[fic] Toil Until the Old Colours Fade 6a/8 [Les Misérables]
Title: Toil Until the Old Colours Fade
Pairing: Javert/Jean Valjean
Content notes: Groundhog Day / Time Loop, Violence, Temporary Character Death, Suicide, Purgatory
Rating: Mature
Acknowledgements: Beta by voksen and morgan. Thank you!
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Read Chapter six: The last picture painted
The nineteenth time
He rose gradually to consciousness, the waters of the Seine unwilling to release him; he was tired enough that he did not mind remaining in their embrace a while.
He rose, slowed by his pains and sorrows. When he made the bed, the mild scent of lavender teased his senses and he recalled a spring day and an arm crooked comfortably in his own. The sharp ache made him clumsy and a pillow fell to the floor. He bent to retrieve it slowly, his old soul weighing down his battered body.
Outside his room, the maid hummed her familiar tune while she passed his room; the never-changing pails of water in her hands. Though he was still in his nightclothes, he grabbed his greatcoat, buttoned it hastily and went to help her. Another lonely moment was more than he could bear.
Upon returning to his room, his body went through the familiar motions; shaving - with hands that barely shook - washing, dressing properly. He watched the face in the mirror; young, by God, young again but marked so deeply by sorrow.
But only sorrow, today. Nothing darker, nothing close to that twisted being he had seen in his reflection the last time he awoke in this room.
He had bolted from sleep in wild despair then, had thrown on his clothes, forgotten his hat, and escaped from the town in a thunder of hooves. Behind him, the yells of his men had rung ignored. He had ridden towards the distant sea, whipping his horse into a foamy lather to heed the call of that great empty water that offered him a false promise of relief.
Thoughts too heavy to stand, he had been halfway wishing to throw himself into the depths, to simply die and die and die forever until there was no mind left in his broken body; only the panicked bucking of his horse had thrown him off this path. When the beast had bolted, he'd been left dizzy and aching on the ground. He could not even manage to break his neck properly, and, before he could escape, two of his men caught up with him.
They had been confused and suspicious of his actions; had brought him back to town and thought to take him to his superior. He had been too tired to protest, until he realized that their road led to the mayor's office; then, he'd balked. An argument erupted, ending only when he realized that the lingering crowd and the broken down cart must mean the mayor was already gone. A day's reprieve.
This sight had given him back some sense and he had drawn the tatters of authority around himself; convinced the men to take him to the church, where he had collapsed in a shadowed alcove before the empty eyes of a distant saint. There, he had knelt on the stone floor, his hands clasped in false prayer, without a speck of hope left.
For hours he had remained such, torn between his longing for oblivion and the fear of where death would land him next (the same morning the same morning you must meet him the same morning he doesn't know the same morning he isn't the same never the same), caught in the demonic jaws of indecision and unable to move, even as he had known that remaining could only rip him apart.
Darkness had fallen and the false colours of the church windows were wiped away by the shadows; mud beneath, muddy darkness above, dirt in every Word and thought. Into that dark church another lost soul had stumbled. Staggering beneath the weight of her burdens, she had fallen to her knees in front of the Virgin Mother. Her prayers had been too fervent and too loud, so unskilled and interrupted by enough pathetic sobs, that his mind pounded with the agony of her honesty, until he thought he might throw up from the pitiful weight of her hope.
For she had it still, that which his fear had drowned; through her misery, inside her terror, there was that pulsating artery of a heart still believing. As much as it had disgusted him, his eyes searched for her in the dark church and his ears strained to hear the words inside her babbling. This woman who had died for her child so many times, who had suffered so many indignities, yet fought to the bitter end in each life he had known her.
He found them both repulsive. The woman who fumbled her single chance to a proper life - the failure of a man who could not manage to change anything, keep anything, be anything but a failure no matter how many changes he was given.
Oh, how he had wished that he could hate her properly, that he could steel his heart against her hopes and struggles.
Like a thin nail driven into a plank at the right spot can crack a length of unyielding wood, this tiny wish, this petty, foul dream had been enough to break him apart. His wishes had come pouring back in, had widened the cracks, splintered his soul until he was reeling with pain; and still she had remained crying and praying, hoping and hoping and hoping for one more day of life, one more reprieve from the abyss of the destitute.
And finally the splinters that were all that remained of him had bowed in awe of her hope; had dared share it once more. He had clambered to his feet and looked up into the painted eyes of St. Maurice, he who protected the soldier and walked into death without lifting his own sword; the smallest, simplest prayer had escaped him then.
"Please, my Lord, show mercy."
Then he had walked to the woman, taken her hand, and brought her to the home of the one who could help. Had knocked, and the door had opened, and he had closed his eyes lest he shatter at the sight. But his mouth had worked; he had spoken without seeing, pushed the woman inside and heard her begin her tale while he walked off into the night.
He had walked down the street, turned a corner, imagined the pistol his men had taken from him and the relief it could give, knowing no escape and no end. On that walk, while fully feeling the suffering that only hope could bring... The pain of one who must dream of mercy were none is to be found... Then, he had thought he knew what Hell was.
And then there had been a hand on his shoulder, and Valjean's voice had spoken to him through the dread, and the word had been a hesitant "Inspector?" and it had broken his world.
He had wept then, had fallen to his knees on a dark street in Montreuil-sur-Mer and cried for all that he had lost. Wept for the love that still filled him, so sharp and useless like broken glass. Wept for the world that was beyond his reach, and wept most of all for this man whose comforting voice betrayed no familiarity at all, and whom Javert still had the temerity to love.
But instead of calling him mad, instead of fleeing from him, Valjean had pulled him to his feet and taken him to his home. There, in the warmth, among the candles, the housekeeper had put out bread and drink for the mayor and Fantine and Javert too, had been invited to share the table. He had confessed then, had told of all he knew, his rambling tale of destiny and death. He had told of the Bishop's gift and Cosette's life, and they had stared in shock. He had spoken of Toulon and the foreman's wandering hands, and all the misfortunes that he knew and they had trembled - but had also believed him.
Then the mayor hastened to order two girls be brought to him immediately, money no limit; while Fantine asked him to describe her daughter grown once more, as if she sensed the shadow in her lungs which would keep the sight from her in all lives. And before the night was over, they had spilled further tears together for cruel time, which always ran too fast and never lasted long enough for love.
Come morning, Monsieur le Maire allowed Javert to kiss his hands, had spoken a prayer for his soul; no revulsion to be found in him, only infinite pity and a gentle curiosity.
And he and Fantine had stood together, had waved farewell together, while Javert rode off towards Paris.
His fears had haunted him still, and each moment of warmth recalled a happier time, each bed was too large and empty without his presence; but his grief was freed, and every memory mourned washed another dagger from his soul.
So had he reached Paris: hurt, but not broken. Grieving, but no longer without hope. And he had gone through the alleys where they had died, climbed into the bowels of the city, had mapped the underground passages and tried to learn the twists and turns of each road to escape.
When he had finished, when he knew every route to escape through the dark, then Javert had gone to the bridge where it all began and ended. He had consigned his soul to Fate once more, for there was nothing more for him in this world. He left - not falling down into the void, but diving towards the future, in search of the place where hope bloomed and he might at last find the path his soul longed for.
Now, when Javert saw himself in the mirror, he saw a hard man who had been broken and reforged and wavered on the edge of everything. There were still cracks in him; how could there not be, when his every fault had been torn open and repaired over and over again?
But like the memories inside, the scars he could see were only witnesses of the road travelled, and as he recalled all the sorrow and anger, weighed it against the fleeting moments of joy, he amazed himself with this thought: that the scales still balanced. To know Valjean's secret smile again, to know his nearness and, if only for a petty moment, stand in the world together...
Perhaps he would falter and perhaps he would fall. Certainly there was not strength enough in him to rise back up many more times, but beyond the fear waited grace and he was sworn to follow.
With a final prayer, Javert adjusted his hat and took his cane, and then he braved the hardest thing of all his lives; he walked out to meet the day and did it with the knowledge that his heart was defenceless before love.
Their steps echoed on the wide marble stairs; Javert's secure and steady, while Valjean's were slowing the further up they came, his soles dragging on the stone as if he knew not whether to turn back or attempt to tip-toe his way through this bastion of Law.
Finally, when he had fallen dozen steps behind Javert turned and looked down at him, twirling his nightstick impatiently. Valjean raised his hands in an apologetic fashion, but though he hurried to catch up, one could not escape the impression that he was sneaking in where he was not allowed to be.
"Come," Javert chided, "I have told you that I have permission to be here at night. Nobody shall mind a guest. Nobody will question your presence."
"Pardon," Valjean murmured. "But it is..." Looking around at the gilded lamps and stern men in heavy frames that gazed out at them from the corridors, he made a helpless gesture at the splendour.
"Yes, it is the Palais de Justice," Javert said in a tone that made it clear that they had discussed the topic further than his patience stretched, "but these stairs are merely stone, as my uniform is only cloth. The building is not the same as its purpose; that honour falls on the work done here every day. Now come, or we will attract attention." And he moved the stick to his other hand and held it behind Valjean so that he must hurry up or feel it's weight against his spine. Once Valjean was walking at an acceptable speed, Javert once again stomped ahead, tramping on each step as if it had personally offended him.
They were stopped by no one, though one guard saw and hailed them, which had Valjean grabbing his elbow in a bruising grip.
Upon reaching the top level, Javert took out the little key to the rooftop chapel he had received this morning; while he had not minded taking the attic way until he was officially granted permission to visit this chapel, he had suspected that Valjean would not stand for such a path. Instead, he had waited with some impatience until this privilege had been granted him once more.
When Javert closed the door behind them, shielding them from the Law in this little room devoted to God, Valjean made no effort to hide his sigh of relief. Deciding that he'd better not bring up the fact that they would have to walk back out, in case he'd attempt to climb down the building façade instead, Javert opened the door to the roof. It slid open as easily as ever and he stepped out into the balmy night air.
"Oh..." Valjean followed him, and his face softened with delight as he beheld the Notre-Dame in starlight.
"Did I not promise to show you the Paris that I knew?"
Javert stepped up on the edge of the balustrade, letting his gaze sweep over the city; sleeping and yet not, Paris at night was his to guard. It remained both his duty and saving grace to feel the weight of that shield, to know that his strength helped hold it aloft and helped protect so many. To watch the city from this heart of Law itself helped remind him this; made the duty a pleasure in the same breath. Only when his eyes slid over the distant river, did Javert's lips thin with disdain, though he nodded towards it as one might to a familiar adversary. Another round was nearing its end...
The yank at his coat upset his balance; for one vertiginous moment Javert swayed on the parapet, before he stumbled gracelessly into Valjean's arms.
"What the blazes are you doing?" he spat, batting at the other man's grip, pulse racing as recollections of other, longer falls rose within him.
"I? You are the one who stood -" Valjean sounded outraged and his hands bunched the coat even tighter. "You were not even looking where you put your feet! If you fall from this height..."
Glancing at the parapet, Javert tried to recall if he had managed any steps before Valjean yanked him back, then dismissed the matter as unimportant. Of all the things to fret about!
"I will not fall off a roof," he insisted haughtily. "And let go of me, before you tear my clothing!"
"I knew you liked to go up in the church tower to watch Montreuil-sur-Mer, but I had no idea you indulged in such... such..." Valjean shook his head, the perfect likeness of a father too outraged to find words to describe the latest foolishness of his child.
Javert did not appreciate the image and, pushing Valjean away with a firm hand, he took a slow, deliberate step up the parapet, his stick kept between them in a clear warning. "I am not your child to need scolding," he reminded him, "nor am I your underling any longer. And for your information, you wall-scaling, sea-diving, mountain-climbing old parole breaker - do not frown at me so, for if you treat me as the boy I have not been for decades, I may as well treat you as the con you no longer are - there is a perfectly simple reason that I never stepped out at the edge of the bell tower in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Two, in fact: the railing is rounded, and anyway, I would have hit my head on the roof."
Seeing that Valjean was furtively edging closer, Javert gave him a mocking smile and walked, backwards, towards the further edge of the roof while keeping Valjean and the great stone eagle well in sight. While he did not fear a misstep, not from this particular ledge, it would be beyond embarrassing if he mistook the distance in his annoyance and his foot landed on nothing. He need not have worried about going too far; after only three steps Valjean yielded, backing off and raising his hands in surrender. He still appeared honestly frightened for Javert's sake and had it not been so annoying, he might have appreciated the show of concern.
"I do not fall," Javert repeated, tapping his stick against the edge, "unless men like you upset my balance first."
Wetting his lips, Valjean gave a hesitant nod. "I see your point. Nevertheless, for the sake of my nerves, would you please get off that ledge?"
"You need only ask, Monsieur," he said and gave a polite bow, stepping down until the parapet was between him and the empty air.
Never burdened with an inclination to vertigo, the years had stripped Javert of all fear for such mundane depths. He still opted not to protest when Valjean sidled between him and the edge, using the excuse that he wished see the city better. They had come up here because Javert wished to show him that view, after all.
Only a few clouds drifted over the sky, though they had earlier lain like a ragged blanket over the moon. Now, dispersing in the wind, they fluttered away, so that both the city and the great cathedral were washed in milky light.
"Do not worry about me," Javert said and took Valjean's hand, guiding it so he might more easily find the sights Javert wished to show. "Look, instead, at this city I serve and care for."
And he spoke: of crimes he'd seen committed, in alley and wealthy house alike; of how bound his hands could be in the latter case; of the tiny moments of heroics - a small dog attacking a burglar, a woman protecting her child from her drunken husband, a boy climbing a pipe to escape a fire with his brother clinging to his back - and the tragedies and laughters that graced all souls in the city.
Most of all, he attempted to share his delight at those odd, coincidental moments where the ordinary transformed into beauty, whether by the grace of sunlight on a particular day, or even the mournful elegance of a gathering thundercloud. He tried to explain the rhythm of steps upon cobblestones that turned from clatter into dance for a few heartbeats. Or, equally precious and even more rare, the sudden stillness that might take even this great city; the way it pulled every face towards the heavens, as if great silent wings swept over the crowd for a moment.
So many moments, all of them hard to share in a way that did them justice; that was why Javert had brought them here tonight, to where he had always seen Paris at its clearest.
He had spoken for some time, lost himself in memories and vague dreams, when he became aware that Valjean stood so close that he could feel the warmth of his body. His eyes were closed and a small smile seemed to be playing on his lips.
Breaking off, Javert stepped away from him and leaned back against the roof. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them and grasped his stick tighter, then crossed them anyway, glaring at Valjean meanwhile.
"Why did you finish so abruptly?" Valjean asked, following him. "I have not heard you argue a cause so passionately since a councillor suggested that all jail-time ought to be exchangeable for fines. And, while your rhetoric at the time was impressive, I find it far more pleasant to hear you praise the virtues of Dame Paris."
"You should not humour me," Javert replied, "I can see when someone is about to fall asleep from my lectures."
Cocking his head, Valjean observed him in silence for a moment. "I was listening," he insisted, "I merely could not follow the particulars of where any given episode took place; your grasp on the local geography has always far surpassed mine. To better concentrate on your words, I opted not to try. It is not where an event happened that matters, no? It is all your Paris, in the end."
"Don't mock me," Javert said.
"I'm not." He shook his head and dared brush a hand against Javert's shoulder. "It is my Paris too; and my daughters' and a thousand other souls' as well. But tonight, you showed me your city. I find it fascinating to see this undiscovered treasure in what I thought I knew so well, my friend."
There was silence between them for a while before Javert inclined his head. "I apologize for my hasty conclusions, then. Though the subject is dear to me, it is not one I am used to sharing with others."
Waving him off, Valjean rested his back against the tiles, and turned his face towards the heavens. "We both tend to ramble, I suppose, and have not always found willing listeners. One of the many things I missed when I moved from Montreuil-sur-Mer was mulling over my thoughts and then having them tested by you. Letters only go so far..." He gave Javert a fond look, then whispered the next words as if they were a secret admission. "Though I found it considerably easier to structure my arguments and poke holes in yours when my only opponent was a piece of paper rather than a stubborn Inspector - who dared come up with the most uncomfortable counterpoints to my elegant words." The grin he threw now Javert was so full of mischief that it took at least a decade away from his features.
"I'm afraid I must disagree with you again regarding the ease of correspondence for discussions; your hand is atrocious and the less said of my struggles with Le Dictionnaire, the better."
"This from the man who taught himself enough Italian to read Dante in the original?"
Javert shuddered at the memory. "That, Monsieur, was a far from voluntary undertaking." He was surprised by the loud laugh that escaped Valjean at his pronouncement.
"My apologies, Javert," he finally said, a chortle still playing beneath his words, "but when you are certain that nobody can see you, you have a very expressive face. Yes, just like that."
"You are here to see."
That silenced Valjean's hilarity. "Yes. But I do not quite count... do I?"
Javert recrossed his arms and refused to meet his searching gaze.
"I do not understand what you are referring to. We worked towards similar goals for a while; that ended earlier than you might wish, but went as well as it could, given the circumstances. We have corresponded for years, on pleasant terms I believe, and now we meet as friends. Should I act the police inspector with you, and nothing more?"
"That is not what I meant," Valjean said, his voice soft and his accusation loud, "and it is unfair of you to pretend so."
"Unfair? Of me?" Outraged, Javert turned towards him, glaring at Valjean who still reclined against the roof but whose arms too had crossed.
And had they been elsewhere, had the wind not pulled a veil of clouds over the winking eye of the moon, perhaps their fate would have taken a different turn and they would have gone down and walked separately into the night. Old friends who remained such and no more until the day the barricade fell, when death haphazardly reaped them along with all the young lives it had come to gather.
But the clouds hid the waxing moon and, in the soft light of the stars, a great many things are hidden while the most precious ones might be revealed. And between a breath and a word yet unspoken, there lay a world of memory; the sight caught Javert wholly unaware and swept him away.
It had been a similar night in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when the calendar showed them standing at that elusive border between spring and summer, when Javert had met Monsieur le Maire while finishing his shift. Because the night was rowdy and he had already broken up two fights, he offered to accompany the worthy gentleman to his home. Once there, he had been invited inside and, though his logic told him it was unwise to accept, Javert had followed.
They had shared a glass of wine, white at Javert's request, and discussed some trivialities of the day. He had almost managed to ignore how delightful the crinkles around Monsieur le Maire's eyes were in the light of the candles.
He had not been able to ignore it when the good man clasped his hand and squeezed it so firmly. From Monsieur le Maire, an expression of innocent joy at the memory of a shared triumph over the reactionary forces in the town - to Javert, a burning brand, a chain that fettered his hand and a benediction that made his spirits soar. How could he ignore what it meant to him? How was he to hide this longing?
Confusion on the adored face; a hesitant laugh, then Monsieur le Maire's hand relaxed in his grip. Not yet withdrawing, but giving him the chance to release without either of them having to notice. A chance, and Javert had failed to take it.
They had known each other little more than a year at that point. The trial in Arras was a recent thing; a fraught time where a revelation had been made and Monsieur le Maire had faced a hard choice, only to learn that he must neither suffer the consequences of his choice, nor fear that an innocent man would have to endure them in his place. After that, professional courtesy began to grow into something akin to friendship between them; arguments softened, the topics of their talks widening beyond daily matters, and they would freely seek each others company.
"Inspector." A light flush climbing up his face, Monsieur le Maire finally spoke, when it was clear that Javert wouldn't let go and pretend ignorance, "perhaps you might release me."
He could not. Javert sensed that he was wavering on the edge again, but it was not in him to let go; not when the candles glowed like gold, not when Monsieur le Maire's eyes remained so gentle, not when he still saw the shadow of love in each gesture and step.
"I cannot."
Then, Monsieur le Maire had tugged his hand away while Javert had bowed in silent apology. He had remained standing so while he'd listened to the mayor speak of their positions in the city, the need for respectability in the businessman, the secret of his past which could still cause disaster if it became known... Javert watched the well-washed floor intently while a thousand little logics were built into a fort against the yearnings of his heart.
"You do understand? I would hate for such a trifle to cause a rift between us. I would not wish to lose your regard at all."
And the Inspector had lifted his head and pulled his lips into a smile. He had agreed that it was indeed a petty thing; his promise to refrain from further impropriety was honestly meant, and his voice remained steady, his conduct professional, through the entire discussion. Though there remained some awkwardness between them for a time, Monsieur le Maire was forgiving of such little weaknesses, while the Inspector stubborn in his duties both professional and humanitarian. They continued to work well together, the matter fading over the years. When prudent warnings must be shared, they were heeded and caused no strife between them.
In the following years, they exchanged many letters. Years of worries and delights pinned down to paper and sent to the only other soul who knew all the little truths, leading to a new balance of friendship forming between them.
When Javert was transferred to Paris, he carried Valjean's letter of invitation in his pocket, and the evening had been pleasant: good conversation, frequent laughs, and the girls happy that an old friend had come visit their solitary father, even if they became bored by the old men's chosen topics of conversation.
Indeed, their friendship was built on a great many words. Through all these years, words had been their shelter and limit alike; in words, in discussions, they found themselves equal though set apart by class. With words, with logic, there was always something to distract from memories of another life; as long as they spoke or debated Javert needed to take no more care than to avoid the too-flattering candles and the dark, empty rooms where his dreams nested hidden, blotted out by the force of his will.
If Monsieur Fauchelevent had begun standing a little too close since Javert came to Paris, if some of the phrases he spoke had echoes of other meanings, they were nothing that could not be picked apart by more words, arguments, logic; the safer path, the one Javert had come to prefer.
So many words. So firm and respectable a friendship, such a dutiful monument of propriety and order. Yet, at the pinprick of a distant star, it popped like a soap bubble, leaving the tatters of an iridescent mystery behind.
"Don't look at me like that," Javert whispered, for the planes of Valjean's face were ashy grey in the night. In the light of the stars, he thought to see lines of pain carved in him; an echo, a phantom from another life, called up by Javert's half-mended heart. "Don't," he whispered again, while his hands fell down and his fingers scraped along the tiles.
For starlight was too ruthless and too graceful in equal measure; never had a phantom more beautiful appeared before him.
Valjean was still drawn in shadows, yes, he seemed filled with night. "Will you punish me for my cowardice for the rest of my life?"
"Punishment? You are a gentleman. You are a father." And I have grown afraid, Javert refrained from saying, for time was running short. "Your reputation has never mattered more!"
"A father, yes..." And finally, mercy be, Valjean closed his eyes and turned his face away. "I had no true wish to become one, at first. Did you know that, did I ever dare confess this in a letter?"
Javert could only reply with silence, heart still too wild for him to dare speak.
"I thought not; isn't it odd what makes us cowards?" Valjean seemed to search for words for a moment, before meeting Javert's gaze again; he nodded, then, and spoke. "Obligation drove me, and the feeling that I ought to... That I owed the world a repayment, for many things. Not in the least because I had led the most honest man I knew to the edge of perjury for my sake."
"I never lied," Javert said, his voice a rasp. There were no colours in this world, his mind whispered, no colours until the red of blood broke free and drowned the star-grey elegance anew.
"Not even by omission?" Valjean asked, and when he received no reply, he nodded again with grim satisfaction. "Of course I would have arranged for poor Fantine's child either way. I would have found her a good family one way or another. But that she should be mine? The thought seemed preposterous; what did I know of little girls. I recalled so little of families and knew nothing of raising a young lady. What," he pronounced slowly, and put a hand against the tiles, so close that the sleeve of his arm touched against Javert's ear, "in the world, did I know of love?"
"You have always loved! Everyone, each wretch and beggar, without discrimination." This was the truth, and Javert had known it; had comforted himself with it when his dreams took him to a different world, where the measure of love offered him had been so different in quality.
"Yes," Valjean said, "that was exactly what I told myself. I wished to love like an angel, without sin or a messy, human heart. And then I held her little hand and compassion was not enough." He bent forward, supporting himself against the roof with both hands, and it was hard to tell which of the two was trapped: Valjean, seeming chained to the wall and the Inspector; or Javert, surrounded by the strong arms, gaze bound to the man edging him in. Each held by old choices and the other's eyes alike.
"Then we gained Éponine," Valjean continued, "this wary, hungry little thing. She aroused my pity, she made me wish to do good, and I hurt her terribly thereby. A child is not - a daughter is not someone to be paid with rich food and dressed in fine clothes and gifted with expensive dolls; to be treated as a hothouse plant, locked away and ignored as long as she appears to be growing well."
His breath was growing short, fear thrumming within him, but Javert could neither move nor speak; this one thing had not changed since that long-ago night in the Mairie, despite his prayers and rationalizations. He could not let go nor turn away and close his ears.
"I must admit this to you so that you understand; forgive me, but I must," Valjean said, and he bent his head like a sinner confessing, the strands of his hair moving with Javert's breath. "I feared to love them not enough, but in truth, I feared far more to love them too much. For what pain did not await me in the future, if I did? How could I dare love them when one day I was sure to lose them to the world?"
"It would hurt," Javert said. "Oh God, I wish you need never know how it burns when all you love lies dead."
"I know the taste of it; I have lost all once before. My sister, her children... the little children that I had to abandon, that I was taken from so many years ago. But not once did I stop to think how I was losing the children that I had gained by lavishing them both with dead things, while closing my heart to one! Not until she tried to run did I understand."
Javert started, and Valjean raised his head, nodded in reply to the unvoiced question.
"Yes. She tried to run away, my little Éponine; left a note that she would make her own way in the world. And Cosette screamed at me then, as she has never screamed before! She cried and raged - they would argue often, before that, you see," Valjean said, his confession spilling out of him faster and faster. "They'd argue often, and there were so many tears in that first year, for one had just lost her mother and the other had, oh God, they were happy to sell her to me. To sell their own child! How could I deal with all their pain, I, who barely knew what love was? But when Éponine ran away and Cosette said she hated me for chasing her sister away, I thought my heart would stop with horror. A girl of twelve, alone in Paris' night. I hunted for her throughout the night... I climbed back into the convent we had stayed in, I ran up and down along the riverbanks, I asked every face that I met, even an officer of the law!" A choked sound escaped him, neither sob nor laughter, and when he continued, Valjean's eyes gleamed with something more than starlight reflected.
"And in the end it was Cosette who found her, hiding in the cellar! Asleep on a stack of firewood with my purse clutched in her little hands, but safe. The relief nearly robbed me of my senses and I realized the futility of my fears. Because, Javert, that relief taught me that it mattered not a whit what the future brought, for I already loved my little girls beyond sense and reason. And the fear... if fear is the price we have to pay, then let us pay it gladly, and love all the more to keep it at bay."
Javert's head jerked back at that, impacting with some noise against the roof. "Touching story," he said, "though I fail to see its relevance." But his eyes would not meet Valjean's and his hands strained against the tiles.
"I refuse to cower in fear any longer." They stood so close now that their breaths mingled in the balmy air. "I made a mistake, long ago, and I ask for your forgiveness. I ask for another chance."
"No," Javert said, something hysterical growing in his voice, "no, you will not do this to me again! It is too late - twelve, ten years is one thing, but it's summer already -" When Valjean's only answer was to bring his hand up, to dare run a finger through the short-cropped hair, he shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. "No. I cannot, I - Mercy."
"Should I leave, then?" Valjean asked. Ever so slowly, he began pushing himself away from the wall, slowly weighing back on his heels. "Should we walk down to the streets together, and pretend this is all nothing, that our letters have said all that can be said, and nothing but dry philosophy remains between us?"
"You don't understand."
"No," admitted Valjean, "it seems I never do. Either too early, or too late, and I'm sorry," his voice broke and his hands fell, "I'm so damned sorry that we keep passing by each other in the night!"
He made to turn but found a clammy grip held him back. When Valjean looked down, there was Javert's fingers tight around his own, and it was with growing joy that he searched for his gaze. The elation stuttered to a halt when it became clear that neither happiness nor any other warm emotion drove Javert. The way his lips trembled, the moon-white pallor visible even through the night, and the naked fear in every line of his body told a terrifying story.
"What is it? Have I wronged you so badly?"
A shake of his head. "Not you," Javert said. "Not you. Oh God, sweet merciful God, please..." His eyes shut, and he hissed in pain, crumpling against the wall. "Friendship I can stand, even if it hurts. But to love, Valjean? It destroys me wholly."
"Then..."
"I cannot," he admitted, "I still cannot resist it, even if it damns me forever." And he yanked Valjean closer, buried a hand in his greying locks, and kissed him with the hunger of one who has thirsted for a lifetime.
The sudden movement pulling him off-balance, Valjean fell against him. It was arms familiar with his body that caught him, it was lips that knew him well that pushed against his own, that teased and tasted and set him aflame, even as his hands floundered and his knees grew weak, until only Javert's arm around his back held him upright.
"How did -" he gasped when they separated, then decided to ignore the question, sought Javert's lips again, and they fell upon each other with a hunger too long pent up.
Javert's groan as a firm leg slipped in, pressing against his body, was echoed by Valjean's amazed exclamation. Neither could later recall whose hand had first fumbled open their buttons.
"We're on top," Valjean gasped between kisses, "ah, the Palais!"
"Not illegal," Javert said, and slipped a hand inside his trousers.
"Scandalous!"
Halting his movements for a moment, Javert brought his mouth close to Valjean's ear and whispered, "More shocking than stopping now and walking down all those steps? While any guard may see us in such a state?" The squeeze of his hand made it more than clear which state he was referring to. "And then what? We ought to walk, decorously, through the night and attempt to not reveal with a touch or a glance what madness roils inside us? I have done that for far too many nights," he confessed, his voice heated enough that Valjean shivered at it's caress, "and I can tell you, Monsieur, it is not a pleasant experience. Or perhaps we should take a carriage? And sit chastely in that closed box, not touching, not stroking, not holding you like this; why, I do believe we would need fetters and chains to manage that."
"No one will come here?" Valjean asked, but his answer was already obvious in the way he spread his legs wider and let his hands roam over Javert; in the wetness of his lips as he allowed himself to taste sweaty skin and in the deep, eager hunger of his voice.
"Nobody ever has," he promised.
Then they spoke no more and devoured each other beneath the stars.
Continue to the next part
Pairing: Javert/Jean Valjean
Content notes: Groundhog Day / Time Loop, Violence, Temporary Character Death, Suicide, Purgatory
Rating: Mature
Acknowledgements: Beta by voksen and morgan. Thank you!
Start from the beginning (see full header and content notes here)
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Read Chapter six: The last picture painted
The nineteenth time
He rose gradually to consciousness, the waters of the Seine unwilling to release him; he was tired enough that he did not mind remaining in their embrace a while.
He rose, slowed by his pains and sorrows. When he made the bed, the mild scent of lavender teased his senses and he recalled a spring day and an arm crooked comfortably in his own. The sharp ache made him clumsy and a pillow fell to the floor. He bent to retrieve it slowly, his old soul weighing down his battered body.
Outside his room, the maid hummed her familiar tune while she passed his room; the never-changing pails of water in her hands. Though he was still in his nightclothes, he grabbed his greatcoat, buttoned it hastily and went to help her. Another lonely moment was more than he could bear.
Upon returning to his room, his body went through the familiar motions; shaving - with hands that barely shook - washing, dressing properly. He watched the face in the mirror; young, by God, young again but marked so deeply by sorrow.
But only sorrow, today. Nothing darker, nothing close to that twisted being he had seen in his reflection the last time he awoke in this room.
He had bolted from sleep in wild despair then, had thrown on his clothes, forgotten his hat, and escaped from the town in a thunder of hooves. Behind him, the yells of his men had rung ignored. He had ridden towards the distant sea, whipping his horse into a foamy lather to heed the call of that great empty water that offered him a false promise of relief.
Thoughts too heavy to stand, he had been halfway wishing to throw himself into the depths, to simply die and die and die forever until there was no mind left in his broken body; only the panicked bucking of his horse had thrown him off this path. When the beast had bolted, he'd been left dizzy and aching on the ground. He could not even manage to break his neck properly, and, before he could escape, two of his men caught up with him.
They had been confused and suspicious of his actions; had brought him back to town and thought to take him to his superior. He had been too tired to protest, until he realized that their road led to the mayor's office; then, he'd balked. An argument erupted, ending only when he realized that the lingering crowd and the broken down cart must mean the mayor was already gone. A day's reprieve.
This sight had given him back some sense and he had drawn the tatters of authority around himself; convinced the men to take him to the church, where he had collapsed in a shadowed alcove before the empty eyes of a distant saint. There, he had knelt on the stone floor, his hands clasped in false prayer, without a speck of hope left.
For hours he had remained such, torn between his longing for oblivion and the fear of where death would land him next (the same morning the same morning you must meet him the same morning he doesn't know the same morning he isn't the same never the same), caught in the demonic jaws of indecision and unable to move, even as he had known that remaining could only rip him apart.
Darkness had fallen and the false colours of the church windows were wiped away by the shadows; mud beneath, muddy darkness above, dirt in every Word and thought. Into that dark church another lost soul had stumbled. Staggering beneath the weight of her burdens, she had fallen to her knees in front of the Virgin Mother. Her prayers had been too fervent and too loud, so unskilled and interrupted by enough pathetic sobs, that his mind pounded with the agony of her honesty, until he thought he might throw up from the pitiful weight of her hope.
For she had it still, that which his fear had drowned; through her misery, inside her terror, there was that pulsating artery of a heart still believing. As much as it had disgusted him, his eyes searched for her in the dark church and his ears strained to hear the words inside her babbling. This woman who had died for her child so many times, who had suffered so many indignities, yet fought to the bitter end in each life he had known her.
He found them both repulsive. The woman who fumbled her single chance to a proper life - the failure of a man who could not manage to change anything, keep anything, be anything but a failure no matter how many changes he was given.
Oh, how he had wished that he could hate her properly, that he could steel his heart against her hopes and struggles.
Like a thin nail driven into a plank at the right spot can crack a length of unyielding wood, this tiny wish, this petty, foul dream had been enough to break him apart. His wishes had come pouring back in, had widened the cracks, splintered his soul until he was reeling with pain; and still she had remained crying and praying, hoping and hoping and hoping for one more day of life, one more reprieve from the abyss of the destitute.
And finally the splinters that were all that remained of him had bowed in awe of her hope; had dared share it once more. He had clambered to his feet and looked up into the painted eyes of St. Maurice, he who protected the soldier and walked into death without lifting his own sword; the smallest, simplest prayer had escaped him then.
"Please, my Lord, show mercy."
Then he had walked to the woman, taken her hand, and brought her to the home of the one who could help. Had knocked, and the door had opened, and he had closed his eyes lest he shatter at the sight. But his mouth had worked; he had spoken without seeing, pushed the woman inside and heard her begin her tale while he walked off into the night.
He had walked down the street, turned a corner, imagined the pistol his men had taken from him and the relief it could give, knowing no escape and no end. On that walk, while fully feeling the suffering that only hope could bring... The pain of one who must dream of mercy were none is to be found... Then, he had thought he knew what Hell was.
And then there had been a hand on his shoulder, and Valjean's voice had spoken to him through the dread, and the word had been a hesitant "Inspector?" and it had broken his world.
He had wept then, had fallen to his knees on a dark street in Montreuil-sur-Mer and cried for all that he had lost. Wept for the love that still filled him, so sharp and useless like broken glass. Wept for the world that was beyond his reach, and wept most of all for this man whose comforting voice betrayed no familiarity at all, and whom Javert still had the temerity to love.
But instead of calling him mad, instead of fleeing from him, Valjean had pulled him to his feet and taken him to his home. There, in the warmth, among the candles, the housekeeper had put out bread and drink for the mayor and Fantine and Javert too, had been invited to share the table. He had confessed then, had told of all he knew, his rambling tale of destiny and death. He had told of the Bishop's gift and Cosette's life, and they had stared in shock. He had spoken of Toulon and the foreman's wandering hands, and all the misfortunes that he knew and they had trembled - but had also believed him.
Then the mayor hastened to order two girls be brought to him immediately, money no limit; while Fantine asked him to describe her daughter grown once more, as if she sensed the shadow in her lungs which would keep the sight from her in all lives. And before the night was over, they had spilled further tears together for cruel time, which always ran too fast and never lasted long enough for love.
Come morning, Monsieur le Maire allowed Javert to kiss his hands, had spoken a prayer for his soul; no revulsion to be found in him, only infinite pity and a gentle curiosity.
And he and Fantine had stood together, had waved farewell together, while Javert rode off towards Paris.
His fears had haunted him still, and each moment of warmth recalled a happier time, each bed was too large and empty without his presence; but his grief was freed, and every memory mourned washed another dagger from his soul.
So had he reached Paris: hurt, but not broken. Grieving, but no longer without hope. And he had gone through the alleys where they had died, climbed into the bowels of the city, had mapped the underground passages and tried to learn the twists and turns of each road to escape.
When he had finished, when he knew every route to escape through the dark, then Javert had gone to the bridge where it all began and ended. He had consigned his soul to Fate once more, for there was nothing more for him in this world. He left - not falling down into the void, but diving towards the future, in search of the place where hope bloomed and he might at last find the path his soul longed for.
Now, when Javert saw himself in the mirror, he saw a hard man who had been broken and reforged and wavered on the edge of everything. There were still cracks in him; how could there not be, when his every fault had been torn open and repaired over and over again?
But like the memories inside, the scars he could see were only witnesses of the road travelled, and as he recalled all the sorrow and anger, weighed it against the fleeting moments of joy, he amazed himself with this thought: that the scales still balanced. To know Valjean's secret smile again, to know his nearness and, if only for a petty moment, stand in the world together...
Perhaps he would falter and perhaps he would fall. Certainly there was not strength enough in him to rise back up many more times, but beyond the fear waited grace and he was sworn to follow.
With a final prayer, Javert adjusted his hat and took his cane, and then he braved the hardest thing of all his lives; he walked out to meet the day and did it with the knowledge that his heart was defenceless before love.
Their steps echoed on the wide marble stairs; Javert's secure and steady, while Valjean's were slowing the further up they came, his soles dragging on the stone as if he knew not whether to turn back or attempt to tip-toe his way through this bastion of Law.
Finally, when he had fallen dozen steps behind Javert turned and looked down at him, twirling his nightstick impatiently. Valjean raised his hands in an apologetic fashion, but though he hurried to catch up, one could not escape the impression that he was sneaking in where he was not allowed to be.
"Come," Javert chided, "I have told you that I have permission to be here at night. Nobody shall mind a guest. Nobody will question your presence."
"Pardon," Valjean murmured. "But it is..." Looking around at the gilded lamps and stern men in heavy frames that gazed out at them from the corridors, he made a helpless gesture at the splendour.
"Yes, it is the Palais de Justice," Javert said in a tone that made it clear that they had discussed the topic further than his patience stretched, "but these stairs are merely stone, as my uniform is only cloth. The building is not the same as its purpose; that honour falls on the work done here every day. Now come, or we will attract attention." And he moved the stick to his other hand and held it behind Valjean so that he must hurry up or feel it's weight against his spine. Once Valjean was walking at an acceptable speed, Javert once again stomped ahead, tramping on each step as if it had personally offended him.
They were stopped by no one, though one guard saw and hailed them, which had Valjean grabbing his elbow in a bruising grip.
Upon reaching the top level, Javert took out the little key to the rooftop chapel he had received this morning; while he had not minded taking the attic way until he was officially granted permission to visit this chapel, he had suspected that Valjean would not stand for such a path. Instead, he had waited with some impatience until this privilege had been granted him once more.
When Javert closed the door behind them, shielding them from the Law in this little room devoted to God, Valjean made no effort to hide his sigh of relief. Deciding that he'd better not bring up the fact that they would have to walk back out, in case he'd attempt to climb down the building façade instead, Javert opened the door to the roof. It slid open as easily as ever and he stepped out into the balmy night air.
"Oh..." Valjean followed him, and his face softened with delight as he beheld the Notre-Dame in starlight.
"Did I not promise to show you the Paris that I knew?"
Javert stepped up on the edge of the balustrade, letting his gaze sweep over the city; sleeping and yet not, Paris at night was his to guard. It remained both his duty and saving grace to feel the weight of that shield, to know that his strength helped hold it aloft and helped protect so many. To watch the city from this heart of Law itself helped remind him this; made the duty a pleasure in the same breath. Only when his eyes slid over the distant river, did Javert's lips thin with disdain, though he nodded towards it as one might to a familiar adversary. Another round was nearing its end...
The yank at his coat upset his balance; for one vertiginous moment Javert swayed on the parapet, before he stumbled gracelessly into Valjean's arms.
"What the blazes are you doing?" he spat, batting at the other man's grip, pulse racing as recollections of other, longer falls rose within him.
"I? You are the one who stood -" Valjean sounded outraged and his hands bunched the coat even tighter. "You were not even looking where you put your feet! If you fall from this height..."
Glancing at the parapet, Javert tried to recall if he had managed any steps before Valjean yanked him back, then dismissed the matter as unimportant. Of all the things to fret about!
"I will not fall off a roof," he insisted haughtily. "And let go of me, before you tear my clothing!"
"I knew you liked to go up in the church tower to watch Montreuil-sur-Mer, but I had no idea you indulged in such... such..." Valjean shook his head, the perfect likeness of a father too outraged to find words to describe the latest foolishness of his child.
Javert did not appreciate the image and, pushing Valjean away with a firm hand, he took a slow, deliberate step up the parapet, his stick kept between them in a clear warning. "I am not your child to need scolding," he reminded him, "nor am I your underling any longer. And for your information, you wall-scaling, sea-diving, mountain-climbing old parole breaker - do not frown at me so, for if you treat me as the boy I have not been for decades, I may as well treat you as the con you no longer are - there is a perfectly simple reason that I never stepped out at the edge of the bell tower in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Two, in fact: the railing is rounded, and anyway, I would have hit my head on the roof."
Seeing that Valjean was furtively edging closer, Javert gave him a mocking smile and walked, backwards, towards the further edge of the roof while keeping Valjean and the great stone eagle well in sight. While he did not fear a misstep, not from this particular ledge, it would be beyond embarrassing if he mistook the distance in his annoyance and his foot landed on nothing. He need not have worried about going too far; after only three steps Valjean yielded, backing off and raising his hands in surrender. He still appeared honestly frightened for Javert's sake and had it not been so annoying, he might have appreciated the show of concern.
"I do not fall," Javert repeated, tapping his stick against the edge, "unless men like you upset my balance first."
Wetting his lips, Valjean gave a hesitant nod. "I see your point. Nevertheless, for the sake of my nerves, would you please get off that ledge?"
"You need only ask, Monsieur," he said and gave a polite bow, stepping down until the parapet was between him and the empty air.
Never burdened with an inclination to vertigo, the years had stripped Javert of all fear for such mundane depths. He still opted not to protest when Valjean sidled between him and the edge, using the excuse that he wished see the city better. They had come up here because Javert wished to show him that view, after all.
Only a few clouds drifted over the sky, though they had earlier lain like a ragged blanket over the moon. Now, dispersing in the wind, they fluttered away, so that both the city and the great cathedral were washed in milky light.
"Do not worry about me," Javert said and took Valjean's hand, guiding it so he might more easily find the sights Javert wished to show. "Look, instead, at this city I serve and care for."
And he spoke: of crimes he'd seen committed, in alley and wealthy house alike; of how bound his hands could be in the latter case; of the tiny moments of heroics - a small dog attacking a burglar, a woman protecting her child from her drunken husband, a boy climbing a pipe to escape a fire with his brother clinging to his back - and the tragedies and laughters that graced all souls in the city.
Most of all, he attempted to share his delight at those odd, coincidental moments where the ordinary transformed into beauty, whether by the grace of sunlight on a particular day, or even the mournful elegance of a gathering thundercloud. He tried to explain the rhythm of steps upon cobblestones that turned from clatter into dance for a few heartbeats. Or, equally precious and even more rare, the sudden stillness that might take even this great city; the way it pulled every face towards the heavens, as if great silent wings swept over the crowd for a moment.
So many moments, all of them hard to share in a way that did them justice; that was why Javert had brought them here tonight, to where he had always seen Paris at its clearest.
He had spoken for some time, lost himself in memories and vague dreams, when he became aware that Valjean stood so close that he could feel the warmth of his body. His eyes were closed and a small smile seemed to be playing on his lips.
Breaking off, Javert stepped away from him and leaned back against the roof. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them and grasped his stick tighter, then crossed them anyway, glaring at Valjean meanwhile.
"Why did you finish so abruptly?" Valjean asked, following him. "I have not heard you argue a cause so passionately since a councillor suggested that all jail-time ought to be exchangeable for fines. And, while your rhetoric at the time was impressive, I find it far more pleasant to hear you praise the virtues of Dame Paris."
"You should not humour me," Javert replied, "I can see when someone is about to fall asleep from my lectures."
Cocking his head, Valjean observed him in silence for a moment. "I was listening," he insisted, "I merely could not follow the particulars of where any given episode took place; your grasp on the local geography has always far surpassed mine. To better concentrate on your words, I opted not to try. It is not where an event happened that matters, no? It is all your Paris, in the end."
"Don't mock me," Javert said.
"I'm not." He shook his head and dared brush a hand against Javert's shoulder. "It is my Paris too; and my daughters' and a thousand other souls' as well. But tonight, you showed me your city. I find it fascinating to see this undiscovered treasure in what I thought I knew so well, my friend."
There was silence between them for a while before Javert inclined his head. "I apologize for my hasty conclusions, then. Though the subject is dear to me, it is not one I am used to sharing with others."
Waving him off, Valjean rested his back against the tiles, and turned his face towards the heavens. "We both tend to ramble, I suppose, and have not always found willing listeners. One of the many things I missed when I moved from Montreuil-sur-Mer was mulling over my thoughts and then having them tested by you. Letters only go so far..." He gave Javert a fond look, then whispered the next words as if they were a secret admission. "Though I found it considerably easier to structure my arguments and poke holes in yours when my only opponent was a piece of paper rather than a stubborn Inspector - who dared come up with the most uncomfortable counterpoints to my elegant words." The grin he threw now Javert was so full of mischief that it took at least a decade away from his features.
"I'm afraid I must disagree with you again regarding the ease of correspondence for discussions; your hand is atrocious and the less said of my struggles with Le Dictionnaire, the better."
"This from the man who taught himself enough Italian to read Dante in the original?"
Javert shuddered at the memory. "That, Monsieur, was a far from voluntary undertaking." He was surprised by the loud laugh that escaped Valjean at his pronouncement.
"My apologies, Javert," he finally said, a chortle still playing beneath his words, "but when you are certain that nobody can see you, you have a very expressive face. Yes, just like that."
"You are here to see."
That silenced Valjean's hilarity. "Yes. But I do not quite count... do I?"
Javert recrossed his arms and refused to meet his searching gaze.
"I do not understand what you are referring to. We worked towards similar goals for a while; that ended earlier than you might wish, but went as well as it could, given the circumstances. We have corresponded for years, on pleasant terms I believe, and now we meet as friends. Should I act the police inspector with you, and nothing more?"
"That is not what I meant," Valjean said, his voice soft and his accusation loud, "and it is unfair of you to pretend so."
"Unfair? Of me?" Outraged, Javert turned towards him, glaring at Valjean who still reclined against the roof but whose arms too had crossed.
And had they been elsewhere, had the wind not pulled a veil of clouds over the winking eye of the moon, perhaps their fate would have taken a different turn and they would have gone down and walked separately into the night. Old friends who remained such and no more until the day the barricade fell, when death haphazardly reaped them along with all the young lives it had come to gather.
But the clouds hid the waxing moon and, in the soft light of the stars, a great many things are hidden while the most precious ones might be revealed. And between a breath and a word yet unspoken, there lay a world of memory; the sight caught Javert wholly unaware and swept him away.
It had been a similar night in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when the calendar showed them standing at that elusive border between spring and summer, when Javert had met Monsieur le Maire while finishing his shift. Because the night was rowdy and he had already broken up two fights, he offered to accompany the worthy gentleman to his home. Once there, he had been invited inside and, though his logic told him it was unwise to accept, Javert had followed.
They had shared a glass of wine, white at Javert's request, and discussed some trivialities of the day. He had almost managed to ignore how delightful the crinkles around Monsieur le Maire's eyes were in the light of the candles.
He had not been able to ignore it when the good man clasped his hand and squeezed it so firmly. From Monsieur le Maire, an expression of innocent joy at the memory of a shared triumph over the reactionary forces in the town - to Javert, a burning brand, a chain that fettered his hand and a benediction that made his spirits soar. How could he ignore what it meant to him? How was he to hide this longing?
Confusion on the adored face; a hesitant laugh, then Monsieur le Maire's hand relaxed in his grip. Not yet withdrawing, but giving him the chance to release without either of them having to notice. A chance, and Javert had failed to take it.
They had known each other little more than a year at that point. The trial in Arras was a recent thing; a fraught time where a revelation had been made and Monsieur le Maire had faced a hard choice, only to learn that he must neither suffer the consequences of his choice, nor fear that an innocent man would have to endure them in his place. After that, professional courtesy began to grow into something akin to friendship between them; arguments softened, the topics of their talks widening beyond daily matters, and they would freely seek each others company.
"Inspector." A light flush climbing up his face, Monsieur le Maire finally spoke, when it was clear that Javert wouldn't let go and pretend ignorance, "perhaps you might release me."
He could not. Javert sensed that he was wavering on the edge again, but it was not in him to let go; not when the candles glowed like gold, not when Monsieur le Maire's eyes remained so gentle, not when he still saw the shadow of love in each gesture and step.
"I cannot."
Then, Monsieur le Maire had tugged his hand away while Javert had bowed in silent apology. He had remained standing so while he'd listened to the mayor speak of their positions in the city, the need for respectability in the businessman, the secret of his past which could still cause disaster if it became known... Javert watched the well-washed floor intently while a thousand little logics were built into a fort against the yearnings of his heart.
"You do understand? I would hate for such a trifle to cause a rift between us. I would not wish to lose your regard at all."
And the Inspector had lifted his head and pulled his lips into a smile. He had agreed that it was indeed a petty thing; his promise to refrain from further impropriety was honestly meant, and his voice remained steady, his conduct professional, through the entire discussion. Though there remained some awkwardness between them for a time, Monsieur le Maire was forgiving of such little weaknesses, while the Inspector stubborn in his duties both professional and humanitarian. They continued to work well together, the matter fading over the years. When prudent warnings must be shared, they were heeded and caused no strife between them.
In the following years, they exchanged many letters. Years of worries and delights pinned down to paper and sent to the only other soul who knew all the little truths, leading to a new balance of friendship forming between them.
When Javert was transferred to Paris, he carried Valjean's letter of invitation in his pocket, and the evening had been pleasant: good conversation, frequent laughs, and the girls happy that an old friend had come visit their solitary father, even if they became bored by the old men's chosen topics of conversation.
Indeed, their friendship was built on a great many words. Through all these years, words had been their shelter and limit alike; in words, in discussions, they found themselves equal though set apart by class. With words, with logic, there was always something to distract from memories of another life; as long as they spoke or debated Javert needed to take no more care than to avoid the too-flattering candles and the dark, empty rooms where his dreams nested hidden, blotted out by the force of his will.
If Monsieur Fauchelevent had begun standing a little too close since Javert came to Paris, if some of the phrases he spoke had echoes of other meanings, they were nothing that could not be picked apart by more words, arguments, logic; the safer path, the one Javert had come to prefer.
So many words. So firm and respectable a friendship, such a dutiful monument of propriety and order. Yet, at the pinprick of a distant star, it popped like a soap bubble, leaving the tatters of an iridescent mystery behind.
"Don't look at me like that," Javert whispered, for the planes of Valjean's face were ashy grey in the night. In the light of the stars, he thought to see lines of pain carved in him; an echo, a phantom from another life, called up by Javert's half-mended heart. "Don't," he whispered again, while his hands fell down and his fingers scraped along the tiles.
For starlight was too ruthless and too graceful in equal measure; never had a phantom more beautiful appeared before him.
Valjean was still drawn in shadows, yes, he seemed filled with night. "Will you punish me for my cowardice for the rest of my life?"
"Punishment? You are a gentleman. You are a father." And I have grown afraid, Javert refrained from saying, for time was running short. "Your reputation has never mattered more!"
"A father, yes..." And finally, mercy be, Valjean closed his eyes and turned his face away. "I had no true wish to become one, at first. Did you know that, did I ever dare confess this in a letter?"
Javert could only reply with silence, heart still too wild for him to dare speak.
"I thought not; isn't it odd what makes us cowards?" Valjean seemed to search for words for a moment, before meeting Javert's gaze again; he nodded, then, and spoke. "Obligation drove me, and the feeling that I ought to... That I owed the world a repayment, for many things. Not in the least because I had led the most honest man I knew to the edge of perjury for my sake."
"I never lied," Javert said, his voice a rasp. There were no colours in this world, his mind whispered, no colours until the red of blood broke free and drowned the star-grey elegance anew.
"Not even by omission?" Valjean asked, and when he received no reply, he nodded again with grim satisfaction. "Of course I would have arranged for poor Fantine's child either way. I would have found her a good family one way or another. But that she should be mine? The thought seemed preposterous; what did I know of little girls. I recalled so little of families and knew nothing of raising a young lady. What," he pronounced slowly, and put a hand against the tiles, so close that the sleeve of his arm touched against Javert's ear, "in the world, did I know of love?"
"You have always loved! Everyone, each wretch and beggar, without discrimination." This was the truth, and Javert had known it; had comforted himself with it when his dreams took him to a different world, where the measure of love offered him had been so different in quality.
"Yes," Valjean said, "that was exactly what I told myself. I wished to love like an angel, without sin or a messy, human heart. And then I held her little hand and compassion was not enough." He bent forward, supporting himself against the roof with both hands, and it was hard to tell which of the two was trapped: Valjean, seeming chained to the wall and the Inspector; or Javert, surrounded by the strong arms, gaze bound to the man edging him in. Each held by old choices and the other's eyes alike.
"Then we gained Éponine," Valjean continued, "this wary, hungry little thing. She aroused my pity, she made me wish to do good, and I hurt her terribly thereby. A child is not - a daughter is not someone to be paid with rich food and dressed in fine clothes and gifted with expensive dolls; to be treated as a hothouse plant, locked away and ignored as long as she appears to be growing well."
His breath was growing short, fear thrumming within him, but Javert could neither move nor speak; this one thing had not changed since that long-ago night in the Mairie, despite his prayers and rationalizations. He could not let go nor turn away and close his ears.
"I must admit this to you so that you understand; forgive me, but I must," Valjean said, and he bent his head like a sinner confessing, the strands of his hair moving with Javert's breath. "I feared to love them not enough, but in truth, I feared far more to love them too much. For what pain did not await me in the future, if I did? How could I dare love them when one day I was sure to lose them to the world?"
"It would hurt," Javert said. "Oh God, I wish you need never know how it burns when all you love lies dead."
"I know the taste of it; I have lost all once before. My sister, her children... the little children that I had to abandon, that I was taken from so many years ago. But not once did I stop to think how I was losing the children that I had gained by lavishing them both with dead things, while closing my heart to one! Not until she tried to run did I understand."
Javert started, and Valjean raised his head, nodded in reply to the unvoiced question.
"Yes. She tried to run away, my little Éponine; left a note that she would make her own way in the world. And Cosette screamed at me then, as she has never screamed before! She cried and raged - they would argue often, before that, you see," Valjean said, his confession spilling out of him faster and faster. "They'd argue often, and there were so many tears in that first year, for one had just lost her mother and the other had, oh God, they were happy to sell her to me. To sell their own child! How could I deal with all their pain, I, who barely knew what love was? But when Éponine ran away and Cosette said she hated me for chasing her sister away, I thought my heart would stop with horror. A girl of twelve, alone in Paris' night. I hunted for her throughout the night... I climbed back into the convent we had stayed in, I ran up and down along the riverbanks, I asked every face that I met, even an officer of the law!" A choked sound escaped him, neither sob nor laughter, and when he continued, Valjean's eyes gleamed with something more than starlight reflected.
"And in the end it was Cosette who found her, hiding in the cellar! Asleep on a stack of firewood with my purse clutched in her little hands, but safe. The relief nearly robbed me of my senses and I realized the futility of my fears. Because, Javert, that relief taught me that it mattered not a whit what the future brought, for I already loved my little girls beyond sense and reason. And the fear... if fear is the price we have to pay, then let us pay it gladly, and love all the more to keep it at bay."
Javert's head jerked back at that, impacting with some noise against the roof. "Touching story," he said, "though I fail to see its relevance." But his eyes would not meet Valjean's and his hands strained against the tiles.
"I refuse to cower in fear any longer." They stood so close now that their breaths mingled in the balmy air. "I made a mistake, long ago, and I ask for your forgiveness. I ask for another chance."
"No," Javert said, something hysterical growing in his voice, "no, you will not do this to me again! It is too late - twelve, ten years is one thing, but it's summer already -" When Valjean's only answer was to bring his hand up, to dare run a finger through the short-cropped hair, he shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. "No. I cannot, I - Mercy."
"Should I leave, then?" Valjean asked. Ever so slowly, he began pushing himself away from the wall, slowly weighing back on his heels. "Should we walk down to the streets together, and pretend this is all nothing, that our letters have said all that can be said, and nothing but dry philosophy remains between us?"
"You don't understand."
"No," admitted Valjean, "it seems I never do. Either too early, or too late, and I'm sorry," his voice broke and his hands fell, "I'm so damned sorry that we keep passing by each other in the night!"
He made to turn but found a clammy grip held him back. When Valjean looked down, there was Javert's fingers tight around his own, and it was with growing joy that he searched for his gaze. The elation stuttered to a halt when it became clear that neither happiness nor any other warm emotion drove Javert. The way his lips trembled, the moon-white pallor visible even through the night, and the naked fear in every line of his body told a terrifying story.
"What is it? Have I wronged you so badly?"
A shake of his head. "Not you," Javert said. "Not you. Oh God, sweet merciful God, please..." His eyes shut, and he hissed in pain, crumpling against the wall. "Friendship I can stand, even if it hurts. But to love, Valjean? It destroys me wholly."
"Then..."
"I cannot," he admitted, "I still cannot resist it, even if it damns me forever." And he yanked Valjean closer, buried a hand in his greying locks, and kissed him with the hunger of one who has thirsted for a lifetime.
The sudden movement pulling him off-balance, Valjean fell against him. It was arms familiar with his body that caught him, it was lips that knew him well that pushed against his own, that teased and tasted and set him aflame, even as his hands floundered and his knees grew weak, until only Javert's arm around his back held him upright.
"How did -" he gasped when they separated, then decided to ignore the question, sought Javert's lips again, and they fell upon each other with a hunger too long pent up.
Javert's groan as a firm leg slipped in, pressing against his body, was echoed by Valjean's amazed exclamation. Neither could later recall whose hand had first fumbled open their buttons.
"We're on top," Valjean gasped between kisses, "ah, the Palais!"
"Not illegal," Javert said, and slipped a hand inside his trousers.
"Scandalous!"
Halting his movements for a moment, Javert brought his mouth close to Valjean's ear and whispered, "More shocking than stopping now and walking down all those steps? While any guard may see us in such a state?" The squeeze of his hand made it more than clear which state he was referring to. "And then what? We ought to walk, decorously, through the night and attempt to not reveal with a touch or a glance what madness roils inside us? I have done that for far too many nights," he confessed, his voice heated enough that Valjean shivered at it's caress, "and I can tell you, Monsieur, it is not a pleasant experience. Or perhaps we should take a carriage? And sit chastely in that closed box, not touching, not stroking, not holding you like this; why, I do believe we would need fetters and chains to manage that."
"No one will come here?" Valjean asked, but his answer was already obvious in the way he spread his legs wider and let his hands roam over Javert; in the wetness of his lips as he allowed himself to taste sweaty skin and in the deep, eager hunger of his voice.
"Nobody ever has," he promised.
Then they spoke no more and devoured each other beneath the stars.
Continue to the next part