been hastily warmed with hot stones. Javert did not bother with nightshirts; after he had toweled Valjean dry, he helped him into bed, only to pull off all of his own clothes and crawl in after him.
It was warm beneath the covers. Javert was pleased to feel Valjean's skin hot against his own as he drew him into an embrace. His own hands were trembling slightly as he brushed damp locks away from Valjean's forehead, but now the danger was past: now he had Valjean safe and sound here in his arms, in their bed. Now, at last, it was safe to let the fear catch up with him.
“I thought I'd lost you.” Javert's voice nearly broke at the admission. He kissed Valjean's hair, then tightened his arms around him. “Oh, when you emerged from the water again, I thought my heart would burst with relief.”
“Forgive me,” Valjean breathed. His voice was weak and rough, but it was the first time he had spoken since they had pulled him from the water, and the sound of it sent a wave of joy through Javert.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Javert whispered back, even though he did not know how he would have survived without Jean Valjean by his side. Would he have cast himself into the icy hole after him, to find his grave in the river by Valjean's side? He could not say, even now.
But what mattered was that once more, God had returned this man to him.
Slowly, his panicked grip on Valjean began to relax a little. Despite the warmth, tremors still ran through the powerful body every now and then. Beneath the blanket, Javert ran his hands soothingly over the broad shoulders, along the arms that had now torn two lives from the embrace of the river. He spread his fingers, flattened his palms, touching every inch of skin he could reach as though he could force warmth into Valjean by the force of his love alone.
When at last he drew his hands up and down Valjean's chest, the thick carpet of curls still slightly damp, the tremors had lessened. Beneath his palms, he could feel Valjean's heartbeat. It was regular and strong, the thuds of Valjean's heart vibrating against his skin until he could not keep his emotions reined in anymore and had to bend his head, pressing his mouth to where Valjean's heart was beating.
Let me have him, he prayed fervently, dizzy at the magnitude of the loss that could have been. That is all I ask. Let me have him for every day I am alive. And when he is gone, then take me too.
Slowly, gently, Valjean's hand slid into his hair. He felt Valjean's thumb graze his ear, then follow the line of his whiskers downward. With a sigh, Javert raised his head. For a long moment, they gazed at each other.
Valjean looked tired and worn, but his eyes were clear. He needed rest. But surely, once he woke in the morning, he would be well again. Jean Valjean was resilient. Javert clung to that thought even as he moved his mouth to Valjean's shoulder, his lips seeking out a small scar that had been left by their torment in the caves.
When would this man cease to make his heart beat with fear? Once having found Valjean, it was impossible to imagine releasing him. No, not even to the embrace of death. Had they not fought too long and too well for this life to surrender it to the river, who after all had been bested before?
At the thought, a smile began to tug at Javert's lips. “That river must be jealous, for he nearly had you once, and thought to entrap you again. You have bewitched the water as you have bewitched me. Promise me, Jean Valjean... If there are grandchildren, you won't take them across that river again.”
Valjean laughed, tiredly and hoarsely. His hand came up to stroke Javert's cheek again, the motion still feeble but not without affection.
“The things you say,” Valjean said fondly. “As though that river has not better things to entrap than an old man.”
Then he shuddered slightly, his eyes darkening. “Though the Seine very nearly took that child. It was so dark below—I almost did not see him. Perhaps you are right, Javert. Perhaps—if there is a grandchild—it might be superstition, but perhaps I should not—”
“Sleep, you fool,” Javert murmured tenderly and rolled onto his side, drawing Valjean with him. One of Valjean's thighs came to settle between his legs, and he cradled Valjean's head in his hands.
“Sleep. No more walks on the ice. But,” he said, brushing a tender finger along Valjean's clean-shaven cheek despite the fear that still clenched around his heart, “don't ever forget that without you there today, a child would have died, and a mother would have mourned. Don't ever doubt that you are the most formidable guardian a child could have. But now that we have cheated the river twice, perhaps we should take a child to the Luxembourg instead. How does that sound? Do you think you can retire from adventures?”
Valjean laughed tiredly against his throat. “I've never sought them out,” he murmured. “All the same... No more Catacombs, Javert. No more abductions or rivers. I promise it.”
Javert allowed his lips to brush Valjean's hair once more as he tightened his arms around him in response. Perhaps for one night, they could both pretend that this was the truth. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, it would bring with it the knowledge that this beautiful, maddening man in his arms still considered his life as of too little worth to think twice about risking it, if it would save another. And in truth, having seen the child sink beneath the ice, Javert could not fault him for risking his own life to save the boy.
But today, for this one night, with Valjean at last safe and warm in his arms, he would close his eyes and pray for a Christmas miracle of his own, begging that whatever the future might hold, no adventure would ever tear them apart. As long as Valjean was by his side, Javert knew himself blessed.