The Angels Never Called, a les miserables fanfic

THE ANGELS NEVER CALLED

(The stars offer him solace, a shred of light in a dark place. The stars do not change and Javert realizes that he has modeled himself after them.)

warnings: religious views, suicide, death, prostitution mentions. (accidental/minimal) plot changes.

It is funny to Javert, in a twisted and marred sense, that a man can live his entire life for God and then die without Him.

It seems to Javert that every man dies without God. That isn't to say God is an illusion, but He does abandon. He abandoned Javert long, long ago and Javert hadn't realized it until he threw himself from the bridge and prayed for death to take him, because for the first time, Javert realized that "doing good" has done him no good. He might have been better off a beggar, a criminal on the streets. Valjean is the proof that not all street urchins are unholy, but Javert has always lived - if you could call it that - with harsh, clouded judgement, and did not see the light until his imminent death. That in itself is pitiful, and Javert realizes as he falls, that he has failed the Lord once again.

All men are born sinners; all men die sinners. There is nothing else.

When Javert is seventeen, he realizes that he has never spoken to his parents. He is aware that they existed, painfully so. Two disgusting humans mated, created an organism, and bore it unto the world without a plan. Javert is born in a prison and for years he considers himself unfortunate. He realizes later how lucky he had been to be taken in by the law, cared for and protected by it. Without the law, the world might be in shambles, like Javert's shambled past and dimly lit future.

For a long amount of time, Javert plays with the idea of finding his parents and showing them what he's become. He wonders whether or not they would take pride in him - not that he needs approval from anyone aside from God, but sometimes - once - Javert wants someone else to take a look at him and have their chest swell. Javert is ugly; his chin is angled, his eyes are beady, and his mouth is consistently pulled into a frown. He portrays the standard view of a villain but he is a hero.

Someone aside from God must be proud.

Javert discovers, years and years later, that he is the one who must be prideful. His parents watch from Heaven and weep at what their son has become, but Javert does not know this and he never will.

The streets in France are overrun with vermin and disease; Javert pities the beggars at first, but hardens quickly. They are capable people and should work for themselves. Jobs are scarce and those with a job are considered blessed, but if one is the greatest at something, then the person deserves it. The beggars must become greater. Javert has worked his entire life for modest pay and rarely complains, if only for his back.

On a Sunday, a dirtied man grapples for Javert's cloak, smearing sewage on his clothes. Javert flinches, yanking the fabric from the man's filthy hands. The man has a sore on his balding head that spurts yellowed puss and he is missing a number of his teeth. His nose is crooked and looks as though it has been broken more than once. He is uglier and lesser than Javert.

"Please, sir," the man sputters, his weathered voice hoarse, "A bit of food?"

Javert resists the strong urge to gag, waving the man away with a calloused hand. The man does not listen; he reaches for Javert's pant leg and Javert kicks him away, spitting on the ground in front of him. Javert bears his teeth and narrows his eyes, "Step away, or I'll be forced to arrest you, maggot." The beggar withers, ducking his head low and not meeting Javert's stoney gaze. Javert scoffs, muttering to himself as he steps around a man who is twice is his age and twice as poor.

"I pity you, sir," the man says, doubled over as though he is hiding himself. Javert pauses for a short time, relaying the information in his mind. Javert has never pitied others, nor has he been pitied; it is a sign of weakness and doubt, and Javert cannot afford to doubt himself because no other living thing believes in him.

"Why?" Javert allots himself one question. He is facing opposite of the beggar, watching others make their personal treks along the cobblestone path. His shoulders are taut and his entire frame rigid like his bones. When the man does not answer, Javert grimaces, spitting, "Pity yourself."

Javert drops a coin at the beggar's feet and pretends that he hadn't noticed it fall from his pocket. That does not mean he pities the man, of course.

Javert enjoys the rain, for rain grants him solitude. He has locked himself in his study with a thick book that is worn along the spine. He is still relatively young, but he's lost track of the years and there are wrinkles forming around his mouth that accentuate his deep frown. There is a steady rapping on the windows from the droplets of water from the sky, and a distant thunder rumbles.

Javert reads the Bible. Someone had informed him, once, that it will strengthen the bond he has with God. Javert knows that the only true relationship he has could use strengthening; many of those who accompany him have told him he's much too cold, even for his line of work. Javert tells them that the streets aren't going to cleanse themselves.

God tells him through his prayers that Javert should leave the cleansing to the raindrops, but Javert never listens.

"You seem to be in need of guidance, monsieur." Javert jerks his head up from the Holy Bible in his lap, peering at an old priest from under his bushy eyebrows. The priest is plump, with a round face and kind eyes. He has steadied his gaze onto Javert, who is seated in the final pew of an empty church. It is Thursday, in the event that the fact carries any weight, and it has been a long day. A convict had struck him, marring his imperfect skin, and Javert knows it will leave a deep scar on his jaw.

Javert focuses on keeping his face neutral. "I've only come to rest," he tells the man in a gruff voice. Javert does not know how many years he's lived, but his voice sounds weary to his ears; his face weathered to his eyes. The priest stands perfectly still, studying the man in the church. Javert knows he does not adhere to the mold of a perfect christian in appearance.

"I was under the impression you had been praying," the priest says after a brief moment of silence, "Do you pray?"

"Often," Javert scoffs, clutching his Bible protectively. His knuckles are white from how much force he puts into holding onto it, as though the devil will rip it from his grasp when he is least expecting it. Javert has a right to be distrusting; he has seen enough of the world to know that it is a bleak and dismal place, and the good in it is tainted with a mortal's darkest desires. Javert knows better than anyone that those who live for God are mostly living for themselves. They each cling to a twisted fear that if they do not follow His word then they will be damned to Hell.

"For?" The priest questions innocently. Javert knows of his innocence, but still feels as though he's been personally attacked, and his eyes narrow and his hands clench in response. Javert does not answer - refuses to because he is ashamed that he had been praying for himself. Lying is a sin, and let Javert be damned if he lies, so he presses his mouth into a thin line and closes the Bible with trembling hands. He will blame his shaken state on the cold, and he slips his book into his coat pocket and wraps it more tightly around himself as he stands.

"God knows what," Javert tells the priest. He sidles between the priest and the pew and escapes the church without another word. The cobblestone feels uncomfortably hard under his covered feet and his chest is constricted. Old age, Javert tells himself, because he does not count his years.

Twenty-seven stars shine brighter than the others and Javert fails to notice them.

Javert captures Valjean outside of the sewers and, with the assistance of other police, manages to bring him down. Valjean is a strong man with a set jaw. While others cower at Javert's feet, Valjean sits on his knees and stares him straight in the eye. Javert snarls, knocking the loaf of bread from his hands. It falls to the ground for the rats to eat - better a rat than a thief, Javert thinks - and Valjean noticeably cringes, as though Javert has struck him, but does not lose any amount of his valor.

"Thief," Javert hisses, his nightstick prodding into the bigger man's chest, "You stole the bread?"

"My sister's child is starving!" Valjean roars, fighting against the men that bind him. Javert whacks him once at the side of the head and Valjean is forced to settle.

"That does not put you above the law," Javert says, posture steeled in the event Valjean attempts to attack. "Who are you, vermin? What is your name?"

"Jean Valjean," the man says. He speaks with such conviction that Javert takes a step backwards. Valjean is proud of what he's done. He has done what he has thought correct. He shocks Javert further by saying, "And who are you?" His voice is filled with contempt; he mocks Javert with a smirk that tugs on the side of his mouth. Javert hesitates for a moment, rage building within his stomach and bubbling upwards.

He steps forward swiftly, bringing his stick up. He strikes Valjean twice more, fingers clenched around the weapon so tightly he's sure it will disintegrate in his very grasp. His teeth are gritted and Valjean grunts in pain after the second swing, his head hanging low between the blades of his shoulders. Javert feels powerful once more. He feels as though nothing can overcome him. More importantly, he does not feel as pathetic as he knows Valjean thinks he is.

Javert leans close to Valjean's ear; "Your greatest enemy."

Javert halfway lives and watches the world change. The streets become populated with beggars and whores; factories are crowded with the poor who are in desperate need of money to live by. Javert lives modestly, but does not suffer from uncertainty. Javert can pay his bills and never has to worry about whether or not he will be able to afford his next meal. Javert leads a life that is unchanging; it gives him a sense of power that he might not be able to maintain had he changed as the world had.

The stars offer him solace, a shred of light in a dark place. The stars do not change and Javert realizes that he has modeled himself after them.

A star explodes from billions of miles away and Javert quakes.

Javert is no longer discontented with the world; rather, he despises it as it should be despised.

Valjean is released on a parole that he breaks; he disappears and Javert has never been more furious, because Valjean is the only man in Javert's life that has outdone him without intending to do so. Javert makes it his duty in life to capture the man. For the first time in a while, he prays for something that Javert feels will better humanity, but he does know his own selfishness tinges his prayers, and God knows this, as well.

"Javert," one of the constables speaks; he has a wildly deep voice that booms over a crowd and causes Javert's veins to vibrate. Javert remains aloof, turning his head to peer at the shorter man from where he stands. "We've received information about the whereabouts of Jean Valjean."

Javert cocks a brow and nods, sending the man away.

Years pass and Valjean proves to Javert that he's going to be difficult to find.

Javert has no heart, for he has given it to God.

A woman who may have been beautiful once is accused of attacking a gentleman as he strolled through the park. She is dirty, bruised, and tainted from sex, from unholy men in the midst of night. Her hair is short, nails dirtied, scars littering her face and her skin. She quakes with rage and sadness; when Javert threatens to arrest her, she spouts nonsense of a daughter who she is trying to protect.

It isn't as though he hasn't heard such pleas before; while some may be soft enough to yield to them, Javert is made of steel, of brutal muscle and bone, and he finds her pathetic. He spits in her face as she pleads at his feet. She is used to being on her knees; let her stay there.

The mayor takes her to a hospital but the woman dies. The mayor tells Javert he is Valjean and he runs. Javert chases.

Javert despises himself.

He despises himself for not realizing that Valjean had been right under his nose. He despises himself for being unable to sweep the streets of vermin. He despises himself for giving a homeless man a coin all those years ago. Javert wholeheartedly despises himself for all of those actions, for both his callousness and heartlessness (but he has a heart, anatomically he could not live without one, but God holds it, cradles it in his huge, strong hands. Javert stares at his own hands, scarred and small, and hates them).

Javert is tired of chasing. Valjean is there and then suddenly he is not, always evading Javert physically but forever present in his mind. Javert reads the Bible, prays to God, and stupidly wishes on a star in the sky, once, when he feels as though God has stopped listening.

A woman introduces herself to him at church, smiles kindly and pats Javert on his broad shoulder. She does this for weeks, then months, and he shrugs her off every time.

He cannot love her, cannot love any woman, and it eats at him until he feels his weakened bones begin to bend.

Javert despises himself for that most of all.

Valjean saves him.

In a twist of fate, Javert is saved by the very man that he had been trying to condemn, to capture and let rot within a prison cell. The ABC Society leads a revolution and Javert pretends to assist, gives false information and is found out by an orphaned boy that he never cared to learn the name of. Valjean has a knife in his hand, has Javert subdued and sputtering. Javert is ready to die, pleads for it, his old bones tired and his mind no wiser than it had been when he was younger.

Valjean cuts through the bounds on his hands and tells him that he is free. (Funny - those must be the same words he wants Javert to utter: you are free.) Javert glares, anger building within him. He would have let Valjean kill him a thousand times over if Javert could only keep his pride intact. Javert stands, defeated instead of victorious.

Javert allots himself no question, but deeply wants to ask Valjean why. Javert can see the pity in Valjean's eyes. He pretends not to notice. Javert turns on his heel, knowing that it is finally his turn to run.

Pity yourself, Javert thinks bitterly as he disappears into the night.

Before Javert takes his own, he saves two lives.

He finds Valjean in the sewers, struggling to lead a young man to safety. He starts to stop them, begins to take his revenge, and cannot. Valjean does not have to scream or yell or plead; Javert would have let them go either way, his stone cold heart shivering with feeling, with something he has never experienced before. Good, he thinks as Valjean takes the boy away. Love.

It is a shattering revelation, that Valjean has loved him as unconditionally as God might have. That Valjean is the good one.

Javert falters, clutching his chest as though he is in pain. God's hands squeeze his heart and Javert feels tender, weak. He has been destroyed. Valjean has spared him his life and he feels as though he might be dead, or at the very least, dying. Old age, he thinks, as he reaches the bridge. He counts the stars. Sixty-five, that he can see, and suddenly he feels them weighted on his greying hair and his brittle bones.

He falls backwards and tells himself that it is an accident. He tells God that it is on purpose.

Javert is born a sinner; Javert dies a sinner. There is nothing else.