A/N: Here we go again. For all you PotO fans out there, be advised that Erik as a character doesn't actually appear a whole lot in this chapter. He's saving his grand entrance for act two. That being said, he's rather critical to this chapter's conflict, as you shall see. One final note (pun mostly intended) regarding the phantom: I'm basing him in this fic a lot off of Leroux's original Erik, and less so off of his other incarnations.
Regarding timelines: Consider this as happening pre-Christine on Erik's part, and not long after Valjean and Cosette would have left the convent on the part of the Mizzies.
I wanted to write a fic playing with one of my favorite Javert headcanons, and this just sort of spiraled out from there. Extremely mild Valjean/Javert slash, a hell of a lot of water, and a cliffhanger ending. Sorry about that. Don't worry, I do intend to write the second part ASAP.
Our Manager Must Learn
Entr'acte
Jean Valjean was running. This, he reflected wryly, was not an unusual state of affairs for him.
He should have known that there was no earthly way to manage such a successful theatre without drawing undue attention down on himself, but truth be told, he had a soft spot for the arts. Artists were, in his opinion, the closest men could come to apotheosis, and when the opportunity to purchase the nationally renowned Opéra Populaire had presented itself, Valjean (or Fauchelevent, as he called himself) had been unable to resist. Monsieur Lefèvre had been falling over himself in eagerness to sell the place - heavens only knew why - and in a flash of impulsiveness, the magnificent theatre changed hands.
Valjean had not been left in the dark for long; within days it had become apparent why Lefèvre had run for it without so much as a glance over his shoulder. The second morning of his management, Madame Giry, the respectable ballet mistress, came to him with a sealed letter.
"From the Opéra Ghost, monsieur," she had said. "He bids you welcome, and reminds you that his bill of twenty-thousand francs is due at next week's end."
Valjean had read the letter with raised eyebrows, but as his financial attitude was rather more liberal than most individuals' (and indeed, than all of the Opèra's previous managers), he saw little wrong with supplying a local eccentric with the requested funds.
The results of his timely compliance were immediate and apparent. The ending of the month brought with it the opera house's first production under Valjean's management. A set design which had been deemed "too ambitious" was miraculously completed in the eleventh hour. A lighting malfunction that could have set the grand curtain ablaze was inexplicably averted. The opening night's show closed to thunderous applause, and in the aftermath, the entire cast was alive with whispers about the Opèra Ghost.
Valjean, eager to congratulate everyone on a fine performance, naturally overheard some of the rumors. They left him baffled, but amused. The overlying consensus was that some heavenly apparition haunted the confines of the theatre, blessing or cursing the productions according to its mood. Many a chorus girl had some coquettishly-recited tale of a dark figure in the little-used bowels of the theater which vanished without a trace, or of music, sometimes accompanied by song, which echoed as choirs of angels through abandoned passages. Such were the stories.
It was, insofar as he could gather, this specter to which Valjean paid a steep monthly homage, in order to purchase its graces. Having little use for wealth, and perfectly happy to distribute it to those less fortunate, Valjean simply shook his head in bemusement, raised everyone's salaries, and continued to accommodate the phantom's wishes. Cosette, meanwhile, developed a fascination with ballet and whiled away the hours studying the basics of a dance which most of the performers had perfected as children.
Nearly a year passed. With "Monsieur Fauchelevent" producing the opera house's work, all parties flourished, and the newspapers of France openly praised the gentleman's role in the work. A fantastical production of Le jugement de Midas had his name in headlines: "Fauchelevent - Turning Opèra-Comique Into Gold".
It was the headlines which did it, Valjean decided as he ran down another flight of stairs. Having his name - even an assumed one - in bolded type was a risk he had not taken since Montreuil-sur-Mer. And Javert knew all about Fauchelevent, knew how Valjean had saved his life some decades ago. The crafty Inspector would have been more than capable of putting two and two together. No matter how it happened, the fact remained that Paris' single most pedantic officer of the law had appeared in the queue a half hour before the inception of the evening's performance.
Valjean, always eager to help, was carrying up a box of programs for the ushers when he passed the line. His eyes lifted as he smiled jovially to the crowd, waving a cordial hello. Then his eyes met Javert's. To say that their instant of mutual recognition was electric would be to make a gross understatement. It was positively lightning-charged, as Valjean recognized Javert, knew that Javert recognized him, and knew that Javert knew he knew. With an air of completely unflappable calm, Valjean handed the box off to a passing ropes-boy and walked the opposite direction. Only when he was out of the lobby and safely ensconced behind a door did his composure crack.
He had to go, and quickly, because the Inspector was doubtless already making a scene. There were a dozen exits which would take him into greater Paris, but he did not care to chance Javert's foresight - it was more than possible that the imminent Inspector had stationed officers around the theatre proper to stop his escape. More favorably, then, with more known variables to Valjean's advantage, was the prospect of finding a place to hide within the theater itself.
It was a plan with promise, for the further one ventured into the twisting passages of the ancient opera house, the more labyrinthine the building became. Indeed, it was something of a jest among the cast that one could get lost for a month if they took a wrong turn coming out of the dressing rooms. Losing Javert could not be that difficult. He'd certainly managed it before.
With the stamina of any thoroughbred and the silence of a fox, Valjean took off, down that corridor - a long, plain one lined with practice rooms - and then through another, which was shorter and filled with dusty oil paintings leaning against the walls. At the end of this passage was a portal that opened onto a flight of stairs. He heard a door slam behind him and abandoned caution, taking the steps two at a time.
Jean Valjean ran. One might almost say he was used to it.
Heavy leather boots thudded on the mahogany. Keen ears detected the sound of a slight break in step, a door opened and shut again. Valjean had led him on a merry dance thus far, racing ahead through exits and halls and stairs, spiraling ever-downwards in an attempt to lose his pursuer, but Inspector Javert was a wolf, thrilling and tireless in the chase. When he reached the next landing, he passed through the door and was rewarded by the sound of distant footfalls.
The old convict had taken leave of his senses if he thought he would evade capture. Javert had been waiting too long to clap shackles on those well-scarred wrists to be put off by Valjean's slight lead. The name Fauchelevent in the papers had been a sign from God, for it recalled to the Inspector a frail, white haired man rescued from under the crushing weight of a cart by a man who in the galleys had been called Jean the Jack. An unshakable hunch in his gut had led him here, and how easily it was validated! Certainly, this stunt as Opéra Manager was not the first time the con had tried hiding in plain sight.
Strolling with fierce confidence down the whitewashed hall, Javert rounded the corner and noticed that the echoes he had been tracking had subsided. It seemed that his quarry had paused. Perhaps Valjean had grown weary. Javert doubted it. The man was stronger than he; doubtless, he could run for some time yet before exhaustion caught him up. No, more probably was that the convict had found some hiding place and thought it sufficient to cover his scent, as it were.
This hallway was lined on both sides by wooden doors. A gas lamp hung between each frame, leaving a marked absence of shadow. Pressing his ear to the first door on the left, Javert listened. His hand crept to the hilt of the rapier at his waist, but no noise issued from within. The Inspector crossed the width of the hall and did the same, but again, he heard nothing. At each door, he listened, waiting for a creak, a cough, or a rustling. The middle portal on his right emitted a soft sigh, but when he opened the door, sword drawn and half-snarling, he was met with an empty space which merely amplified the sound of air blowing through a small opening near the ceiling. He shook his head and withdrew. Likely as not, it was some vent for the boiler room.
Even as he began to wonder if perhaps Valjean had taken shelter in the next hall over, he came to the final door on the left-hand side. This time, he was certain his ear had caught a scuffing, as of shoes on the flagstone floor when one shifts their weight. A gloved hand grasped the brass knob, and with no further ado, Inspector Javert threw open the door.
To his everlasting satisfaction, the convict he sought had indeed secreted himself in the room. Satisfaction rapidly turned to confusion when the convict failed to turn around and acknowledge him, instead staring as if transfixed at the immense instrument built into the room's back wall. As a man of exceptional focus, the Inspector paid this marvel little heed, nor did he begin to grasp the edges of its significance. For the sake of those who have never perused the lower levels of the Opéra Populaire, nor borne witness to this bizarre musical anomaly, the installation which so held Valjean's attention was this: a barrel organ, but one unlike any other organ ever seen by man. There were too many pipes, for one thing, and while many of them ran vertically up the wall, just as many ran horizontally, or even in curves, twisting around, over, and under the other brass pipes. Moreover, while these tubes had mouths drilled into them by which to fill the room with sound, their ends disappeared into the walls, perhaps exiting in some other room by dint of which an occupant could still hear the music being produced several floors away. This Valjean was considering, and this Javert was ignoring.
"You are caught," he growled, raising his weapon level with Valjean's back. "Surrender yourself."
Valjean did not appear to hear him. He cocked his head slightly, trying to pick out some pattern in the ghastly device.
"Prisoner 24601," Javert began, "you are under arrest following charges of theft, breaking parole, living under assumed titles, and -"
Valjean turned around.
"Curious, this," he said, an odd light in his eyes. "Have you ever seen such a strange and wondrous organ? I have attended many churches in my time, Inspector, and never have I seen such a piece."
"Quit your prattling," Javert snapped. "I repeat - you are under arrest for -"
"Yes, yes, I heard you the first time," said Valjean dismissively. "It counts for little."
Javert scoffed. "You mock the law even yet, in front of one who means to uphold its virtues? You prove yourself a fool."
"A fool? Maybe." Valjean took a step forward. "And yet, for all that, here I am, and you have not yet tried to clap me in handcuffs."
Javert withdrew a pair of silver manacles from his coat pocket.
"Do you yield, 24601? Or must I apply force?"
Valjean raised an eyebrow mildly. "I've not forgotten your name, Inspector Javert. You might see fit to use mine."
"You forfeit your name and your freedom the instant you broke your parole," Javert snarled. "Yield, and I shall not be forced to extend the list of charges."
The other man looked pointedly at the rapier in the Inspector's hand. "What do you plan to do with that, monsieur?" he asked. "Attack me? Permit me to tell you how that would play out, shall I? You would lunge, I would catch you by the wrist, twist the sword from your grasp, render you unconscious, and go my way. Do not think you can best me, Inspector. You cannot." Valjean spun back around and returned to examining the instrument, tracing his fingers lightly over the ivory keys.
"Strange indeed," he murmured. "The chorus girls often gossip about rooms such as these, for there are many treasures hidden beneath the theatre, and more than once I have been assured that wandering the corridors at night, one may hear distant organ music. Who would play such a contraption? Who would build it?"
Javert crossed the remainder of the small room, and pressed the point of the rapier in the spot between Valjean's shoulder blades.
"Yield," he hissed quietly.
"Going to kill me, Inspector?" Valjean asked, his tone casual. "I doubt it. You are a clever man - if you meant me harm, why not hold the sword to my neck instead? Far easier to cut a man's throat than to run him through."
Javert hesitated slightly. He was an officer of the police, not an executioner. While a baser instinct told him to kill the bastard and be done with it, this was an instinct easily ignored. Justice demanded that the man be returned to the galleys, and if Javert could be said to worship anything, it was justice. In an instant, he abandoned his strategy. He dropped his sword, returning it to his sheath, and refused to take notice of Valjean's amused exhalation. Then, in a course of action wholly improvised, the Inspector lunged to the side, locking one half of the handcuffs around Valjean's right hand.
"What - ?!" The old con's exclamation of surprise was cut off as he turned on his heel, but Javert turned with him, grabbing at his other hand. Valjean was a powerful man, and one to be reckoned with, certainly. The raw muscle rippling under his clothes, so at-odds with his fine suit and cravat, jerked his wrist from the Inspector's grasp and elbowed him with a blow to the stomach that left him retching. Struggling back to his feet, Javert glared daggers at Valjean, who was eyeing him with a similar expression of cold fury.
The tension was only heightened by a snap and a loud click. Both men wheeled in unison to stare at the door, which had, apparently of its own accord, swung shut.
"What now?" Javert muttered, crossing to the door.
He tried the handle. He tried it again. He shook it still more violently. After a minute, he stepped back, forced to confront the ugly truth - the door was locked.
Jean Valjean took advantage of the Inspector's distraction to examine the metal cuff fastened around his wrist. It only just fit; there was little leeway to exploit in breaking it off him. He likewise had no file on his person, an oversight which bespoke the comfort he felt in his role as manager. He grimaced. The metal was cheap, and he could probably crack it, given time and a lever, but it would be uncomfortable.
Just then, Javert let out a strangled curse and Valjean looked up.
"Is this your doing?" the Inspector demanded.
"Is what?"
"The door!" Javert gestured in agitation.
"What about the door?"
By way of answer, Javert jiggled the knob and the door remained resolutely shut. Frowning, Valjean moved to where the Inspector stood and examined the mechanism itself.
"This can only be locked from the outside," Valjean murmured, recalling jail cells which operated under the same principle. "So how...?"
"If this is some plot on your part, Valjean..." Javert said, his voice carrying a clear warning.
The shorter man spared him a glance conveying his contempt of the implication. "To what end would I possibly have had myself locked into a storage room with you?"
The Inspector harrumphed and leaned on the wall, watching as Valjean braced himself against the wood. Taking half a step back, Valjean slammed his shoulder against the door's middle. It barely shuddered beneath his strength, and Valjean for his part stumbled backwards, rubbing his shoulder with a rueful expression.
"What?" Javert asked, his eyebrows raised in sarcastic challenge. "A ship's mast is scarcely a burden, but a door proves too much for you?"
Valjean did not rise to the bait, but pointed instead at the obstacle barring their exit. "It is a metal door," the man explained, "covered by a wooden veneer. My strength does have limits. If I could break through two inches of iron, I never would have needed a file to break out of the galley's chains."
Javert snorted but did not challenge this pronouncement. "Wonderful," was his only comment before he settled more comfortably against the wall.
Valjean surveyed the storeroom. Besides the organ and bench, there were three barrels which perhaps held wine, if they were superbly lucky. Beyond that, the room was sparse - a single gas lamp hung on the left wall, which was covered in dark wooden planks. The others displayed bare stone, the same as the floor. There was nothing to eat, and nothing but the barrels' contents for drink, if indeed they held anything.
Kneeling at the base of one of these barrels, its wood nearly black with age and mold, Valjean eased open the tap. Nothing issued forth, and he chewed his lip in consternation. Moving on to the second tap, Valjean mouthed a silent prayer and then nearly melted with relief when the tap produced into his cupped palm a dark red liquid which smelled fragrantly of ancient vineyards and summers long since spent. He shut the tap hurriedly, and sipped the heady wine before it ran onto the floor. It seared his throat, but it would keep dehydration at bay. The third barrel, he saw, was as dry as the first. With a sigh, he stood, considering their prospects. Deciding he had worked with less, Valjean turned to explain their position to Javert when he discovered the Inspector watching him with an air of haughty entertainment.
"Checking your stores?" he asked mordantly.
"We could be trapped here some time," Valjean pointed out. "It seemed prudent to know what we have to work with."
"'We'?" the Inspector repeated. "'We' are not doing anything. I am waiting for my officers to send out a search party. When they find us, then you will be going to jail."
Valjean shrugged. "And in the meantime?" he asked. "We are five floors down. Your officers have no idea where you are, and I imagine they know little of the theater. It could be days before we are found, and that's if we are fortunate. Even if we are found, the key to the door must also be located, or a new one minted." The man smiled slightly. "I hope you don't object to keeping me company."
If Javert suddenly looked somewhat drawn, it could only be because he had just had his situation laid out very neatly in front of him, and it was not one which he deemed pleasant. More concerning to him than his captivity was the man he was trapped with, for he was unpleasantly aware of Valjean's superior strength, and the fact that his safety was an illusion depending on the convict's continuing good humor. Valjean's final comment, though innocent in its intention, seemed to the Inspector a veiled threat. Death did not frighten him, but he did not welcome pain, and the knowledge that no-one would hear him scream was enough to overwhelm any sane individual. His jaw clenched, and he backed into the corner, hand gripping his sword hilt.
Utterly missing the subtleties of Javert's concern, Valjean just shook his head and put it down to the Inspector's continued hostility. His eye caught on the organ again, and he wandered to it.
"Do you know," he chuckled, "the chorus girls are always tittering about how their Opéra Ghost favors the organ. Perhaps this is his." He pressed his fingers against the keys, and then stumbled back, clamping his hands to his ears as the instrument emitted a deafening howl of discordant notes. It died away reluctantly, echoing in Valjean's head longer than he would have liked. Behind him, Javert was faring little better, and Valjean glanced at him apologetically. "Forgive me," he said. "I had no idea it was still in working order."
"Clearly," growled the Inspector. "Perhaps you can leave the music-making to individuals with talent."
"Everyone's a critic." Hands resting on his hips, Valjean frowned at the offending barrel organ. "What a pile of rubbish," he murmured.
No sooner had he said this than six of the keys sank into their depressions, emitting a high chord, immediately followed by another, and then another.
"Will you give it a rest?" Javert shouted over the din.
Valjean backed away slowly. "I'm not -" he broke off. "I didn't -" he tried again. When he was standing with his back to the door and the device still playing on its lonesome, his head swiveled to meet Javert's eyes, which were quite as wide as his own. "I didn't touch it," he succeeded in mouthing. "It just started."
For five long minutes, the organ pounded through its hellish piece. Perhaps on a piano, it might have been enchanting, but on that wicked instrument, locked in the underskirts of the opera house, it was its own sort of death waltz, wild and haunting. And still, the keys played themselves.
At last, with a grand crescendo, the song finished. If Valjean looked to be trembling ever so slightly, neither of them commented on it, though the handcuff around his wrist tinkled faintly as it shook. Both men, needless to say, were exceptionally rattled.
"Perhaps I discounted the stories too quickly," Valjean smiled weakly. "A demon might play such demented music."
"Nonsense," Javert snapped. "It's a wind-up mechanism of some sort. You must have set it ticking with your earlier theatrics."
It was a reasonable explanation, but the lingering pall of shock and fear made such a line of reasoning seem too abstract. Astonishment makes the logical feel illogical, for some events are best described by theories which, in any other context, would sound quite mad.
Valjean walked to the barrels and sat, leaning heavily against the wall. "I confess my nerves are shot," he said. "May I recommend we partake in a bit of this fine wine to take the edge off?"
A faint sneer curled the Inspector's lip. "We've no glasses," he pointed out. "Or are we meant to lap from our palms like dogs?"
The sitting man shrugged. "We are hardly in polite company, Inspector. It seems a bit absurd to cling to propriety under such circumstances. Besides, thirst shall require we drink sooner or later, cups or no cups."
Javert sat gingerly on the floor, careful to arrange his greatcoat around himself so as to not wrinkle it. For his part, Valjean was already pouring the liquor into his outstretched hand. In a single gulp, he threw his head back and swallowed it. Drinks such as these, forgotten by their keepers and left unto great age in a place of cool dryness, should not be underestimated in their potency. With even this one draught, the older man's cheeks tinged a faint pink, and he blinked somewhat dazedly.
Javert observed this development with keen interest, the foundations of a plan already outlining itself. He too took a small amount of drink, sipping it slowly and despising the way it made his heart beat faster and his head ache. Often, he was called unsociable at interpersonal events, for he drank little if at all. "Unsociable" was certainly not far from the truth of it, but his personal vices limited themselves to the occasional indulgence in snuff. His drinking habits, minimalist as they were, were grounded in his opinion that a police officer was meant to be sharp, and alcohol in its multifarious varieties only served to dull the senses. This he kept well in mind as he finished his own small portion, but motioned for Valjean to take more.
Now, it should be noted too that Valjean was also quite conservative in his preference of drink. He was, however, an easy-going gentleman by nature, and was more likely to take a glass or two when in company. With most wines, such a practice might amount to a bit of light-headedness, if anything. The concentration of the store room's contents, being much stronger, worked quicker in littler time, and before long, Valjean's chin was nodding sleepily against his chest.
Javert sat stock-still, waiting for the opportune moment. When Valjean let out a quiet snore, the Inspector permitted himself a smug grin before he carefully placed the other man's hands together in his lap, snapping the second cuff around his left wrist. His goal accomplished, Javert backed carefully away and settled against the opposite wall.
Thus, one problem among many was contained, if not entirely solved. Jean Valjean was a dangerous man. It was only a matter of time before he took his revenge on the Inspector; this Javert knew. And so, in restraining the convict's hands, his capacity to attack him decreased somewhat. If Javert could only hold him at bay, he may yet be alive when at last a rescuer arrived.
He could not afford sleep, though his body ached with fatigue. Even handcuffed, Valjean could do him grave injury, and the wine would not maintain its soporific effect long. Forcing himself awake, Javert did much as he did as a guard in Toulon: he watched, and he waited.
The time passed slowly, but the Inspector fought ennui, his ironclad will keeping him awake and alert. The occasional small sound interrupted his focus, little clicks and scratches inside the walls, which he decided could only be rats. Musty and oppressive, the room felt too close. Doubtless, some portion of this was derived from the knowledge that he was trapped. Gradually, it became harder to keep his eyes open, and there was a grittiness about their edges which suggested his need for sleep. The Inspector rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation.
Just then, Valjean stirred, blinking blearily and pulling himself upright. He too went to rub his face, much in the same manner that Javert had done, and in doing so noticed the manacles clamped now around both wrists. For a long moment, he froze, and Javert tensed, prepared to fend off any retribution as necessary. Eventually, however, Valjean only sighed, massaged his temples, and turned his chin ever so slightly in Javert's direction.
"That was really unnecessary," he said, shaking the handcuffs for emphasis.
"You'll forgive me if I don't agree," the Inspector replied coolly.
"I do."
Javert's brow furrowed. "That was a figure of speech."
"Quite so," Valjean nodded, "and yet I forgive you for it, regardless."
"Has anyone ever told you that you are a ridiculous man?"
Valjean's smile was slight, almost conspiratorial. "I think you yourself expressed similar sentiments to Monsieur Madeleine on multiple occasions."
Javert groaned inwardly, cursing the convict's resourcefulness for the umpteenth time. Only Valjean could successfully break parole and become mayor, as well as the owner of a wealthy manufacturing business. Only Valjean could best him in a fight and disappear into the dark with a little girl in tow. Only Valjean could run an opera house into its best season in a decade. And only Valjean would have the nerve to look him in the eye after all that, blatantly mocking Authority, and smile. The man was not just ridiculous - he was downright maddening.
There was another little click in the wall. Valjean turned to it, frowning. "What was that?" he asked.
"Rats, no doubt," the Inspector replied, glaring at the masonry.
"Funny," Valjean murmured. "I've never heard anything like it before."
"In a place like this, there are bound to be rats," Javert said. "As certain as there are bound to be criminals among the poor," he pointedly added.
"There would be far fewer," Valjean said reproachfully, "if they were not punished with homelessness and hunger just for being prolétariat."
"An honest man will be honest no matter his circumstances," Javert argued. "Corruption will out itself whether man is peasant or bourgeois."
Valjean shook his head. "Your naïveté never fails to astound, Inspector," the man sighed. "How often does a man's wealth protect his name, cover up his foul deeds, and how often are the poor wrongly accused of crimes which they did not commit and have no power to argue against? Your Law -"
"Is the only thing which keeps this country from dissolving into chaos!" Javert thundered. "The Law punishes the unrighteous and rewards virtue! Your stake against it is due only to your bitterness at being on the wrong side of Authority!"
"I admit," Valjean said calmly, "that stealing a loaf of bread is indeed outside the boundaries of legality. I think I more than made up for that slight transgression by slaving nineteen years in the galleys, and since that time, I have done my utmost to redeem my character. It is a pity that you cannot see that."
"Men cannot change their ways," Javert said flatly. "They can work tirelessly to maintain their virtue, but once tarnished, the soul is forever tainted by evil."
"But how can you believe that?!" For the first time, Valjean sounded truly upset, gesticulating as wildly as handcuffs permitted. "Divine forgiveness releases man of their transgressions! Through Grace, any person may be redeemed, no matter their crime."
"Such thinking," Javert answered, his voice cold, "is the product of mortals who wish to justify their lives of sin. A man who commits murder and prays for mercy afterward must still go to jail. Man's justice is lenient next to God's - those who fail in keeping his testaments burn for eternity. Remember that when you pray for your petty forgiveness."
Valjean stood, his expression bordering on furious. The Inspector got up as well, watching the other man warily. The white haired man stalked over to where he stood, getting too close for comfort, but close to the wall as he was, Javert had no room to maneuver. Even with his hands bound together, Valjean managed to grab the Inspector by the lapels of his greatcoat and looked him dead in the eye. Javert felt his heart beat faster, but mastered his emotions easily. He would not show fear, even if his consciousness was trying to overwhelm him with the images of limbs snapping in meaty hands, or of ribs cracking beneath an elephantine heel.
"How dare you -" Valjean began, visibly struggling to contain himself. "What is wrong with you that you can't see -"
Scarcely noticed by either party, the odd noises within the stone had been steadily intensifying. Now Valjean cut himself off as they grew to such magnitude that it was more a continuous drone of clicking and whistles. The loudest sounds seemed to emit from the organ wall, behind and inside the pipes. Stepping back, releasing his grip on the Inspector, Valjean eyed the organ uneasily.
"That's not rats," he said.
"Quiet!" Javert hissed, staring too at the instrument.
For a moment, the cacophony, more mechanical than organic, continued. Then it fell perfectly, ominously silent. Valjean edged backwards, until he also stood against the wall, and between Javert and the organ.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered suddenly.
The Inspector strained his ears. Faintly, though growing all the time in strength and clarity, came a sort of rushing.
"It sounds like water," he said, an unpleasant sense of foreboding stirring in his gut. A gypsy learns early to trust his instincts, and he grabbed Valjean by the collar, dragging him back towards the door. He was unsure what it suggested that Valjean did not protest.
Across the room, there was a distinct pop and then a crack as a metal pin burst from its place in the barrel organ and flew across the room, striking the wall and cleaving off a chip of stone like butter. From the pin's exit hole came spurting a powerful jet of water; at the sound of a few more metallic pings, Valjean pulled Javert bodily to the floor, and only just in time as pieces of shrapnel dented the door where their chests had been a moment prior.
More water poured forth. It sprang from the organ's every orifice, sloshing down over the keys and the bench and running in long puddles across the floor. Valjean gestured at the barrels; taking his meaning, Javert hastened to them, Valjean not far behind, and the two men hoisted themselves onto the dry tops of the wine containers even as water pooled around their base.
Flowing heavy and fast, it was but a minute before the edge of the tide reached the door, flowing out the crack at the bottom into the hallway beyond. Javert breathed a sigh of relief, but Valjean eyed the water darkly.
"Do not make the mistake of thinking we are safe yet, Inspector," he warned. "The room may well be filling faster than it will empty."
Worrying his lower lip, Javert surveyed the scene more critically and came to the same conclusion as Valjean: the water was pouring in much too fast. If it continued at such a rate, the room would flood.
"We are going to die," said the Inspector with a terrible sort of poise.
"We'll figure something out," Valjean said doggedly, scanning the contents of the room for something - anything - with which to stop the water. He came up short.
Javert, meanwhile, was still talking. "Again with this 'we'," he said. "Do not pretend you have any interest in helping me. Any action you take is intended for your own benefit."
"Inspector," Valjean began, wondering absently if he could plug the holes in the pipes. Given that the water pressure had cracked metal, this seemed unlikely. "Now is really not the time to discuss your impression of my character. Kindly make yourself useful, or, failing that, be silent."
Javert looked offended, but he managed to hold his tongue. Valjean hopped off the barrel, water sloshing over his shoes as they hit the ground. The Inspector made as if to get up, but Valjean waved him away. "Stay put," he said, walking to the door. "No sense in our both getting soaked."
Something about Javert's expression bespoke relief, but he said nothing and Valjean wisely chose not to comment.
The door was as solid and unmoving as ever. The older gentleman gave it a serious examination, leaving nothing unconsidered. No removable hardware was visible on or around the doorknob. Possibly he could break it off, given time and leverage, but that was not certain to unlock it, and indeed could leave them even more hopelessly trapped. The door's hinges were on the room's interior. With most models, one can remove the hinge pin and pull the door out of place. Here, as he examined it, Valjean found the lip of the pin soldered to the hinge's edge, stuck fast and immovable. His eyes narrowed, a rather unpleasant suspicion slowly unfurling itself in the lower stretches of his consciousness.
"This was intentional," he murmured.
"What?" Javert asked sharply.
"This," Valjean waved his hand, vaguely indicating the room, "was intentional. Someone trapped us in here on purpose."
"You aren't speaking sense," the Inspector said. "And I suppose you'll be saying next that your Opéra Ghost is the culprit!"
Valjean shook his head wearily. "Then how did the door just happen to lock itself?" he asked. "Why go to the trouble of masking an iron door as a wooden one?"
"But -"
"And why should the hinge be welded to the pin if not to prevent someone escaping?"
Javert's expression was creased in a deep frown, but he did not interrupt Valjean again.
"Someone has turned this room into a trap," said Valjean grimly. "I have seen the blueprints of these facilities, Inspector, and while they are nearly unintelligible in their complexity, I can give you my word that there was no design in the theatre's original incarnation to allow water to pour into any part of this side of the building. Someone has altered it."
"To drown an intruder?" Javert asked. "It is possible. The Patron-Minette could doubtless invent such a clever scheme."
"I doubt this is their work," Valjean said, "and there is no proof yet that our captor intends our demise. To catch us and frighten us, yes, but whether they mean to kill us is yet unclear."
"Regardless," said Javert, "it seems we are well and truly trapped."
"So it would appear." Valjean returned to the barrels, hoisting himself onto his and letting his legs dangle as he sat, the soaked hem of his pants and his shoes dripping fiercely. Javert looked at him askance and shifted himself a few centimeters further away, but Valjean pretended not to notice.
Hours passed in silence but for the continued pouring of water, a miniaturized Cascade de Gavarnie. Anything either half of the pair might have said to the other had already been said, or else was too beyond either man's capacity for words to describe. They had each hoped, privately, that eventually the pipes would slow in their unrelenting deluge, but such a reprieve never came to pass. Instead, the water level rose steadily, first barely covering the stone pavement in a glistening sheet of liquid glass, then to a handspan's height, and eventually to the point where Valjean was forced to withdraw his legs from the wooden ledge and sit cross-legged, lest his drying trousers be doused again.
After a length of time both too long and not long enough, the water tension was rimming the uppermost edges of the barrels, ready to spill over at any moment. Valjean and Javert stood almost in unison, the former eyeing the expanse of liquid around them with resignation, and the latter with exceptional distaste. The organ was almost entirely submerged, though long streams of bubbles suggested that even those pipes which were already covered continued to pour out pressurized jets.
Javert turned to Valjean, who was loosening his cravat, sharply.
"What are you doing?"
"Removing my cravat," Valjean said composedly, dropping it over the edge of the barrel into the water, where it rippled, sending a small wave splashing over the edge of the wood onto Valjean's shoes. The Inspector watched it sink with a sense of horror that seemed oddly misplaced, and Valjean tilted his head as he added, "It seems we will have to swim eventually. It seems sensible to remove extra clothing now before it is cumbersome and water-soaked." He undid the clasps on his waistcoat, dropping it as indifferently as he had the neck-scarf. Then he eyed the Inspector's heavy greatcoat. "I suggest you get rid of that, at least," he said. "Or it will drag you straight to the bottom once it's wet."
Javert blinked once at him with an expression that might have been dazed before he glanced down at the indicated garment. "Yes," he agreed, though he made no motion to remove it.
Valjean, left in his shirt sleeves, sighed in exasperation. "You ought to at least unbutton it," he prompted.
It was a mark of how unsettled the Inspector was that he complied almost automatically, numbly undoing the buttons before dropping his chin to stare again at the water now pooling around his boots. It was likewise a testament to Valjean's distraction that aside from a sourceless befuddlement he failed to notice the Inspector's distress. Instead he said, "I wonder if it's true. The stories."
"Which ones?" Javert asked listlessly. "About Heaven and Hell? I doubt it. Dante was an insurgent and an idealist. His accounts are therefore biased and improbable."
Valjean did start somewhat at this.
"What? Heavens, no, that's not what I meant at all. I meant the stories of our opera house phantom."
Javert snorted. "I doubt that, too. God and his wraiths do not have a sense of humor."
"It's just so strange," Valjean murmured, as if the Inspector had said nothing. "He is said to be a musician and an architect. No doubt the chorus girls would think this trap clever enough for him."
This inspired a reaction more in keeping with the Inspector's usual character. "Perhaps the story was enough to draw in some vagrant seeking to profit off superstition," he said dismissively, "but unless our theoretical captor actually presents himself to us, there is little point in random speculation. Suffice it to say, there is no phantom of your fatuous Opéra."
There was, just above the sound of the water, a faint breath of laughter.
"Did you hear that?" Valjean asked, his brow furrowed.
"I heard nothing."
The shorter man looked up and around, but though he listened intently, he heard nothing more.
The water was cold. Javert was processing very few things, his mind clouded by a thick mist of anticipation, but he did perceive this fact. It began by seeping in through the stitching around his toes. Then it was high enough to pour down the mouth of his boots in earnest, chilling his blood in more than one sense. With increasing passivity and fatalistic acceptance, he watched the water line crawl slowly upwards, felt it bite through each new inch of clothing to grab the skin beneath in frozen pinchers. His coat, precisely as Valjean had predicted, became heavy as iron weights as the thick wool grew fat and absorbent, swishing airily around his ankles if he shifted in place.
He had given up on movement some time ago, leaning heavily against the wall for support as he contemplated what it would feel like when the water finally rose high enough to clamp around his nose and mouth. Painful, he decided; excruciatingly painful to feel the oxygen ripped from one's lungs, to know one's chest was filling with liquid and that relief was unattainable. It was only the thought of the inevitable suffering he would endure that prevented him pitching himself forward and ending that horrified anticipation which said he would soon be dead anyway. The calm before the storm, he thought absently, was torture in its own right.
Next to him, Valjean's presence barely registered, except as occasionally and with annoyance equal to that of a bothersome fly. He muttered to himself, apparently gauging relative heights and distances. The man had yet to accept their situation, seemingly convinced that escape remained an option. Perhaps for him it did, for Jean Valjean was a capable swimmer and, Javert thought darkly, he had plenty of experience where escape was concerned. But unless the water halted its advance very soon - and the pipes gave as of yet no sign that they intended to slow in their inundation of the room - Javert would shortly know the precise sensation of drowning most intimately.
When his chest began to feel constricted by the liquid weight pressed against it, Valjean let out a great "Ha!" of triumph. The Inspector's head rotated against the wall to smile sardonically at him.
"Figure something out?" he asked. It was the first words he'd spoken in hours.
"Nothing that will get us out of here," the old con cautioned, "but we need not drown."
"Is that so?" the Inspector asked coolly.
"The air is being displaced," explained Valjean, inclining his head at the room around them. "The water is rising and pushing the air out of the way. So there must be a crack somewhere where the air is escaping. If we can find it and plug it, the air will be trapped here with us, like an underwater cave."
"Brilliant," Javert said, rolling his eyes as he returned to a neutral position. The water was now pressing against the upper edge of his sternum. "I wish you well in filling your fanciful crack. Perhaps before you go off to follow flights of fancy, you might at least do me the favor of killing me quickly."
"I -" Valjean began. "I beg your pardon?" he finished, turning to regard Javert incredulously.
The Inspector shrugged, his coat sagging around his shoulders, but he paid it no mind. "You want your vengeance for nineteen years in the galleys and another two decades of my hounding your footsteps. Good, then. Take it."
Valjean appeared wholeheartedly dumbfounded. "You are not speaking sense."
"Come, come," Javert dismissed him. "You had best kill me now, for the water will have me shortly and then you'll have missed your chance."
"Javert..." Valjean had turned all the way around now, wearing an expression which suggested that Javert was about to regret for the umpteenth time saying anything to the man. "You cannot actually believe that I mean you any harm."
The Inspector let out a hollow laugh. "A madman believing wholeheartedly that he can fly will still succumb to gravity leaping from a cliff. It does not matter what I believe, Valjean, for it is true."
Valjean shook his head vehemently. "It is not," he said, a mayor's quiet authority underscoring the words, and Javert felt himself wince. "I have not wished you ill for many, many years, Inspector. Wished that perhaps you were not so observant where I was concerned, yes, but wanted to hurt you? I am not capable of it."
Javert stood in silence, his eyes closed and his head bowed until the water was brushing its silky tendrils across the base of his neck. Then, his mouth tightened and he withdrew a key from his coat pocket. Without looking at Valjean, he held it out to him.
The light-haired man took the key carefully, confusion written blatantly across his features.
"I... don't understand," he said quietly.
Javert raised his head. "I doubt even you would make a successful swimmer with your hands cuffed."
"You're letting me go?" There was shock in his voice, amazement, and something the Inspector did not care to name.
"It is immaterial," the Inspector answered. "You will drown eventually. But free of shackles, you might find it within yourself to break my neck. Do not make me beg for that small mercy."
There was a pair of soft clicks and a splash as Valjean discarded the handcuffs. Rubbing his wrists where they were chafed, he slid the key into his breast pocket. It was well that Javert had acted when he had, for Valjean was several inches shorter, and it was not long after he freed himself that he had to begin treading water to keep his head above the surface.
The time when Javert would have to do the same was rapidly approaching, but Valjean was alarmed to see the Inspector remain as apathetic as ever, even when the water tickled his jaw line.
"Javert..." he hazarded. The police Inspector glanced at him, quirking an eyebrow. "If... If you balance yourself on the wall, you needn't use as much strength swimming," he provided. Javert's eyes rose briefly, and then fell again, back to the dark water.
"Javert." There was a pleading edge to Valjean's voice that had not been there before. "Lose your coat, at least, for God's sake! You can't swim like that."
"Mmm," Javert replied matter-of-factly. "For once, you are entirely correct. I cannot swim in this. I cannot even try. It will drag me to the floor very quickly, I should think. Much easier than flailing hopelessly towards a surface one cannot reach."
"Javert, what are you saying?"
The water was wetting the Inspector's whiskers, and he had to tip his head back when he replied to keep it out of his mouth.
"I am drowning," he said. "You denied me my death, so now the water will complete its purpose. I suppose the notion of my dying slowly pleases you."
"Swim, man!" Valjean shouted, his voice more hysterical than Javert found plausible, given the circumstances. They were bitter rivals; why would Valjean care if he died? "Drop your coat and swim!"
Everyone has a point at which they snap. Each one of the day's stressors brought themselves to bear on the Inspector, and in that instant, his composure cracked and calm acceptance of the inevitable was replaced by unadulterated despair.
"I can't!" he cried, his eyes blazing as he whipped around to glare at Valjean with such a look that for a moment, Valjean appeared genuinely startled. "With or without the blasted coat, I cannot!"
"Cannot what?" Valjean asked, evidently wary of sparking another outburst.
Javert pressed his lips together so hard they turned white at the edges. "Must I spell it out for you?" he spat through clenched teeth. "Swim. I cannot swim, you thrice-accursed moron."
Comprehension dawned on Valjean's features, and he brushed aside the insult to his intelligence with ease. Javert, however, was paying little mind to Valjean's reaction, for he was preoccupied with standing on tiptoe, trying to evade the merciless climb of the water as it pressed against his mouth and he struggled not to inhale it. His spell of anger had worn off as abruptly as it had begun, and the Inspector found that sheer terror had crept up on him in the interval. He did not want to die, but knew it was his fate as a mortal man. Still, if he had had the option to choose the time and manner of his death, he was certain that liquid asphyxiation would have featured at the very bottom of his list.
And so Javert cannot be blamed for having his eyes shut, nor for failing to notice Valjean's presence until after the man had pulled the coat from off his shoulders. There was a sudden tight pressure at his waist, and then he could breathe again.
Blinking in shock, he spluttered with embarrassment when he realized that Valjean had his arm around his middle and was supporting them both easily in the flooded room.
"Let me go this instant!" he demanded.
"Certainly not," said Valjean a touch reprovingly. "If you truly think that I would consent to watch you drown -" A small shudder worked its way down the man's frame. "- then your opinion of me must really be abysmal."
Javert grit his teeth.
"I will burn in hell before I let you do... whatever one would call this."
"Then don't. Wrap your arms around my neck and this would be infinitesimally easier."
The Inspector seethed. He had thought the last thing he wanted was to sink and die, but being rescued by Valjean was quickly coming to compete for that despised title. The fingers splayed across his side tightened fractionally as Valjean adjusted his weight in the water and Javert shrank from the touch. Gingerly, he grabbed the older man's shoulders, relaxing by a fraction of a degree as Valjean let go of his waist. With both arms free, Valjean's balance in the water improved, and he was able to keep both their heads well above water with minimal effort. Javert found that if he kicked his feet ever so slightly, he was able to alleviate some of the falling sensation that gripped him. Provided he didn't look down, the water-induced vertigo almost left him. He briefly considered just letting go and permitting the water to overcome him, but he had the distinct impression that Valjean would make that impossible.
"Okay," Valjean sighed softly, startling the Inspector from his reverie. "We're okay."
"For now," the Inspector conceded tightly. "Though insofar as I can tell, you've only delayed the inevitable."
"Where there's life, there's hope," the other man said firmly. "I am telling you, we can escape if only we can find -"
Valjean's words were cut off by a sudden blackness falling across their vision. Javert yelped and immediately resolved to never, under any circumstances, admit that he had, but Valjean too had startled, and did not appear to have noticed.
"The light," groaned the Inspector. "The light went out."
And so it had. The water level, having climbed up three quarters of the storeroom wall, had finally raised itself above the height of the lamp's glass globe and come pouring through the top, extinguishing the flame and plunging the room into jet blackness.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Javert said, "You were saying?"
"Ah. Um." If the Inspector hadn't known better, he might have thought there was a faint tremor to Valjean's voice. "We may, in fact, be in trouble."
"You don't say." The sarcastic diatribe of condemnation and mockery that would doubtless have followed this statement was choked off as Javert flinched, certain that something had just brushed against his foot.
"Are you alright?" Valjean did not bother to mask the concern in his voice, and Javert's stomach turned over at it, even as he strained his eyes trying to see down into the onyx liquid around them.
"I do not like water," was his only reply. What if there was something swimming under them? Something they couldn't see? For a horrible instant, Javert had visions of something enormous and slimy wrapping its tentacles around his legs, dragging him down. The seven feet of water may as well have been a mile for all the good it would do him, and he suppressed another shudder.
Valjean, blast him, was attempting to start a conversation. "If you do not mind my asking, Inspector," he was saying, "how is it that you never learned to swim?"
Javert considered this. It would be so easy to not answer, but perhaps talking would take his mind off his situation.
"A boy drowned in the pond near the jailhouse when I was a child," the Inspector replied tonelessly. "I was forbidden to go anywhere near it."
"And you listened?" Valjean chuckled to himself. "That sounds like you."
"Actually," Javert said, his voice still emotionless, "I disobeyed. Not intentionally. But I saw the consequences nevertheless."
"And?" Valjean's voice was hushed, even breathless.
It occurred to the Inspector, in the dis-attached way that thoughts do when one is under exceptional duress, that he was telling Valjean things which he had never in his life even said out loud. He tried to make himself stop, and yet the connection between his mind and mouth felt broken. To his horror, he found himself continuing the story.
"I was older, perhaps eight years of age, when a harsh winter fell across the country. The guards sent me to fetch firewood," he explained, the scene panning out before him of a white wasteland, broken only by the black silhouettes of the trees. "The downed sticks could most often be found around the pond. I was collecting them when I stepped onto the lake. It was impossible to see, for it was buried under a layer of snow, but the ice was thin and it cracked. I should have died."
"You were rescued?"
"No." A curious smile, more akin to a grimace, quirked his features as he considered this. "At the last second, my hand caught on some rope frozen into the bank. The guards thought it was divine providence that I survived. But I never went near water again so long as I could help it."
Valjean was silent for some time, apparently absorbing this, and Javert was grateful for the reprieve. He was a mess of gooseflesh, and wondered idly if perhaps hypothermia would kill him before the room ran out of oxygen. It would be kinder.
When Valjean broke the silence, it was to say, "I am sorry about this."
Javert raised an eyebrow, and then, realizing that Valjean could not see him, added, "About which part of this, exactly?"
The shoulders the Inspector clutched lifted a degree. "Any of it," Valjean replied. "All of it. If I had chosen some other room to hide in..."
The Inspector snorted. "I did not have to chase after you, did I? I followed you in here by choice. And who is to say that the same thing could not have happened elsewhere? If, as you seem to think, this is the result of someone toying with us, it seems terribly improbable that this is the only room rigged to ensnare trespassers."
This was intended to convey fact only, but Valjean seemed to draw some strength from the Inspector's words as if they were spoken in comfort.
"It is good of you to forgive it, Inspector," said the older man.
"I said nothing of forgiveness," Javert snapped. "I forgive nothing!" In the silence surrounding this exclamation, the only thing audible was the gurgle of water climbing the walls. "And yet," he murmured after some time, "I wonder if perhaps it is I who is at fault there."
"Inspector," said Valjean carefully, "while your nature lends itself to the unyielding, I do not think -"
"Unyielding?" Javert laughed softly, and there was a hint of madness at the edges of that sound. "Valjean, I said earlier that you were a fool. That may well be. And yet, I begin to see that I am truly the fool, here."
"Javert -"
"No. Hear me. I have never once doubted the corruption of your nature - you were a convict! A thief! The Law found you guilty, and so did I. How many decades have I pursued you across France? I saw your charitable acts and knew them to be a façade. I cannot begin to count the number of reasons I have provided you to despise me, and yet, given ample opportunity, you would not kill me. Not only this, but you have saved my life, and I think I am not worthy of it."
Valjean's head twisted over his shoulder, a useless gesture in the absolute dark, but an instinctive one, nevertheless. "You only did what you believed was your duty, Inspector. I cannot blame you for that."
"But you should!" the Inspector insisted. "Blaming me, breaking the Law, being wrong was supposed to be your duty. And yet, as everything else, you have flaunted that and chosen to become a good man instead. You are an anomaly, Jean Valjean, and because of you, I no longer know my place in the world."
Javert did not add that had they not already been waiting for death, he might well have sought out that reaper of souls for his deliverance. Somehow, he found it hard to believe that Valjean would have approved of such a sentiment, and he had no desire to be lectured.
Valjean was speaking. With difficulty, Javert drew his mind away from the macabre to focus on the other man's words.
"- purpose is not limited to the service of human Law alone," he was saying. "Compassion is surely the Law of God, and takes precedence."
Javert huffed quietly. "In any event, it is irrelevant. We will soon be drowned and it will cease to matter."
"Perhaps," Valjean said severely, "if our predicament is as dire as you claim, learning to embrace compassion has never mattered more."
Javert made no reply. Compassion he had always seen as weakness, and yet Valjean seemed to think otherwise. Love was wholly foreign to him. What use was love to an unloved Romani bastard? He had given up on it since early in his boyhood.
In the frigid water, Javert found his chest pressed indecently close against Valjean's back. The man had said nothing of it, however, and as the alternative was the immediate dispersal of his depleted body heat in the water, the Inspector attempted to ignore their proximity. Provided that they did not speak, this was almost easy in the blackness. Still, every couple of minutes, one of Valjean's feet would brush against the Inspector's as he kept them both afloat, and Javert's neck was developing a crick as his head stayed turned to the side to avoid the back of Valjean's own head. It was altogether an awkward position.
Their ankles brushed against each other again. "Sorry," Valjean grunted.
"Mmm," came the Inspector's gruff acknowledgment. Truly, he thought, the less they talked, the better.
All at once, his side bumped up against the wall. They had, in the darkness, drifted unwittingly back to the edge of the room. With a soft sigh of relief, Valjean gripped the stone with one hand, allowing himself some rest on one side while the other continued to buoy them both. It struck Javert again just how odd it was that Valjean should rescue him.
"You would swim better if you were not carrying my weight," he pointed out.
"You cannot carry your own," Valjean reminded him. "And it is no burden to help another."
Javert shook his head impatiently. "Spare me your platitudes, Valjean," he said. "You clearly underestimate your current power over me."
"I haven't any power over you," answered Valjean, as if the very notion insulted him.
"You do," Javert insisted. "And the fact that you are not cognizant of it is as troubling as it is ludicrous. You need only pry my fingers from your shoulders to send me to my death. Or," and here he laughed, in the manner of one who has had far too much time to contemplate his own mortality, "you are a strong man - far more powerful than I. 'Twould be little struggle for you to force my head under water, just enough to drown. You could ask anything of me - do you not see that?! - and use my terror of water to break me to your will."
It seemed like a long time before Valjean answered, and his hand crawled slowly up the wall as the water level rose.
Finally, he said softly, "You have been an ill-used man if you must fear such things. Hurting you - coercing you - these could not be further from my mind."
Javert tossed his head loftily. "I am a member of the police. I am paid for my suspicious nature."
Valjean made a sound which might have been a laugh. "In that case, I suspect you are severely under-paid," he muttered.
"For once, we may be in agreement," Javert murmured back. He paused. "The room is still flooding, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Mmm."
"I think..." Valjean said slowly. "I think I can feel the ceiling."
Gripping the other man's shoulder more tightly with his left hand, Inspector Javert reached tentatively up with his right. His fingers ghosted over wooden planks mere inches above his head.
"I think you are not mistaken," he said tightly, returning to a more neutral position.
"Javert..." said Valjean hesitantly, "I would... have us perish in amiable company, at least."
"You are asking friendship of me?" the Inspector queried incredulously. "Then perhaps you are not a fool, but entirely mad."
"Is that impossible, then?" asked the older man. He had the audacity to sound sincerely saddened.
"Nevermind impossible," Javert said. "That you should even desire it, or ask it of me without mockery is surely a mental instability on your part. You may do your charity work, Valjean, you may, howsoever briefly, extend the length of my miserable existence, but surely to seek accord with the likes of me is no different than the angel that reaches out to its demon."
"And tell me, Javert," said Valjean softly, "does not our Lord offer his hand to all sinners, even unto Lucifer himself, in the hopes that they might one day take it? We need not agree on all things, Inspector, but we also need not be enemies."
All that Javert managed to say to this was, "You are not God."
"No," Valjean chuckled quietly. "And Heaven forbid I ever claim to be. But neither are you. We both are men, mortal and fallible, and capable of friendship. Must we deny ourselves that?"
Something deep in the Inspector's core felt fragile, a thin sheet of glass supporting a great load and ready to snap. He held back from the feeling, clinging to a sense of harsh normalcy, but it was like sliding inexorably down a steep incline - gradual, but gathering speed, a juggernaut of emotional inertia. His fingers found the stone wall and clutched at it, grinding the leather of his gloves into the gritty texture and bruising his fingertips.
"Valjean," he said shortly, breath coming in smaller gasps. "Valjean, I -"
He broke off as the crown of his head brushed against the ceiling. Careful not to let Javert slip, Valjean turned himself around so that he floated chest to chest with the Inspector, the taller man's hand now on his opposite shoulder.
"God have mercy on our souls," he murmured.
"I doubt you've much to worry about," Javert smirked slightly in the darkness, "seeing as you seem to have put in a high bid for a sainthood."
Valjean chuckled. "I've never seen it that way, you know," he said. "I owe a man my life and my soul, and I can only ever strive to be worthy of them."
Javert shook his head. "Religious sentiment aside, Valjean, I -"
"Jean."
"What?" The Inspector found that the query had come out harsher than he had intended, but the other man replied serenely.
"Jean," he repeated. "If we are mere minutes from death, as seems increasingly likely, then you might try to recall my Christian name."
The Inspector found himself unable to respond, aware that to refuse would be inappropriate, but also unwilling to comply.
After a moment, Valjean tentatively asked, "And yours?"
"My what?"
"Christian name."
Javert drew a sharp breath through his teeth. "I don't use it, Val - Jean."
"But -"
"I said I don't use it."
"Sorry." The apology was soft, and Javert hated how heartfelt it sounded. Valjean's voice managed to pierce every crack in what he had long believed to be ironclad armor, poking and prodding at emotions he had no interest in naming. "- shouldn't have pressed the issue," Valjean was continuing.
"No, it's... fine," said the Inspector. "Most people are surprised when I tell them as much."
"Even so, I shouldn't have insisted, especially as I was the one hoping we might come out of this friends -"
"And here I was of the impression that saints were quiet folk," Javert grumbled with a hint of humor. "But you can't seem to stop talking."
Valjean broke off mid-sentence, then laughed.
"I do believe you just made a joke."
The Inspector rolled his eyes. "Not exactly how I envisioned my deathbed, this - minutes from drowning and poking fun at an old convict. Isn't particularly dignified, is it?"
"Javert - oof," Valjean finished ruefully as his own head now floated high enough in the water to knock against the ceiling.
"So, this is it," muttered the Inspector. "Five minutes more, perhaps, before the room is wholly flooded, and then we meet our maker."
"You never know. Perhaps the flooding will stop at the last minute," Valjean said, though it was apparent he did not believe his reassurances.
"Mmm," Javert hummed dryly. "Does piety demand such self-delusion? I hadn't thought so, but perhaps I was mistaken."
"Where there is life, there is hope," the older man said obstinately.
"Well, there shan't be life here much longer," pointed out the Inspector, and as the chill of the water reached up and stroked his jawline, Javert shuddered and cold panic squeezed his chest. Though noble perhaps in sentiment, Valjean's efforts had rescued neither of them, and it was only when the other man spoke his name in concern that the Inspector realized his breath was coming in heaving pants.
"We're going to die." He had said as much at the beginning of the afternoon, but in the blackness and the swiftly narrowing gap of air, the statement held a finality it had not previously possessed.
"Yes," Valjean said simply. "It rather seems like we are."
"I do not want to die like this," Javert hissed.
"I know."
"I cannot -"
"I know." Valjean's voice was softer this time, nearly a whisper, and his breath warm on Javert's face. The Inspector could see nothing, but decades of experience told him that their heads could only be inches apart in the black abyss of a room.
His head bobbed, and Javert flinched as the water closed over his lips.
The moment was a brief one, but even once he steadied himself, he found the liquid now graced the lower curve of his cheekbones. Valjean's voice broke in on him as if from a far way off, murmuring pointlessly to allay inescapable fears. For himself, it would not have surprised Javert if the surface of the water were rippling with the force of his heart beating against his ribcage.
It was clear to Valjean that all of his efforts were having little effect on the Inspector's distress, and the fear was catching. The hairs along the nape of his neck were soaked, and even the faint stubble under his mouth was dripping with water.
Jean Valjean had little interest in dying. He had fought most of his life for freedom and for the sort of existence he chose, and while the prospect of Heaven was comforting, he had expected to be older when he entered the afterlife. More pressing was the issue of Javert himself. In that instant, Valjean would have given anything to ensure the other man's safe escape. He was therefore only vaguely surprised to find himself pressing his lips to the trembling Inspector's.
Javert went very, very still. The kiss was brief, chaste, a soft press of skin on skin, like the brush of pale spring rosebuds. It was only as he pulled back that it occurred to Valjean to wonder why, exactly, he had done that.
"What," came Javert's voice, cold and flat, "was that?"
"Ah," Valjean fumbled for an answer. "I'm not entirely certain."
"You kissed me." The Inspector's tone was accusatory, for which the other man could not particularly blame him.
"I didn't precisely mean to," Valjean explained helplessly. "It just sort of... happened."
"You kissed me, but you didn't mean to," Javert echoed back.
"It was meant to be a distraction - I - I didn't think."
Javert let out a quiet hiss of air.
"Do you know," he said, "it would almost have been better if you had meant it? But, heavens, if your God can forgive all sins hitherto, then perhaps He would forgive that one as well."
"Truly..." Valjean said quietly. "Would you rather that I meant it?"
In the darkness, he sensed something like a shrug from the Inspector.
"It would be a novelty," he said, "and something which -"
The rest of his speech was cut off by a spluttering and a cough as the Inspector tried and failed to keep his head above water.
"Damn it," he growled, tight lipped.
"Tilt your head back," Valjean instructed, having to do the same himself as the insidious liquid pawed at his jowls. He closed his eyes, altogether too cognizant of the closeness of the ceiling, of how little air was left.
"Jean." The name came as a desperate gasp, an exhalation more sigh than inflection, and to hear it drove a pain through Valjean's chest which had nothing to do with shortness of breath.
The bridge of his nose pressed against the smoothness of the ceiling. "Yes?" he replied.
"Forgive me."
"I did. I have. You must -" He spit out the water spilling into his open mouth "- must forgive yourself."
There was pressure on his face and on his neck - fingers, he realized, clad in leather gloves. The water at last closed over them, the whole room flooded, and Valjean felt his breath catch in his chest, bubbles struggling free of his nostrils and lips. Javert, just as engulfed, pulled him closer, a single point of comfort to focus upon as his chest grew hot and strained for want of oxygen, and the easy swimmer's motion of his legs, which had kept them buoyant for so long, faltered.
Water pooled under his eyelids, forced its way into his ears, into his lungs, and still Javert clutched him with something appropriately akin to a death grip. A deeper darkness than mere absence of light gathered in the corners of his consciousness. He could feel himself sinking.
In his last moments of consciousness, he felt Javert press his mouth against Valjean's own; perhaps Valjean smiled into the gesture, though he was not sure he had autonomy over his own faculties any longer. And then there was a gurgling roar in his ears, as of a whirlpool or a maelstrom, but he could think nothing of it.
His lungs gave out. Water overtook him, and he succumbed to the darkness.