Valjean held Javert to him tightly, even as they knelt on the ground.
"He hit you! Where -?"
Javert grimaced and pulled Valjean's hand to his shoulder. Valjean's fingers trembled and came away stained with blood.
"It's nothing. I'll live, and it's not the worst they did to me, either." Javert pulled a wry face and forced himself to stand, though his shoulder screamed in protest.
"That doesn't exactly make me feel better," a reproving Valjean told him. "We're going to have a very serious talk about the extent of your injuries."
"Later," Javert said, looking out over the river. "Where did that bastard get off to?"
Valjean laid a gentle hand on Javert's head and directed his gaze downward.
The Warehouses, as we have mentioned, grip the edge of the high bank of the Seine, only interrupted by small courtyards such as this where Valjean and Javert stood. If one were to fall over the edge of the precautionary railing, as a certain murderous young man had just done, one would find the falling easy - no sharp rocks at the bottom, no tree roots sticking out of the bank, or the like.
But if one then wanted to get out of the water, one would have found that a far more difficult prospect. The banks of the Seine there were more like cliffs - perfectly vertical, and of considerable height. Therefore, one either would have had to swim some way to a more escapable part of the river or would have had to wait to be rescued by boat.
The Inspector looked down to where Valjean indicated. Twenty feet directly below them, an especially sorry-looking figure was clinging desperately to the sheer face of the river bank, only barely keeping his head and shoulders above water.
"I can't swim," he sputtered, slipping back under for a fraction of a second. "Please, help!" There was a definite tinge of panic in his voice.
Valjean shrugged off his outer vest.
"What are you doing?" asked a curious Javert.
"He's going to drown if we wait much longer."
"I don't see a problem with that." Javert watched coolly as his would-be killer tried in vain to pull himself out.
"You wouldn't."
"No, I wouldn't." The Inspector's voice was suddenly very serious. "You might not either, if you knew what he put me through."
Valjean growled slightly. His desires hadn't been so at odds with his morals in a long time.
"You can do whatever you want to him once I'm not looking - shoot him yourself, if you have to - but I can't, I just can't, stand here and watch him die."
Valjean had already swung one leg over the railing when Javert laid a hand on his arm.
"Wait."
"What did I just say?" Valjean exclaimed indignantly. "I won't -"
"And I'm not asking you to. Look."
Javert pointed and Valjean saw a uniformed team valiantly rowing a boat upriver towards them.
"I knew they'd notice the fire sooner or later. That's one of Beaupré's water divisions. Ever since that couple drowned a few months ago, they always get sent out when there's a river-front fire. That way, anyone to jump to safety in the Seine gets picked up."
Beginning to understand, Valjean climbed back onto the right side of the rail.
"Ouellette!" Javert shouted to the man at the boat's head. "Make sure to grab that one, and whatever you do, don't let him get away!"
"Javert?!" Even at this distance, Valjean could see the look of astonishment on Ouellette's face. "Everyone thought you were dead or run off with a pretty lady!"
"As for the latter - not if you paid me. As for the former, I'm reasonably sure that I've just left Hell, so I'll not promise I'm alive yet."
"Same old Javert," Ouelette chuckled. "I can't wait to read your report."
Having had enough of pleasantries, Javert turned to survey the scene behind him with some amusement. Babet and Brujon had loyally guarded the entrance to the courtyard only to be utterly overwhelmed by the two squadrons of officers that had appeared, one from each side of the street. Their leader dragged soaking out of the river and into custody and their own weapons useless against the muskets of the police, the last of the Patron-Minette knew they were beat and surrendered peacefully.
"Javert!"
The Inspector swore to himself, and Valjean hid his smile under pretense of a yawn. He knew how much Javert hated attention, and after disappearing for a week, he'd be seeing more than he cared for.
"It's still 'Inspector' to you, Beaupré," Javert told him icily.
"Sorry, Monsieur l'Inspector," Beaupré grinned cheekily. "I'm just glad to see you - are you bleeding?" He'd caught sight of the dark patch that was still growing through Javert's coat.
"A bullet wound - nothing I haven't dealt with before."
Beaupré shouted to one of his officers, who in turn went looking for a medic.
"Sit, please," Beaupré pulled a grumbling Inspector to a toppled wine cask and made him sit.
"Don't coddle me, Beaupré." Javert's tone was more tired now than angry. "You should know - Commissaire Chassé is dead. I'll make my report tonight of course, but in the meantime -"
"I understand; I'll take care of it."
When the doctor arrived, he had Javert shrug off his greatcoat and bare his shoulders. Javert did so, unbuttoning the top of his shirt and letting it slide down over his arms. The Inspector looked uncharacteristically shy and rather uncomfortable to be in any state of undress around his subordinates, for there were still plenty of other officers milling about.
Sensing some of his discomfort, Beaupré prattled on about how the city had been looking for an excuse to tear the whole Warehouse district down, and how the mayor would likely as not want to give Javert a medal for burning one of the buildings almost to the ground. The chatter was annoying, but it served its purpose; Javert was too busy trying to shut Beaupré up to notice the doctor tightening the bandages around his shoulder or the murmurs of gossip sweeping through the ranks as the rest of the police tried to guess where Javert had been.
Beaupré was thorough, certainly, and saw to it that Javert got appropriate medical treatment for all of his injuries, not just the most recent. He had the Inspector (who had rebuttoned his shirt as soon as the doctor was done with the bandage) next roll up his sleeves; as each cut, bruise, and laceration was revealed, Valjean, watching closely, felt his emotions deepen from horror into a nameless despair, terrified for his too-brave lover and no longer sure that he wanted to know the details behind Javert's incarceration.
Javert caught sight of Valjean's expression and hastily prevented the doctor from removing any more of the Inspector's shirt - the mere act of rolling his sleeves up caused Valjean pain, and the lashing he'd received under Babet's tender care did not need immediate attention. Valjean could wait until later to see that.
"If you're quite finished, Monsieur..."
The doctor said he was done but prescribed immediate bed rest and then a hearty meal. Valjean assured the doctor that he would see both done and practically dragged the Inspector to the street. Now that he was back among his own, Javert was attempting to plunge once more into his role as Inspector, ordering around the officers they passed like nobody's business.
Valjean was having none of it, however. He'd had the same officer who'd brought the doctor call a fiacre into which he bundled a rather indignant Inspector.
"I have to show them that I'm still capable of executing my job," he protested.
"Anyone," Valjean began patiently, "who thinks you incapable of being a police Inspector clearly doesn't know you in the slightest. On the other hand, some of us know that you will be incapable of police work if you don't give yourself time to heal first."
Valjean climbed into the carriage next to Javert and pulled him close, mindful of the other's injuries. The brief ride to the Rue Plumet was spent in companionable silence. Everything necessary had been said, and everything important was communicated without speech.
When the fiacre stopped outside Number 55, Valjean stepped out to open the gate, Javert following with an expression that dared anyone to try to help him. Once both were carefully ensconced inside the house, however, Javert pulled Valjean into a tight embrace and buried his face in the older man's hair.
"I missed you, Jean. God above, I missed you."
Valjean practically purred with pleasure and wrapped his own arms around the Inspector's waist, pleased not to have been the one to initiate intimacies for a change.
"I never stopped thinking about you, you know," Valjean said quietly. "Not once."
Javert murmured something unintelligible and tightened his arms around Valjean's neck.
"I was so worried," Valjean continued. "I could only imagine what had happened - I thought you were dead until I got your letter - and then after that I couldn't stop picturing what they might do to you." Valjean's voice shook as he reached the end of his sentence and pressed himself to Javert's chest, reassuring himself that he was not, in fact, dreaming.
"I -" Javert faltered. "I have a confession to make. I thought - Thenardiér had made it sound like, but that's no excuse - you were in on it. That - that you had helped set me up. And it was for several hours, and I'm not asking your forgiveness, but -"
Valjean laid a finger on Javert's lips, effectively quieting him.
"There's nothing to forgive, love. Torment and darkness twist the mind - I should know that better than anyone."
Valjean moved to kiss the Inspector on the cheek, but Javert cupped his face with his palm and drew him into a proper kiss, deepened by a week of fear and sweetened by the rapture of being in one another's arms again. Valjean was the first to pull away reluctantly.
"Come on, the doctor said bed rest."
"Come to bed with me, then."
Valjean stared at Javert in astonishment. Then the two promptly burst into gales of laughter.
"Well, if Monsieur insists..." Valjean grabbed Javert by the hand, pulling him upstairs. Javert shut the bedroom door behind him, and, minutes later, both tumbled into bed, each wearing considerably less clothing than moments before.
Valjean was very adamant about Javert actually resting that afternoon, but they curled up together, taking comfort in the other's warmth. Javert actually fell asleep a couple of times, but his rest was fitful, punctuated by nightmares. These Valjean tried to assuage, pulling him closer and whispering softly of happy memories. Night was upon them when Javert stretched himself awake.
"I told Beaupré I'd be in to make my report tonight. I'd best be on my way."
"If you think I'm going to let you out of my sight so soon -"
"Look," Javert interrupted. "Thenardiér's dead and the other three are behind bars. There's nothing to worry about. But if it makes you feel better, I'll take a fiacre to the police depot."
Valjean squeezed Javert's hand in reply. Swinging himself out of bed, the Inspector made himself presentable and exited. Watching him leave, Valjean sighed. He decided he'd best write a letter to Cosette and Marius explaining some of what had transpired. Perhaps he'd invite them over to lunch...
Cosette tied off the end of the embroidery floss, breaking it neatly. When she finished her work, the blanket would read "JJP" - Jean or Jeanette Javert Pontmercy. Marius, standing behind her, leaned his chin on her shoulder and slipped his arms under hers. Gently, he cradled her stomach as if to gain some sense of the life growing there.
He'd had a fright that morning when Cosette had announced that she felt ill, but the doctor had reassured the young couple, saying that nausea was a common symptom during the first few months of pregnancy.
"Silly," Cosette teased, easing herself out of her husband's grasp. "I'm not all that far along yet. You can't even see the bump, let alone feel the baby moving."
"I don't care," he told her, kissing her cheek lightly. "I just like holding the two of you. Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?"
"Hmm..." Cosette hummed aloud. It was the hundredth such discussion they'd had in the last few days. "I think a little boy, with hair just like yours."
"You said a girl this morning."
"I know."
Water dripped slowly in the corner, falling into a fetid pool. The air was frigid and permeated by the stink of rot and disease. Paris' jailhouse was not meant to be comfortable; it was a stopping point on the road to prison for those already condemned, and served to acclimate the inmates to some of prison's less savory conditions.
Javert had worked his way down here after giving his report upstairs and retrieving the ransom fund from Montparnasse's hiding place (one of the officers had beat its location out of the thug with swift efficiency). Beaupré, the new Commissaire, had given the visit his approval. With a nod to the man standing guard at the door, Javert stepped into the hallway dividing the cells - those bound for the court on the left, and those bound for prison on the right.
The left cells were mostly occupied. By contrast, the cells on the right were empty but for three - Javert first passed Babet, who scowled and threw a pebble at the Inspector; Javert ignored him. Brujon was sitting facing the wall several cells down. Javert, wisely, had instructed the guards to spread the Patron-Minette out so they couldn't plot with each other. The criminals had escaped prison before - no reason to make it easy for them to give it a second go.
The last cell on the block was rather different from the others. All the walls were stone, rather than bars, and the door was crafted of hefty oak boards, reinforced with metal bolts and edged with iron. The solitary confinement cell also had two guards posted on either side of the door. These stood for eight-hour shifts before being replaced by their fellows.
When the guards realized who it was standing in front of them, they tripped over each other in their haste to step aside.
"Monsieur the Inspector," one of them breathed, "we weren't told to expect you."
"I assumed as much," Javert replied dryly, pulling a key from his pocket. "Has this one been any trouble?"
"No Monsieur, no trouble at all," the other guard answered, trying to look good in front of the esteemed Inspector.
Javert ignored this completely, inserting the key in the lock. Before he turned it, he eyed the guards severely. "Keep an eye on him," he warned. "He's as slippery as an eel and less pleasant than one."
"Don't worry, Monsieur, we'll keep both eyes on him," the guard said.
Javert paused and smiled very slightly. The guard took another step backwards in alarm.
"No, one eye will suffice. Keep the other one looking behind you. Otherwise, he'll have a knife in your back before you have time to blink."
Having thus terrified the young guards, Javert pushed the cell door open and stepped inside. It swung shut behind him with a heavy thud.
If the rest of the jailhouse was unwholesome, the solitary confinement cell was downright unpleasant. The bit of light in the room came from a street lamp outside, which shone dimly from a small, barred window. The place stank of human filth.
Wrapped in chains, his clothes still saturated with river water, Montparnasse shivered in a miserable puddle in the corner. When he looked up and saw the Inspector, his face split in a half-crazed grin.
"Miss me, Inspector?" he asked. When Javert said nothing, the murderer chuckled darkly. "As I recall, the positions were reversed the last time we were in this situation."
"So they were." Javert spoke calmly but his fingers tightened slightly into a fist.
This was not lost on Montparnasse, who chuckled again. "Come to get your revenge, then, Javert? I know you want to. Go on then. Hit me. Kick me. You're stronger than I am, and I'm chained up. Press me to the wall and take advantage of me like I God-damn well know you want -"
Like lightning, Javert pulled his pistol from its place at his side and took aim.
"Give me one good reason not to shoot you."
"'Cause you think I'm cute."
Montparnasse's mocking face turned ashen as Javert's only response was to cock the gun.
"Because your superiors won't be happy."
Javert stepped forward and pressed the gun to the man's temple.
"My superiors approved this little visit. Our new Commissaire won't be displeased if I shoot the man responsible for our late Commissaire's death."
Montparnasse closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
"Because... Valjean wouldn't want you to kill me."
Javert snorted.
"You don't know that. You're just grasping at straws because you don't want to die. However," he added in a whisper. "You're right. He was going to jump into the river after you, if you can believe that." Deliberately, Javert stood, returning the pistol to its place. He turned to go, only slowing to call over his shoulder. "Have fun in Toulon. If anyone deserves that place, you do."
Once he was back on the street, Javert exhaled slowly. He wasn't sure when he'd started holding his breath, but he had. The night sky was black, the breeze pleasantly cool, and the stars twinkled in their ordered multitudes. On the horizon, the faintest haze of light heralded Dawn, still a few hours off, but coming.
Javert thought of Valjean and was in turn reminded of that age-old once spoken truth: that to love another is to see the face of God.
He smiled - yes, tomorrow would come indeed.
With that, he set out for home.