Cosette had wanted them to stay in the room that was always prepared for Valjean, and Javert would have been welcome to one of the many rooms that had been prepared for guests. But with the wine warm and heavy in their limbs, they knew without asking that they were filled with the same, simple need now: a moment of silence and shared solitude, and then to undress each other and fall asleep together, a thing that could be no great sin, but that they nevertheless could not share in another man's home.
They refused the carriage Pontmercy would have readied for them. He was distracted by the guests, and so it was no great feat to slip out unnoticed at last. Valjean pressed a coin into the porter's hand and gave him a smile, and then the gate closed behind them, and they were alone in the darkness of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The streets were white, and in the light of the street lamps, the snow was dancing, falling more heavily now.
Everything was silent and white. Javert could taste the crisp cold on his tongue, biting at his cheeks, and smiled in delight. The snow muffled all sound and reflected the light of the moon, and he could not be happier than he was at the prospect of walking home through the cold by this man's side, secure in the knowledge that Valjean would take him to his bed as he had taken him into his heart, and that it was as it should be.
Valjean sighed deeply. He looked up and watched the falling snow. Javert watched him in turn, just as entranced to see the flakes land on his skin, frost his hair, his lashes. Then Valjean gave Javert a smile, that rare smile that filled his eyes with light and warmth and coaxed forth a similar light in Javert's chest. "Let us go home," Valjean said. Javert nodded.
They walked side by side. Every now and then, their hands brushed. Javert watched Valjean's breath turn into a white fog in the cold air.
Walking in silence beside Valjean as the snow continued to fall all around them was not unlike kneeling beside him in prayer. There was a holiness to this: the city blanketed by a gentle hand, buildings and streets and gardens alike vanishing beneath the thick layer of white that swallowed all sound.
They were walking alone; the streets were deserted, yet filled by light. The snow shone with the light of the moon and the stars above them, and the street lamps glowed with halos of bright warmth in which they could see the heavy snowflakes dance as they continued to fall in majestic, endless silence.
The only sound that could be heard was the sound of their boots on the fresh snow. It seemed as if the entire city was deserted; here and there, they saw brightly lit windows where families might still be feasting long after midnight.
Javert studied Valjean in the light of the moon. He seemed pensive and distant, but when Javert's gloved hand brushed his own almost by accident, warmth filled his eyes once more, and he curled his own fingers around Javert's.
"It's very cold," Javert said suddenly. Before them, in the small street that lead towards the quay, there were still lights. He thought a few of the wine shops might still be open for late stragglers, or still busy with revelers who preferred the company of strangers on this night.
Javert looked at Valjean again. The magnitude of what he had been given still overwhelmed him betimes and rendered him strangely shy; not towards Valjean, but towards this great force that had seen fit to reward his resignation not with death, but with life and company, and the trust of this one man whom he knew to be good above any other. He wondered if Valjean felt the same, and then thought of the pensive sadness in his eyes when he had watched Pontmercy share the bûche de noël with Cosette on one plate.
That sadness had vanished in a heartbeat when Cosette had looked up to enfold her papa in a look of such warm happiness that it had nearly embarrassed Javert once more to have attended their Réveillion, for he had no place in this small family which Valjean had bought at the price of his own happiness. By all rights Valjean should enjoy the love of this family, should spend his life in the Gillenormand household, watch children grow and call him grand-père and die at last surrounded by love.
What Valjean had instead was a hut in the garden of a house he dared not claim for himself. What he had instead was Javert, who would fall to his knees and swear his servitude or his soul if it was but asked of him. It was not, and so he had no right to offer it as another burden. He knew no other way to try and give this man the love he deserved by falling asleep pressed against him in their narrow bed, and shed all that society deemed good and moral for what the church would call sin, though his heart knew no word but holy for what it felt like to press trembling fingers to warm skin and feel the strong heart-beat beneath.
These lips that could whisper his name with the same sweetness as they recited psalms or sang praise were incapable of sin. All his reading by Valjean's side had never given him a better answer than this. Perhaps he was a sinner still – but all Valjean had to offer was love. No priest or scripture would ever convince him otherwise,
Suddenly, he found himself loathe to see the night end. It was not that he did not look forward to the quiet and the familiar comfort of Valjean's small hut in the Rue Plumet. And yet, here in the cold, the fatigue brought on by the plentiful wine and the company had vanished again. He was no longer tired, and he was disinclined to see the night end quite so soon, especially now that he had Valjean's company all to himself.
"We could sit down inside for a moment for some wine," Javert said. He tried not to sound too hopeful. If Valjean was exhausted, he did not want to keep him up – but Valjean looked at the light that spilled out of the small wine shop in consideration, and then nodded.
In the warmth of the narrow room, the snowflakes that had come to rest on Valjean's hair quickly began to melt. It was very late, but even so, the subdued sounds of a party of revelers could be heard in a room upstairs. The cheeks of the proprietress were red with wine and merriment, and after they had reassured her that they would be happy with a single bottle of wine to share, she hastened away with steps already unsteady to join the revels upstairs once more.
Javert felt the warmth of the fire thaw his frozen cheeks. His lips relaxed in what was the closest he usually came to a smile, and he raised his wine in salute.
The wine was rich and heavy on his tongue with the tang of red berries and oak. It was not the fine vintage of the Gillenormand revel, but still much finer than what he would have expected in such an establishment. The downstairs room had barely enough space for four small tables; Javert thought that the wine and merry-making must have made the proprietress bring out better vintages than what would have been on offer had she been sober.
He watched as old, worn fingers that were still stiff from the cold took out a golden Napoléon and slid it towards the half-full bottle, to await the return of the landlady. Her generosity would not be to her detriment tonight, he thought. Aloud he said, "I wager you would be Père Noël to every soul tonight, were it possible."
Valjean looked up and studied him for a moment, then broke into one of his rare smiles. Javert gave in to that helpless need within him and reached out for one of Valjean's hands. He covered it with his own, larger one, and for a moment allowed the heat of his own skin to sink into Valjean's.
The light of the fire flickered. He drew his fingers along Valjean's fingers when there was no protest. They were strong hand, but marked by a life of hardship. He felt their roughness with his own fingertips, the small scars, the healed blisters, the callouses. He knew that if he drew his hand further upwards, he would be able to trace the scars left by the irons Valjean had worn for so long – but that was too sad a memory to conjure on this holy night. This was no night to burden Valjean with his own regrets, when Valjean had borne his own heavy burden for so long.
Instead, Javert stroked his fingers, rubbed with gentle pressure to help the blood circulate and encourage warmth to return.
It felt strangely intimate; perhaps because to do this in public still brought with it a strange thrill and a hint of fear.
But there was no need for fear. The proprietress was busy with the feasting upstairs; and should she return, they would hear her unsteady steps on the creaking stair long before they would be seen. Javert hummed under his breath, massaging hard, slightly swollen knuckles. Valjean held his glass of wine in his other hand; Javert kept his eyes on his hand and flushed a little. This felt too intimate for such a public space, and yet he could not keep himself from reaching out in such a way.
It was a need, to touch Valjean. He needed no more than this: the warmth of his skin, the soft sound of his breathing, the reassurance of fingers curling into his own. It was enough that Valjean allowed this, that he could coax stiff fingers to relax and drive away what aches the cold must have brought. It was as intimate as touching those warm, red lips with his trembling fingers to feel their heat, their softness, to feel the way Valjean's mouth could turn all his thoughts to sin with just a brush of those lips against his fingers. It was as intimate as clasping their hands, and falling asleep with their hands resting together over Valjean's heart, that steady beat singing him to sleep with its song of reassurance and comfort.
It was no wonder it made him flush, and yet he could not stop running his fingers very gently over Valjean's, returning what warmth he could with his touch, for it was still too difficult to put the warmth in his heart into words, despite the wine.
It was Valjean's sound of amusement that finally made him stop and look up.
"Javert!" Valjean said, eyes dark and warm and bright from more than just the wine. "Javert, it is but a coin I've left her."
Only now did Javert realize what he had been humming under his breath. He laughed a little despite himself; the sound was still rusty, as was his singing voice, although the wine had helped a little.
"Dame qu'êtes à la fenêtre
Faites moi la charité.
Entrez, entrez, mon bon pauvre,
Un bon repas trouverez."
Valjean looked at him. Javert did not stop singing, for the pleasure of seeing a smile tug at Valjean's lips was worth all embarrassment.
"Javert," Valjean chided again, although there was nothing but affectionate and slightly disapproving amusement in his eyes. "Come now, certainly that is blasphemy! It's but a coin, and we were hardly starving."
Javert's lips twisted into a rueful smile. "Oh non, ce n'est pas la lune, sont vos grandes charités," he sang softly, and then fell silent, and looked down at the hand that was still held safely in his own. He drew it up then to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it.
"I no longer think it is charity," he said softly. "If you are still wondering that. What you do – what you are – was for so long beyond me. At first, I saw you as a saint, for I saw myself as the devil. How could it be different? But that thought led only towards death, and here in life, all thoughts seem to want to lead to..."
Javert hesitated for a moment. "To love. You do not want to hear how good you are; I tell you, Jean Valjean, I know no better man, and if you will not let me speak it, I will say it in other ways."
Valjean's throat moved slowly. Javert's eyes lingered at the way the silk of his cravat moved against his skin. After the Réveillion, and the long walk in the snow, it was no longer knotted as flawlessly as it had been. He imagined how he would pull it free with a priest's devotion once they reached the sanctuary of Valjean's hut. That was a sacrament, too.
"You should not say these things, Javert. Do you not know me yet? You, who have always known me? My tale is not one out of your Butler. I fear that one day you will realize that I am but a man, and then-"
"And then I will not love you? Impossible," Javert said and gave him a helpless smile, which he still feared looked more like a grimace. It felt like the muscles of his face had never learned the art of smiling; the smiles he liked best were the ones he could hide against Valjean's skin in the darkness of their room. He drew Valjean's hand to his mouth again; Valjean touched his lips with gentle fingertips, then curved his hand against his cheek.
"You are a fool, Javert," Valjean said tenderly. "Half the time I do not know what you think; half the time, you fret about things that make no sense."
"Well, they make sense to me," Javert muttered, pleasantly warm from the wine, so that he did not protest when those gentle fingers brushed through his whiskers.
Valjean made a quiet, pleased sound. His eyes were half closed; for a long moment, he simply sat there, stroking through the coarse hair with the pad of his thumb in tender circles.
"I am glad you were by my side today," Valjean said suddenly at last. "I do not know how I would have managed on my own. It is hard to see her so happy, and to know that she is no longer mine, when from the moment I carried her away from Montfermeil, I knew that as long as she was happy and by my side, I could face anything at all. Now she is happy, and it is no longer my doing. I am not needed anymore."
"Fool," Javert echoed softly. He stretched. Suddenly he ached with the need to get up and outside into the cold, to see the clear air strip away this melancholy from Valjean.
"You have seen her today. What do you imagine this day would have been like for her, had you not been there? She no longer needs you to fill all her days – but she still needs you. And also," he muttered, feeling foolish, "also you do not see me eye her with jealousy, because you need her more than me."
He held up his hand when Valjean wanted to protest. "No, no, enough. Let me speak. Or rather, let me not speak; let us go; I am entirely too maudlin. This is embarrassing and frustrating."
Valjean studied him. At last he sighed very deeply and stood. "Let us leave then," he said, and there was a kindness in his eyes that made Javert ache with some of the old restlessness. He had never managed to run away from it. It drew him to Valjean as much as he feared it.
"Javert." Valjean's voice was a little stronger now, not quite sharp, and Javert flushed and ducked his head. Then Valjean's hand brushed his cheek again, chiding and reassuring at once.
They left before the proprietress could return, the Napoléon next to the empty bottle. Once they were outside in the cold air, where the snow was still falling heavily and unperturbed, Valjean took a deep breath, and clasped Javert's hand in his own.
"Let us go home," he said softly. "There is something I have been thinking about. Come. I think you are right, and I am as much a fool as you. But we have had enough wine that I can show it to you, and perhaps you shall not judge me too much if I should weep."
Javert raised his hand to briefly touch a white strand onto which a snowflake had settled. "If you weep, I would prefer to be with you," he said, and allowed his hand to linger in Valjean's as they walked through empty streets of the city filled only with snow and moonlight and their shared solitude.