7 June, 1832
Javert stumbled, wandering the empty streets. His head ached so much from his thoughts, he might as well have been shot in the head. A thought that made him curse Valjean's chance to do just that, instead of throwing unwanted mercy in Javert's face.
He grasped at straws, trying to maintain the world around him as he knew it. Mercy, forgiveness, pity. These are fairy tales, certainly things he never needed. Never thought he needed. Not until a few months ago. Or a few days ago. Or just an hour ago.
Without control or direction, his feet led him around Paris, past familiar buildings, down streets he knew.
Until he reached that damned bridge. He sniffed at himself. Of course. He would have let his memories lead him here. The Pont au Change.
He had broken every vow, every oath he had sworn to the law and authority. He let a criminal, a man who broke parole, go free. But first, Javert let that thief forgive him, spare him. He even let Valjean save his life.
Now, he would have to pay that debt of a life with his own. Looking around him, he knew this was the place to do what he must. The site where he experienced the only other time he stood face to face with exacting mercy. With a woman whose innocence was tarnished at least, a woman that he had let into his heart and let slip through his grasp.
He shrugged, making his fateful way to that thick rail of a balustrade to gaze in the water. Perhaps he owed two lives then. Shame he had only one with which to pay. His keen ears were nearly deafened by the almost roar of swirling water below him. With all the rain, Javert knew no matter how hard he could fight to stay above the water, he would only be taken away by the current, washed clean from his failures and the pity of others.
Heaving himself to stand on the stone rail, he tossed his hat to the ground behind him without so much of a glance.
Javert's eyes closed, picturing the moments of his life that gnawed on his soul day in and day out. Each of his wasted moments spent pursuing Valjean, along the coast, through Paris, throughout the years. And then there was her. Not only the moments he had wasted chasing away whatever it was he saw in her, but all the emotion that he had swallowed down in his dogged career. The years of self denial, of isolation and anger. Only to be returned with pity… or love. He lacked the knowledge of either to truly know the difference.
Not that it mattered now. Not that it would matter ever. Not once he was gone.
Testing his weight, Javert looked down once more to face his only choice, the swirling jetty of the Seine that lay below him. Taking a deep breath, he prayed it would be his last on this earth.
Until he felt a warm hand grab his gently. "I told you not to try to follow me, Phillippe," he heard his name softly whispered.
His eyes ablaze in surprise and anger, he turned his piercing green stare to the offender that dared to touch him and stop him.
He knew those eyes anywhere. Clearest and deepest blue, that still defiant glimmer to them. And those full, perpetually red lips. His brows furrowed at her habit, her hair covered in a long white wimple, her voluptuous curves cloaked and hidden in a simple gray frock.
Javert exhaled with more life and force than he wanted, her name crossing his lips for the first time in months. "Cécelie," he breathed.
She said nothing in return, but squeezed his hand tighter in her own, pulling him ever so slightly to return to the ground beside her.
But he resisted. "It would be you here at the end to send me on my final way," he groaned. His voice weaker than she ever remembered it. "It's just the first time I'm actually seeing your ghost for once." Eyes closing, he continued, "Typically I only see your spirit in my dreams."
Finally with one strong tug, she pulled him down, making him land slightly unsteady beside her. His hand gripped her shoulders for balance he so desperately needed.
He felt her laugh gently beneath his touch. "Then see me now in the flesh, Inspector Phillippe Javert," she spoke gently.
Hands gripping her body tighter in disbelief, his eyes scanned her, wild and beyond unhinged by her physicality in his grasp. He shook his head rapidly, his dark hair flying loose from his unruly queue. "H-how is this possible?" he demanded. "I saw you die, Cécelie."
"Actually, my name is Sister Clémence tonight, Javert," she stated, her voice serene, like a balm over his burning mind and broken spirit. "Or, rather, Novice Clémence, in my case."
His eyes widened in some semblance of realization. "You went to them. You became a Sister of Charity," he mumbled.
Cécelie looked up at him with such a kindness, Javert felt the old cracks of his stone-cold heart widening, sending a pain through him, body and soul. "I," he stammered, unsure of just how to continue from there. He let the words pour out of him, held back for so long. "I was wrong. I am sorry," his words coming so rapidly, "I should never have doubted you, I…"
She shushed him with a single whispering touch of her finger on his trembling lips. "As long as you believe me now, Javert. What is in the past is done. And now I am here, your Sister Clémence this time, to share charity with the world tonight." She released her finger from his lips gently, her hand still lingering in the scruff on his cheeks. "At first, I thought tonight was the worst night to take my first turn in the world as Sister Clémence. But I felt nudged to say the least. I wandered through some of the aftermath from the fighting at the barricades, tending to the wounded…" Her hand wound its way back into his shaking grasp. "But none I tended needed my charity more than a solitary man perched on a bridge, ready to end his own life."
"You in all your survival and pity wouldn't understand," he snarled, pulling his hand from her grasp, his eyes darting desperately towards the edge of the bridge again.
He felt two hands caress each side of his cheeks, turning him to face his ghost once more. "Javert," she murmured, "I have nothing now but time for you to tell me. Besides," she chuckled, "I believe I know you better than you used to give me credit for, Phillippe."
At that, he let out a single breath of a laugh. "There is much I should have given you better credit for," his eyes flashed with a familiar intensity as his mouth twisted into something slightly sour, "including your innocence." He gripped her arms, finding some small comfort in the warmth of her body bleeding into his own. "I should have been the one to save you, now I am the one saved," he sniffed, "that makes twice just tonight when I should never have been saved at all."
Her hands released his face, falling down to her sides to meet his arms. "There was a time when I also thought myself not worth being saved, but then I met someone who made me think otherwise."
"Kindly nuns will have that effect," Javert laughed darkly.
"So I thought too," Cécelie whispered, "but then I was granted a realization, that truly the first person who saved me from a life of misery, who pushed me to survive and endure emotions long dead to me was not a nun." She smiled up towards him, pulling his body closer towards her own. "It was you."
Javert blinked at her profession. "This night cannot become more impossible," he whispered, matching the softness and gentleness of her own voice.
Cécelie grinned up at him, slowly removing the white, stiff fabric that covered her head, peeling off every inch to let her pale blonde hair run down her back. "That depends on whether you think it impossible to kiss a nun…" She drew so close to him, he felt her chest rising and falling with each breath.
"Well," he laughed finding the last remains of whatever humor he still possessed, "you did say you were only a novice actually."
Once their lips met, their mouths fought for ragged breaths so as not to drown in each other's kiss. Their years of sorrow, self-denial and defenses were released at last.