Les Misérables Fanfiction: The Hangman
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Victor Hugo is going to murder me in my sleep.
A/N: I am so sorry.
Pairing: Valjean/Javert
The Hangman
"I am so happy you finally came to play!" The man sang, his smile twisted and his eyes gleaming with insanity.
Javert only glared, his breath coming out in wheezing gasps as he fought against the pain burning like fire and racing through his right arm like ice. The man cackled below him, the meat hook lodged in his shoulder suspending him above the docks. He drew in deep breaths, letting the maniacal monologue the man was spewing at him roll over him like water as he managed to twist his right arm (his left was busy hanging onto the chain suspending him), biting back the scream bubbling in his throat as the meat hook twisted with him, tearing through muscle, his eyes dimmed as stars danced before his eyes. He kept groping until finally his cold, trembling fingers wrapped around the familiar shape of his pistol.
"You're not listening to me!" The man screamed at him, forcing Javert to focus on him rather than the pain gripping his body. The man shouted something else, but it was lost to the wind and the sudden jerk in the chain as the ground suddenly flew towards him at nauseating speed.
His knees buckled upon the impact forcing him on his back. Gasping, he blinked the creeping blackness out of his sight, he felt his blood soaking through his uniform and the icy boardwalk bleeding through his clothes making his muscles, already tight and aching, jump and spasm as its frozen fingers clawed into him mercilessly.
"Look at me," the man crowed, his voice high and screeching like a child.
Javert snapped his eyes open, finding the man's face far too close to his own, his legs straddling him. He grinned at the Inspector, his lips splitting like a wound, his smile like a predator that had finally caught its prize. The man giggled, placing his hands on Javert's shoulders when the Inspector remained unfazed and as immovable as stone.
"Isn't this fun?" He laughed, smiling at him as if this were some great game.
The click of a gun checked the grinning man on top of him, his smile suddenly frozen, staring at him as if this was incomprehensible to him. Javert finally let a smile, cold and feral--the one all criminals have come to fear, stretch his solemn lips, "Sorry, I never cared much for games."
The shot sounded like thunder. The man screamed, scrambling off of him, crying as he tried to stop the bleeding from his stomach. "No, no, no, no! That's not fair! This isn't how the game works! You broke the rules! You broke the rules!" He kept screaming and crying, cradling his stomach as he glared at the Inspector through watery eyes.
Javert remained silent, his face sliding back into stoicism; getting to his feet he dug out the meat hook wedged deeply within his flesh with nary a grimace before throwing it to the ground, the tool wet with blood. He leveled the gun at the murderer, his eyes hard and without mercy.
Another shot and the man fell dead and silent.
Javert's ragged breathing was the only thing that could be heard within the dead twilight between the night and the breaking dawn as the mists rolled over the boardwalk and coiled like snakes at his feet. With shaky, but confident steps he headed towards the only cold storage unit in this part of the dock; the man, the serial killer, had crowed about it, showing it off to him like a child showing off a new toy. His insides trembled, for he had an idea of what lay inside.
The door pushed open with little strength and on silent hinges, the gas lamps hanging in the corners illuminated the sight he would try to forget to his dying day. Bodies. Thirty bodies--all the reports of missing persons that had flooded into their office for the past two months, all of them here. The corpses were hung like pigs, only hanging by their necks, naked, their eyes open, wide with fear. Their bodies were white, as if they had been drained of blood, their lips cold and blue.
If Javert had been a lesser man he would've lost his last meal, as it is he doubted he would find his appetite anytime soon. With another sharp look he turned on his heel and left.
§
There were no cabs to found at this hour and he, unfortunately, was in no position to be hauling a corpse through the streets of Paris. The body--bodies, would keep for another couple of hours. The walk back to the station house was a pain beyond words, every movement, every frayed nerve hurt and his body seemed to weigh thirty pounds more with every heavy step. It must be the blood loss, he mused. There was a trail of red left behind him, a clear trail to any who would want to follow.
The dawn was finally breaking, the dark sky turning pale in the wake of the coming sun. The station house was finally within reach. Numbed, bloody hands opened the doorway, allowing his bedraggled form through the threshold, he was in luck the Commissionaire, Felíx Dubois had just arrived.
The burly man turned at the sound and upon finding the Inspector (which was not unusual), in a tattered uniform with blood soaked through his entire right side and a gaping hole in shoulder (not the usual), the Commissionaire rushed towards the man, bellowing for a medic.
"Javert, what in God's name happened to you?" He asked, herding the scowling and protesting man into the nearest seat.
"The serial killer," Javert began, "I found a lead last night and went to follow it and I found him."
"Obviously," the Commissionaire muttered, scowling in turn at the stubborn man. "What happened to him? More importantly what happened to you?"
"The man is dead," Javert reported, his voice empty and without inflection.
"And what happened to you?" Dubois repeated irritably.
The Commissionaire felt his heart stop when he saw his Inspector's eyes turn dark and haunted. Never in all his years of service has Javert ever looked like that, it turned his blood cold.
"A meat hook. He seems quite found of them," Javert said blandly, his eyes staring off into nothing, "he stabbed it into my shoulder and suspended me in the air. His victims--" He cut himself off when the doctor hurried through the side door, where the infirmary sat.
The doctor was an old man and an expert in his profession, one of the best surgeons Paris could provide. Javert's scowls no longer intimidated him as they once did when the Inspector was first transferred to Paris. He cleaned and bandaged the gaping wound before placing it in a sling.
Javert glared at him, "I'm--"
"You're not fine," the doctor snapped, "and don't you dare argue with me or so help me, I'll make sure you'll be resigned to desk work for the rest of your damn career!"
The doctor smirked in triumph when the Inspector remained silent, though if looks could kill the doctor would've been in his grave ages ago. The Commissionaire just looked amused.
"Go to the devil, both of you," Javert growled.
When the doctor finally retreated, with one last warning of 'please don't do anything stupid', Javert promptly stood up, startling the Commissionaire to his own feet. It was amazing even now, even with his arm bandaged and in a sling, a bruise decorating his cheek, that this man still looked as formidable and as dangerous as he always does, a true predator.
"Are there any officers on hand? We're going to need to them."
"The only ones left at this hour are the rookies," Dubois told him.
A dark, indistinguishable look passed over Javert's face before it was gone, hidden behind his impenetrable mask once more. "Very well. It is time they learned."
The Commissionaire shivered at that tone, wondering with a heavy heart of what awaited them.
§
The ride to the docks was a short, silent ride. The rookies, or pups as some liked to call them were full of nerves, excited and anxious alike. Javert was like stone, hard and silent as his gaze rested, unseeingly out the window; the Commissionaire kept his face blank, mostly for the benefit of the untried youths beside them, he had a feeling they were about to walk into hell.
The cab dropped them off just as the sun was finally rising, its warm fingers shining through the mist before drawing the cold, lingering air away. The dock was stained with blood, the murderer was sprawled out upon the boardwalk like a puppet with severed strings, blood surrounding his contorted body like a dark halo. Dubois felt his insides recoil at the sight of the bloodied meat hook that sat discarded only feet away from the serial killer. He shot a look towards the Inspector, who despite his injuries still moved with a hunter's grace and promised himself to never underestimate the man, under any circumstances.
"The victims are over here Commissionaire," Javert said, leading them to a large containment unit. The rookies shifted nervously, twisting their cudgels in their hands. "Steel yourselves," he warned them.
The door swung open on silent hinges, but the horrified silence spoke volumes.
"Good God," one of the rookies whimpered.
Another turned away to empty his stomach, his terrible retching echoing through the pressing silence. Dubois took a shaky breath, swallowing back the bile stinging the back of his throat. He placed his hand gently on the Inspector's uninjured shoulder, only speaking when the man turned to look at him, Javert's empty, shuttered eyes was like a punch to the gut.
"Go home Inspector," he said gently, "we've got this covered. I don't want to see you back at the station house until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," his strong, steady voice did not match his eyes, which looked so lost.
§
Javert's hard outer shell was close to breaking by the time he reached his house. It was an act of God that he finally made it through the door.
"Javert!"
He let the warm, familiar voice of Jean Valjean slide over him like a blanket of safety. He knew as soon as Valjean saw him, he would--
"Javert, what in God's name happened to you?" Do that. Strong arms wrapped around him and Javert let himself melt into them, burying his face in Valjean's shoulder. "You're hurt--Javert--" he let the concerned babbling wash over him like the tide as he felt his mask of stone and indifference break and shatter like fragile porcelain.
His knees gave out, forcing Valjean to fall with him, cradling him in their doorway, his chest heaving with dry sobs, even as his throat tightened and his eyes burned.
Valjean could do nothing but hold him, running his fingers through his short hair and whispering soft and comforting words in his ear; Javert would tell him what had happened in his own time. He ran his fingers over the fresh bandages and felt his own heart seize in terror at the thought of what Javert had been through these last few hours.
So they sat there, in the doorway of their little house, the once ex-convict gently cradling the police Inspector that had once hunted him in his arms, comforting him as he the man finally allowed himself to fall apart.
§
Hours later Valjean finally managed to carry Javert to bed, the man's exhausted body refusing to move another inch. He had undressed him as if he were a doll, swallowing tightly around the lump in his throat as the tattered uniform gave way to dried blood. He washed him carefully, holding the breaking man in his arms as he cleaned the smaller cuts and washed away the grime. At the end, the water was dark and red and he felt sick as he threw it out, watching the dirty, blood-stained water soak into the ground.
Finally he had gotten themselves settled into bed, despite it being mid morning. Valjean held Javert close to his chest, making sure his damaged shoulder wasn't caught between their bodies.
"Jean," Javert whispered, his voice rough and thick from crying.
"Tell me in your own time," he said softly, stroking his hair gently before letting his hand to fall to cup his cheek.
"I need to tell someone. Its like this weight in my chest and it keeps getting heavier," his voice sounding harsh as if he was spitting out every word.
Valjean nodded, remaining quiet, tucking Javert tighter into his chest as the man began to speak. He spoke of the complaints of missing persons that had flooded their offices for two months now, how the Commissionaire had ignored them, seeing as they were not 'high society', despite Javert insisting that something was wrong, that people didn't just vanish. Attention was finally called to it when the son of a noble went missing in the same fashion.
He told him of the serial killer, the son of a governor who had grown bored of the high society life and wanted some entertainment. Javert explained his childish mindset, how he believed this was all a game and since he was a governor's son, there couldn't possibly be any charges against him. The boy (fore he was never a man) had been spoiled, selfish and knew nothing outside of his own twisted, invented world.
He spoke of the docks and the meat hook that had suspended his body in the air (Valjean stiffened in rage and fear at this, curling his taller body around the other protectively, as if he could guard him from the memories of this event) and the pain of grasping hold of his gun as the boy let him fall. He told how the boy had crawled on top of him (Valjean growled at this) jeering and laughing at how much fun he was having and then how he had shot the boy. He explained how he had screamed and cried, telling him he had 'broken the rules' before another shot to the head silenced him.
Then Javert grew quiet again and he knew that that hadn't been the worst part. "There was cooling unit on that dock," he explained quietly, "the only one. It was where he had kept his victims, all of them. Men, women... children. They were hanging by their necks, naked and white like bone." Javert's voice trembled, but he still he continued, "All their eyes were open and their faces were still marred with fear." The trembling in his body became so pronounced that Valjean bade him to stop.
"I understand," he murmured, feeling his eyes blur with tears, both for the victims and Javert, "I understand." He repeated over and over, crying softly into Javert's graying hair.
Javert, for once didn't argue, he felt too drained, too wrung out, to even lift his head. Instead he tucked his head under Valjean's chin and finally allowed the tears to come.
§
A quiet knock on the door roused Valjean from his light nap. He looked outside and found the sun hung high, another knock finally brought him to carefully untangle himself from Javert and throwing on a robe (indecency be damned), he quietly opened the door, for once hoping it wasn't Cosette. Javert needed quiet.
He blinked in surprise, "Commissionaire."
"Monsieur Valjean," the man returned, he looked pale and his eyes too empty. Valjean had a pretty good guess as to why.
"What can I do for you?"
"I just came to check in on him," Dubois said, guilt flooding his face, making his face look twenty years older.
Valjean grimaced, "He's... managing." He said at last; Javert still had his pride.
A grim smile flickered across the Commissioner’s face, "I thought as much. I do have a favor to ask of you though, make sure the good Inspector stays here and rests. I don't want to see him back at the station house until tomorrow in the afternoon at the earliest."
Valjean had to smile because of course Javert would simply disregard orders to rest, unless they were enforced. "Of course Commissionaire. In fact I'd prefer if he'd not go in all together, but we both know that would take a miracle."
"Indeed, and trust me, I feel the same. But he does have to write up his report, which I can promise you won't take more than a few hours," Dubois reassured him.
The Commissionaire didn't linger, bidding his farewell before heading back, presumably to the station house. Closing the door behind him, Valjean crept back into the window, releasing a sigh of relief to find Javert still fast asleep and the lines on his face soft, the hours of stress washed away. Leaning over him, he gently kissed his brow, closing his eyes in prayer: Please Lord guard his sleep and show me how to help him.
§
By the next morning the story was printed in every paper, though the officer who confronted The Hangman, as they were now calling him was not named and Valjean thanked God and the Commissionaire for that, Javert had always shied away from any fame and publicity. As Valjean read the story he quickly lost his appetite for any food, pushing the bread and jam away with a pained grimace; hearing the story of the string of murders told about in such a detached way made him internally recoil, though he knew the papers were not be emotionally invested in the stories they reported least they distort the facts. Though when they tried to interview the father of The Hangman--Governor Lefévre their tried indifference fell short.
The Governor blamed the police for not catching his son sooner, laying blame at their feet, stating his poor son was emotionally unstable and couldn't be held accountable for his actions. He also refused any monetary assistance for the thirty families his son's abominable actions had ruined. It was deplorable, Valjean had rarely felt such anger; the father may not be fully accountable for the boy's actions, but to lay blame on the police, on Javert who had barely escaped with his own life to stop the Governor's deranged son--he at least owed the public his sympathy and perhaps in turn, the public would give sympathy back. But this man--
"Jean?" The thick, tired voice of Javert sent all the anger rushing out of him, affection and concern taking its place.
He barely restrained himself from getting to his feet and pulling the man into his arms, if only to reassure himself that Javert is here, that he is safe. Instead he folded up the newspaper and set aside, watching his partner of four years use his left hand as deftly as he had always used the right. A swell of exasperated affection warmed his chest, he's ambidextrous. Of course he's ambidextrous.
"Allow me to help change your bandages," Valjean asked him.
Javert huffed, biting into his breakfast as if he were attacking it, "I can manage." He refused gruffly.
Rolling his eyes, Valjean clarified, "I'm well aware you can manage." And the with a softer voice he said, "Please, allow me to do this for you. I need to know you'll be alright."
Shifting uncomfortably, Javert averted his eyes grunting his assent.
§
It was mid afternoon by the time Valjean allowed him to leave to head to the station house, he laid the blame entirely on Dubois, meddling old man that he was. His arm was still wrapped in a sling and after promising Valjean a thousand and one times that no, he would not throw away the sling as soon as he was out of sight for the sake of appearances. Honestly, Valjean sometimes worried about the stupidest things; as if he would invite another biting lecture from their doctor who seemed to particularly enjoy scolding him for his 'stupid, unnecessary stunts', that, in his defense had been completely reasonable actions at the time (though that time with the three-story balcony and the sack of flour might've been a little unnecessary, a little).
The station house was busy as usual, police and messenger boys running from office to office, carrying stacks of paperwork and yelling something incomprehensible to another person on the other side of the room. It was chaos, all-in-all: the usual; when he stepped into view, however, the cacophony of noise suddenly hushed and all eyes turned to him. Javert was more bemused than unnerved and he stared back at them unflinchingly.
"Strange," he mused, his voice rumbling through the air like a growl, "you were all so busy moments ago."
Embarrassment burned their faces as they scurried back to their jobs, tails between their legs, sneaking furtive looks as they passed. He couldn't understand why, this was hardly the first time he had come in injured, much to chagrin of, well everyone; Javert didn't understand it, he was a police inspector, getting shot at and inevitably hurt was part of the job. Honestly it shouldn't surprise anyone if he comes in with a few bruises every now and then, he wasn't as invincible as people liked to believe.
Pushing the thoughts from his mind he cut through the office like a fish through water, knocking on the Commissioner’s door to deliver his report.
"It better not be Javert!" The man yelled through the door.
Javert rolled his eyes and opened the door anyway, "Sir."
"I told you I didn't want to see you--"
"Until the afternoon," Javert cut in, "and its the afternoon, late afternoon."
Dubois huffed, shuffling piles of paper into their designated spots. "I'd rather you'd not come in at all," he grumbled, "you could use a few days leave."
Javert raised an eyebrow, unamused. "So I've been told," he said dryly. Repeatedly.
Dubois sighed, leaning back in his chair, "All right then. Let's get this over with, the sooner this case is closed the happier I'll be."
Javert agreed, decidedly not thinking about yesterday morning and the consistent throb of pain from his shoulder. "I've already written up my report," he told him, fishing out the file from the folds of his greatcoat, and handed it over.
The Commissionaire flipped it open, skimming over the report, as usual nothing was amiss and the wording was precise and detached, only showing numbers and figures. He closed the file with a sigh, "Everything looks to be in order. You're free to head home and I'm giving you three days of leave."
Javert started, "But sir--"
"No buts! I don't want to see you back here until those three days are up and then you are to report to me the morning you come back. Do you understand?"
Javert gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to argue with his superior, which he had only done once before (for this case), but knew there was no convincing the man otherwise. He bowed stiffly, "Yes sir."
"I'm doing this for your own good you know," the man sighed before shooing him out.
The people in the station house scrambled out of his way as he stalked out, his face pulled into scowl and his eyes burning bright with frustration. He hated required leave. He was fine and he certainly didn't need their pity.
§
By the time he reached home he had stalked the anger out of himself for the most part, understanding logically, why the Commissionaire had put him on leave (it was standard procedure for those injured on duty), but it didn't mean he had to like it. Well, at least Valjean would be pleased, damn mother-hen, he'd be confined to the bed and the sofa if Valjean had his way. He immediately pushed such thoughts out of his head as they strayed towards activities that made his face hot.
"You're back earlier than expected." Valjean didn't even attempt to hide the delight in his voice.
He scowled, "I was given several days of leave."
Valjean was wise enough not to say anything to re-ignite his temper, instead taking him by the shoulder and leading him into their garden and despite his foul mood, Javert found himself uncoiling, if only a little under the soft tranquility the garden allowed them.
"I know it frustrates you, but you do need to allow yourself to heal," Valjean says as he kneeled down to begin plucking out the weeds that had begun creeping into his vegetable garden again. "And it brings peace to my heart to know you are safe."
Javert sighed, hanging his head as much as his wounded shoulder allowed. Valjean had put up with a lot during these four years, being involved with an officer of the law often meant he was gone for days at a time, staking out criminals, searching for leads that would help pull a case together. Regular office hours had never applied to him and despite everything, Valjean was still here by his side.
He shifted uncomfortably before leaving the stone bench and kneeling beside him in the dirt, awkwardly catching his hand still dark with soil and gently braided their fingers together. "I'm sorry," the words left his lips, soft and fumbling, they were heavy and clumsy on his tongue, coming from a man who rarely had to use such a phrase.
Valjean cradled his hand with his other, clasping it between them, "I know." He acknowledged. He paused, his jaw moving as he though searched for the right words to say, "I was terrified when you came home yesterday morning and when didn't come home that night. I sat up, startling at every sound thinking it would be one of your colleagues to, God forbid, tell me something had happened to you," his voice choked on the words and Javert rested his head on his shoulder in a silent reassurance. "When I saw the bandages--when I helped you out of your uniform and saw all that blood... dammit Javert! All that blood came from you! You could've died! I could've--I could've," his voice shuddered and broke and Javert felt his heart twist and break with him, "I could've lost you."
"I'm sorry," he didn't offer any empty platitudes. He got lucky, his bone-deep stubbornness and vast years of experience had been the only things that had saved his life. He didn't promise that nothing would happen to him, and he didn't promise that this would be last time this would happen because they had promised to never lie to each other and that would've been the biggest lie of them all. "I love you Jean, I love you."
They sat curled around each other, letting the silence fill in the spaces, saying the things words never could.