[fic] Toil Until the Old Colours Fade 6e/8 [Les Misérables]

[drcalvin]

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He woke to a rustle of linens and the warm pressure of a body against his back. Opening his eyes, all Javert saw was white; when he lifted his head, the white coalesced into frills with white-on-white lace details. An excessive amount of frills; he couldn't recall ever having slept on such a ruffled pillow in any of his lives.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the sight, he tried to recall how he had arrived here. Every part of his body ached, and it was not the pain of death unmade, but a wholly new set of aches - the muscles in his back, a throbbing in his left calf, his head, his hands... it was easier to find the parts which did not hurt.

He also thought he detected a faint, but distinct, scent of outhouse.

In a way, Javert found himself pleased about the frills. It was unlikely that anyone would decorate his shroud in such a way.

When he tried to move and take a look around his back protested loudly; it felt as if his spine was snapping apart, and he groaned and let himself fall back onto the pillow. God, where those roses on the cover? He was wearing an unknown nightshirt, he further realized. It was made out of a far better material than any Javert had ever owned; not too many frills, praise the Lord, and thus by process of elimination, he concluded it must belong to Valjean.

"Mhmm..." Someone's hand - that had better be Valjean's too - trailed over his back, then patted him haphazardly on the cheek.

Javert turned towards the hand, only to recoil wildly at the lingering smell of sewage clinging, if weakly, to Valjean's hand.

"Hmm?"

"You stink," he complained, and tried to roll around; a hazardous prospect, Javert realized, when he nearly fell out of the narrow bed. He dared a cautious sniff at his own hand instead. "Urgh. And so do I." He coughed; his windpipe had been badly abused by the noose, and he found himself hellishly thirsty.

Finally managing to lift his head, Javert took in the incongruous surroundings; decorated wallpaper which looked excessively cheery in the sunlight, dried flowers on the dressers and masses of, of things, spread everywhere! There stood a cluttered vanity by the opposite wall, where pearls and mysterious pots shared space with two dirty cockades and a handful of dried leaves. There was a glass of water on a low stool beside the bed, and he made to reach for it. It took more effort than it should.

Laboriously, he managed to drink, then flopped onto his back and considered the situation. For all his faults, Javert had been ready to quit his life long ago. That he was to suffer the indignities and pains of feeling a hundred years old seemed excessively unfair. He was not certain whether the fact that he had known worse pains made it more or less unfair.

Beside him lay Valjean, squashed in between Javert and the wall. He was still snoring softly. Despite the less-than-pleasant, but thankfully very weak, odour surrounding them both Javert had to bury the wild desire to gather him to his arms; to make sure he was safe and whole, or at least not worse battered than Javert himself.

"Where are we?" he asked instead. He still could not recall how he had come to these surroundings.

Valjean was also wearing a nightshirt. And a bandage around his head. It looked wrong, the dirty white of it, and before he had considered it, Javert was touching it with hesitant fingers.

"Cosette's bed," Valjean mumbled without opening his eyes. "Shush, now. I'm too old to wake up at dawn." His face was drawn, and he had bruise-like rings beneath his eyes, though he smiled when Javert offered a shoulder to rest on.

"It's at least noon," Javert pointed out. The wrapping was tight. His skin did not feel feverish, and no red was to be seen. That was... that was good.

Valjean ought not to look so tired.

"Too old to go to bed at dawn." Valjean frowned and finally opened his eyes, giving him a sleepy glare. "Had to carry you to bed too," he grumbled. "When you fell over. Don't do that."

While Javert wished to protest that he had done no such thing, he did not actually know the facts. So, he kept quiet; he could not refrain from feeling the wrapping now and then, but this did not seem to disturb Valjean, for his breath remained steady and relaxed. It might of course eventually disturb him, if Javert did not stop poking. He folded his hand on his chest instead, only occasionally scratching at his bandaged wrists, and tried to take in the warmth of the day. He knew that if he allowed himself to feel properly it, he'd be dreadfully weary; yet he found himself restless. Why? There was plenty of warmth around him; the sunlight, Valjean, the horribly lacy cover... It looked safe. It should feel safe.

His mind shied away from that 'why', and Javert decided it was better to try and recall the manner of his arrival than worry about safety.

They had laboured through the sewers for hours, that was inarguable: hard as he might try, Javert would never be able to purge that journey from his memory. Near the end, he hadn't been certain if any of them were still alive, or if they were all mucky ghosts trudging through hell. His admiration for Valjean's strength in traversing these severs on his own increased ten-fold; if it hadn't been for Joly taking his burden from him now and then, Javert would have drowned in the filth and become a further prize for the vile corpse-plunderer they had encountered. Grimacing at that memory, he again wished that he'd possessed the strength to stop the man from disturbing the dead. Unfortunately, the mere idea of an arrest had been ludicrous when they were all falling over with exhaustion; they had just managed to stop him from robbing Pontmercy's unconscious body as it was! Javert hoped the boy hadn't lost anything of worth, though at least it was unlikely he would have brought his valuables to the barricade.

More dead than alive, their sorry little group had crawled out at the banks of the Seine. Joly had thrown himself in the moderately cleaner waters, flailing and cursing as he tried to wash away the worst of the filth. Despite the boy's hysterics, Javert found the idea sound. He had dropped his ruined coat and followed, needing to get rid of the thick muck caking him. They had then helped Valjean dunk the two unconscious young men as well. They were, through some miracle, still alive - though only God could tell how long those happy circumstances would last! Courfeyrac's prospects in particular seemed bleak, his wound deep with only a scrap of fabric to keep the noxious miasmas out... what diseases they might all suffer after such a journey, Javert did not even wish to imagine.

Against him, Valjean huffed: he made an effort to relax which earned him a pleased mumble.

After that first, highly necessary cleansing, they had disagreed about where to go. Valjean wished to take the boys to the nearest hospital, to which Javert had several objections - chief among them that they could not look more like escaped rebels unless they dressed themselves in crimson flags and started to shout slogans. But he also worried about their charges; the hospital was certain to be overrun with casualties and there would be many wounded of higher priority to care for.

Finally, it was Joly who ended the discussion. He revealed that he knew of an old physician, through his studies if Javert had understood him correctly, who would assist them with the greatest discretion - as long as he was handsomely paid. Valjean acquiesced, if somewhat reluctantly.

So they dragged themselves up to the level of the street and found a carriage willing to take their wet, stinking selves on board. Upon reaching the apartment at Rue de l'Homme-Armé, the driver was even convinced to go and bring the girls down to help them.

Cosette cried out loudly at the sight of her Marius so bloodied and broken, and Éponine almost dropped the lantern when she came close enough to grasp the extent of all their injuries. It was little Gavroche who remained the steadiest, taking off on quick legs as soon as Joly had described his errand and Valjean had given him a pouch brimming with coin.

They put the two unconscious men in the main bed, and the housekeeper was roused to prepare hot water. Javert, hating the tacky feeling of filth still clinging to him, could not wait for the water and opted to scrub himself off at the public pump. Valjean and Joly were shunted out to join him... It was after this point that events began to blur together.

He recalled the doctor arriving, but could not say if it had been before or after they had all finished washing. There was the image of an old man, a foul-mouthed specimen who seemed to possess as meagre a serving of bedside manners as of common courtesy. At some point, he had been lecturing them all for not obviously seeing that young Joly was badly concussed, and why was he even on his feet? Why in the world had they thought that traipsing through the sewers was a recommended pastime at all, never mind taking wounded men into that wellspring of poisonous humours!

Javert was fairly certain that this was when he'd been delegated to fire-stoking duty, before he began sharing his opinion on the good doctor's conduct, professionalism and probable parentage. He'd filled the stove with endless amounts of firewood, raked out the ash and put on new pots while the housekeeper and Valjean prepared baths; the girls having both been taken as assistants by the doctor. When the labours of night finally wore the two older men down, Éponine had them dunked in the large tin bath, one after the other, with the self-assurance of a matron twice her age.

Further, he thought to recall Gavroche returning... And he was certain he had seen a third woman, though he could not conceive of who she might have been.

After the bath, though - he had dried off, hadn't he? Had he argued with the doctor again, or had he only wished to tell the squinty-eyed old grouch what he thought of him?

Looking at all evidence, Javert was forced to admit that he might well have passed out. If that was the case, he could only hope that Valjean, perhaps with assistance of the doctor, had stuffed him into a nightshirt and then the bed. The alternatives were... dire.

He fidgeted, and Valjean groaned softly, before grumbling at him: "Go to sleep."

Javert forced himself to lay still for another few minutes, thoughts scurrying through his mind.

So many had died tonight, but he could not yet hear the river. Why? Was this Marius Pontmercy truly important enough to grant him life, to allow him to continue? Was it something else beneath these superficial actions which had changed fate? He did not consider his actions at the barricade particularly good; certainly he had only done his duty, as in every life, though his opinion of what that duty entailed had changed considerably. Valjean lived, and he fought down a bout of nausea at the image of his friend falling ill with exhaustion after their harrowing escape. That would... No. No, if there was any justice in the world, he would not lose Valjean to such an insidious enemy.

There were still the boys to consider. Though Javert had heard the doctor confirm Joly as safe (unless you wish to traipse through any more death-traps, Monsieur, in which case I would encourage you to not wake me in the middle of the night, for I shan't be bothered to patch you up again!) no such prognosis could be made for either Pontmercy or Courfeyrac. And there were his duties to consider as well... even if Valjean had said that the other barricades had fallen, he did not know how much blood had been shed at them. And whomever had thought to allow that idiot Delestre command over such a volatile situation as the final barricade! If Javert couldn't have them raked over the coals himself, he would at least write a harsh enough report that -

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" He shot up from the bed, almost falling out of it in his hurry. The report! The thrice-damned report!

Valjean batted away the cover suddenly thrown over him, sat up, blinked sleepily. "Javert?"

"I'm a bloody fool!" he almost screamed, trying to find his clothes, only to realize that of course they were hopelessly ruined. "Where is your wardrobe?"

"What's the matter?" Valjean asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"My report! I left it -" Javert swallowed, imagining the end he had fought so hard to reach falling apart due to his own stupidity. "How long has it been?" he croaked. "How long have we been asleep?"

"My dear, I am sorry to say I have no idea," Valjean said, shuffling out of bed with a wince. He came over, fussed at Javert's bruised throat and bandaged wrists. "Are you certain that you are feeling well? I do not know if the doctor is still here, but perhaps young Joly..."

"No," he said, finally settling for taking a blanket to make himself halfway decent. "No, I am fine. But I have been an unimaginable fool! I thought - oh, it does not matter. But I must get to the precinct at once. Valjean, I swear to God, it might mean my life if I do not!"

"Well!" Though his eyebrows rose skyward and he was clearly full of curiosity, Valjean kept hold of his questions and hurried towards the door. "They will be an ill fit," he said, "but I believe I have some things you may borrow."

Javert followed.

The letter, how could he have forgotten the long letter he had penned before going to the barricades! A similar missive to the one he had written in every lifetime since he first reached Paris, driven by a nebulous instinct to leave some kind of mark, to share his thoughts before all was over... The pages were not exactly his last confession; while circumstances could push Javert to share the madness of his existence with those he trusted most, nothing in the world would ever bring him to write it down. Perversely, it might have been better if he had; such a madness could more easily be claimed on fever or fear of death.

Instead he had unburdened his heart in a different way. He had written down his opinions on the state of policing in France; everything, great and small. The conditions prisoners were kept in, the appalling levels of corruption in the force, the meaningless rules taking up more time than true injustice, the short-sightedness of certain lawmakers... in short, every unvoiced thought that was sure to anger his betters. Especially since he had included the grave mishandling of certain cases where his observations would not paint his superiors in a flattering light at all. If anyone read it, the least Javert could hope for was to be judged a presumptuous half-wit; if they read carefully enough, he was sure to be called a traitor.

"Why in the world would you do such a thing?" Valjean asked once he understood the gist of the problem. They had found some clothes and were pulling them on in Cosette's room; the rest of the apartment being filled with exhausted sleepers.

Because I see the same mistakes being made again and again, and am barred by station and customs from stopping them, Javert did not say. Because the wider my eyes are opened, the more the world around disgusts me. Because whether I reach you or not, I am stuck in an unchanging hell and if I did not confess to someone, I would surely grow even more demented than I have already become!

"I thought I would die," he muttered and tried to adjust his shirt. "It seemed as good an opportunity as any to vent my ire."

To be nearly crushed to that strong chest was unexpected; to hear the hurt he had caused in that dear voice unforgivable. Despite his hurry, Javert allowed the embrace for several seconds, touching the hand clamped around his arm, swallowing down a peculiar pain.

"Forgive me," he whispered when he could find his words again. "I did not..." Valjean only squeezed him harder, shaking his head against Javert's back.

"You did," he whispered. "Do not lie to me. You did."

"I have not wished to die since you came properly into my life," Javert admitted. "But I did not dare believe that I would survive that night." Tugging at Valjean's hands, he managed to turn in his grip, and wrapped his own arm around that strong back which he had loaded with yet another burden. There would be two further bruises on his arms now. Javert would happily carry them.

They must go.

He must hold Valjean a few more heartbeats, whisper empty comforts in his ears, swear the most heartfelt vows: never would he leave unless fate tore him struggling into the night. Never would he give up again.

Finally, he allowed himself to brush a kiss against Valjean's lips before he pulled away. "I asked for two days before it was to be delivered," he attempted. "I suppose I did dare to plan, partially at least, for this contingency."

"The next time you ask me to refrain from questioning you on some topic..." Valjean trailed off darkly. If his grip around Javert's hand was still slightly too firm, and the shadows beneath his eyes had grown darker yet, there was at least the beginning of humour returned to his voice.

Valjean wrote a note to his girls, leaving it on the kitchen table. Little Gavroche was sleeping on the kitchen bench, hardly stirring even when Valjean tucked up the blanket covering him. In the living room, Javert saw a young lady collapsed on the settee; at her side, clasping her hand, Joly was asleep in the armchair, his head heavily wrapped in bandages. Javert pointed her out to Valjean.

"Who is she?" he asked when they were on the stairs.

"Mou - Musi - ? No; I cannot seem to recall her name," Valjean admitted. "Gavroche brought her late last night. She is a close friend of the youngsters."

They took a carriage again. Javert did not even bother to argue when Valjean paid for the ride. He did however ask the driver for today's date, ignoring the queer look this earned him.

It was Friday. June the eighth. As he had feared, their trek through the sewers had taken almost an entire day, and the long night following had brought them to the next page of the calendar.

This meant that two days had gone by since the barricades fell and Inspector Javert disappeared without a trace. While they rattled towards the Palais de Justice, he alternated between praying that Dubois would take his order to mean that one more night should pass and rubbing his chafed wrists even rawer, until Valjean caught him and held him still.

They stepped out and Javert swallowed; the pavement was solid beneath his feet, the air fresh from the taste of river. Had he freed himself at last? Or was he still racing against an invisible goal, time slipping from him, the obstructions invisible until he stumbled upon them? How to know, how to trust that he would ever reach the goal?

"You may wait outside," he offered Valjean, belatedly recalling how difficult it had been for him to enter the building while it lay silent in the night.

He received only an insulted glare at the suggestion. "I think not!" Valjean adjusted his cuffs. "If your worst fears would come true, if they attempt to arrest you... I am not dead yet, Monsieur. And before you ask, my daughters are clever and have known the best route to England since the unwelcome reappearance of my old 'correspondent'."

What might one reply to such an implicit promise? Javert merely nodded, and led the way in through the gates; golden shone the spikes above their heads, black were the bars, and he pretended not to notice how Valjean's lips thinned when they passed beneath the forbidding valve.

While Javert had not considered how to enter without identification, he was quickly waved through; more than that, a runner was sent ahead as soon as he was spotted. On the way to the Prefect's office, they found themselves surrounded by several of the policemen who had been assigned to his command for the duration of the uprising. To Javert's relief, and to the benefit of Valjean's blood-pressure, the officers were friendly and did not appear about to arrest anyone; quite the opposite. They all had questions, which Javert deflected with the excuse of needing to be debriefed before he shared any tales. One man even dared to clap him on the shoulder.

It was bizarre to hear these men profess any kind of pleasure at the sight of him. More so because he suspected that their words weren't the platitudes regularly handed to a comrade who had come through a rough spot. They looked honestly pleased to greet him.

"Inspector Javert!"

He turned at the familiar gravelly voice, inclining his head in greeting. The raising of a dark eyebrow coupled with Sauveterre's rare smirk and a comment - I see we have no more crimes to solves today, hmm? - and their entourage melted away.

"Inspector Sauveterre; Monsieur Fauchelevent." Javert presented the two men to each other, trying not to recall the dire situation when last he had seen these two in one room together. That had been literal lifetimes ago, and no suspicion stained either Valjean or himself today.

"During the recent worries, I assisted Monsieur Fauchelevent's future son-in-law," he said, ignoring the choking sound coming from Valjean at those words, "and in return, he was gracious enough to extend his hospitality for the night. I was unfortunately not in shape to return here directly after the uprising."

Sauveterre nodded and made some congratulatory sounds. He then accompanied them on their way to M. Gisquiet's office, thankfully following his habit of refraining from annoying questions. If Javert hadn't been too worried to have considered it, he would have assumed Sauveterre had information he wished to share before the debriefing.

Only when they reached the second set of stairs and left the gossipy level below did Saueveterre speak again. "Your assistant came to me this morning, Inspector," he mentioned. "Quite worried for your sake, he was, your Dubois."

Javert brushed it off. "He has a tendency towards exaggerations and, though I have done my best to train him out of it, overtly rash conclusions."

"Yes, so I have noticed. However, this time his conclusions were sound; he thought it prudent for someone to vet the contents of this..." he held up a familiar package, the integrity of the waxed paper broken, as evident by the darker tears on the yellowish surface. "...before it was read by any, ah, shall we say, less understanding eyes?"

"You -!"

Sauveterre tutted slightly when Javert choked off his next words. "Inspector, pardon my presumption, but do you drink?"

Mutely, Javert shook his head; at his side, Valjean seemed to have turned into a pillar of salt for all the animation in him.

"Excellent." He snorted. "I suggest you refrain in the future as well; were your tongue to be loosened, none would escape its lashing and, judging from this, not many could bear it."

Oh God, he had mentioned the Saillard-Baptistine case, had he not? Javert tried to recall if Sauveterre had actually issued the idiotic orders in that mess, or if he had merely had the misfortune of having to carry them out.

"Here." The Inspector handed over the incriminating package. "I passed on your two pages of suggestions for clean-up after the uprising, as well as your recommendation for measures to apply against any captured rebels until an amnesty is pronounced."

Javert nodded, still not trusting his voice.

"As for the rest..." Sauveterre's smile was slightly pained. "Surely, we are not such an awful bunch?"

"I intended to, that is -" Javert cleared his throat. "While I stand by my words, I wrote this brief in a state of considerable agitation and might have been more pessimistic than warranted. Truly, it has been my privilege to devote my life to the law, and serve it in the company of my fellow policemen," Javert said. "Well. Most of them," honesty forced him to add.

"That lightens my heart to hear. It would have been a sad thing indeed to make farewells on such a sour note."

His hand twitched around the package with a crackle. "Farewells? You are quitting?"

"Oh no," Sauveterre said. He stroked a hand over his dark coat, shook his head and allowed a rough chuckle to escape. "No; the uniform might change, but beneath it... I believe we are both men who would find ourselves lost without duties to perform. No, I am merely being transferred; the powers that be have decided that my work is better done elsewhere. However, I am glad that I could speak to you once more before it was effected. It has been interesting to know you." He nodded towards Valjean. "Monsieur. Inspector."

"Inspector." Javert bowed. "It has been a privilege knowing you as well; I do hope we shall hear from you in your new post, once you have settled in."

"Who knows; this world is smaller than you think and you never know who you might catch up with. I shall certainly watch your career with interest!"

"Pardon," Valjean asked, his voice oddly detached, "but I believe I did not properly catch your name, Monsieur Inspector?"

Javert glanced at him in confusion. He had the blandest smile imaginable on his face, one not even Monsieur le Maire had been forced to use often. There was, however, something in his stance that betrayed a certain readiness to carry through on the promise of jailbreak and escape he had given Javert by the carriage, and Javert found himself inching closer to Valjean, strangely unsettled.

"Sauveterre," the Inspector repeated easily enough, "I am Jean-Maurice Sauveterre; at least here and now. Ah, pardon, I should not dally. Good day, Monsieur." He touched his forelock and inclined his head at them each. Then, as if struck by a thought, he tapped the papers Javert was holding. "And, Inspector? Do not worry about these any more... You will find that they are not so heavy to carry, not when there is someone to share the burden. Now, do take care in the future and may God's grace be upon you."

He walked up the stairs, and Javert looked down at the package he had been handed back. Heavy? It was a missive encompassing several dozen pages, true, but it did not weigh all that much. Especially not now that he was certain it would not be widely read in its unexpurgated version.

"He gave you..." Valjean touched the package, then shook his head, sighing deeply. "I am too tired, my friend, and these halls play tricks upon my mind."

"No," Javert said, "please share your thoughts. For some reason, I too find myself discomfited when I should only be relieved."

Valjean did not immediately reply. Instead he lifted his head, searching the finely decorated walls surrounding them. Then he backed down a dozen steps, until they were near a silver crucifix hanging on the wall. He crossed himself, eyes closed for a brief prayer, and when next he turned to Javert, some tension seemed to have left him.

"It is an odd notion indeed, Javert; tiredness and stress do take their toll on a man my age. However, absurd as it sounds, I could not shake the image that came to my mind upon seeing the Inspector. I believed for a moment that... That he was not returning a rash letter, but..."

"But?"

"But that he handed you your yellow papers."

To be concluded in the epilogue