Chapter Text
Bahorel comes up with the plan to bust through the barricade.
Enjolras isn’t surprised.
He is surprised Bahorel’s standing, frankly. Blood’s been slowly dripping from a bayonet wound near his ribcage, his shirt and red waistcoat ripped through.
That bayonet could have killed him if Prouvaire hadn’t shouted at him to move just in time, allowing Bahorel to slide away and sock the responsible National Guardsman directly in the jaw.
But then Bahorel is Bahorel, after all.
It’s a flesh wound Joly, stop fussing, has been his constant refrain. And you too, Combeferre.
“They’ve blown a hole through the middle there,” Bahorel’s saying close in his ear, and Enjolras shuts out the noises all around him—the cannon fire, the groans of pain, the pistol shots—focusing on his friend’s words, and only those. “They’re going to rush us, but I say we rush them. It’s our only chance to run them off. We should take it.”
They’re one of the only barricades left in the city, if not the only one, if his reconnaissance is correct. There’s nothing left to lose, and only something to gain.
Otherwise, they’re all dead. He prepared for that. All of them did. But if they can break through that barricade, if they can make one show of strength, it might earn them their survival, and the ability to fight another day.
And make a statement at the same time.
This will not end in a whimper, but in a bright burst of the daylight they all seek to bring about.
That tomb all flooded with the dawn he spoke of still creeps around the edges of his mind with shadowed golden light, and he knows that might still be the case. He finds Bahorel’s idea a smart one, however and their best—their only—chance to keep breathing past this sunrise. He looks around at his remaining friends, his chest tightening with melancholy and love because they are France, they are the future, and he wants them to have their own.
“Prouvaire might be on the other side, too,” Enjolras murmurs, and he hears Bahorel’s sharp intake of breath when he says Prouvaire’s name. The National Guard had taken Prouvaire and another of theirs captive, but they only heard one executioner’s shot.
Perhaps Prouvaire is still alive, if they’re keeping one as ransom.
They don’t know.
Your friends have just shot you, Enjolras remembers saying to Inspector Javert when they heard the shot go off.
Truthfully, the inspector barely looked as if he cared. The mysterious man who showed up out of nowhere and blocked the grapeshot with a mattress killed Javert in the end. He’s still here, hovering near an injured but still standing Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac watching them with from nearby with a gleam of intrigue in his eyes.
“Tell the others to gather the men that are left. Have them pull out swords, knives, any stray bayonets that fell.” Enjolras keeps his voice low, staying still as another blast of cannon fire explodes into the air. “We need to wait for a lull while they reload the canons, and then, we’ll run at them. Get some of the others to make sure anyone who is injured has a partner to help them out.” He pauses, remembering Grantaire upstairs with a flash of frustration and sympathy all at once, remembering his earlier anger at the friend he can never seem to understand, and certainly hadn’t possessed the time to as the barricade took shape, not when people’s lives were at stake. “Someone needs to wake Grantaire up. We can’t leave up him upstairs.”
“Joly and Bossuet are on it, don’t worry.” Bahorel winces, putting a hand to his wound before he grins at Enjolras, a spark of fire in his eyes. “How is it there’s not a scratch on you?”
Enjolras smiles, his heart pounding in his chest as adrenaline cuts through his exhaustion. “Luck, I suppose.”
Bahorel shoves Enjolras in the arm, his fondness apparent. The new plan spreads in a whisper among those who remain, the air thrumming with a reckless, radical hope, the strange excitement so clear they might have reached out and grasped it to hold onto in what could very well be their last moments on this earth.
Either they live, or they die. And if they die, it won’t be for nothing. Enjolras refuses to believe that.
Even if they die, they’ll have the last word today, just as dawn bursts over the horizon and bathes the barricade in bright, undeniable light. Enjolras spots Feuilly gathering the snipers he’s been directing into a knot behind what’s left of the barricade, preparing some to run over the remains and some directly through the middle. Bahorel comes over to help him, and Enjolras steps over to them both.
He needs to make sure of something.
Feuilly seems to sense Enjolras has something important to say before he even speaks, concern glimmering in his eyes as he brushes a stray auburn-brown hair out of his eyes.
“They’re going to focus on me, if they can, when we run through.” Enjolras keeps his voice steady, holding Feuilly’s eyes even as he hears Bahorel’s noise of disagreement, his friend already knowing what he means by this. “The soldiers. I ask both of you to please make certain Combeferre and Courfeyrac don’t try and chase after me, if I’m arrested. I don’t want anyone else taken in or killed just because I am.”
Feuilly frowns, shaking his head. “That’s not what we do, Enjolras. We don’t leave people behind.”
“It’s not what I want,” Enjolras presses. “But if it comes down to all of you dying just to keep me out of jail, the answer there is clear.”
“Is it?” Feuilly sounds angry now, even as his voice cracks. “Enjolras, understand what you’re asking us to do here.”
“We could break him out of prison later,” Bahorel suggests. “Not impossible.”
“Bahorel,” Feuilly chides, and Bahorel raises his hands in apology.
Feuilly focuses back on Enjolras, putting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “If this is about the man you executed, or the artillery sergeant, then please know you are not stained because of that. None of us love you any less for it.”
Enjolras covers Feuilly’s hand with his own, a heaviness settling into his chest. “It’s not about that.”
Part of it is. Part of it is and you know it, a voice whispers from a dark place inside his head. Part of him wonders if he has a place in this world he’s striving to create, the world that won’t come without bloodshed.
Not yet.
But it is about more than that. It’s about making certain all his friends don’t sacrifice themselves just to keep him out of prison. The logic of that is clear.
The emotion less so.
“I’m not aiming to get taken in,” Enjolras continues, and Feuilly smiles at him now, his pinched, sad expression almost unbearable. “But if they come after me, and the rest of you can get out to safety, please, Feuilly….” Enjolras swallows. “Please tell me none of you will get yourselves killed trying to stop it. Please promise me the two of you will get the rest out. I know this is not easy, but I also know it’s necessary. If you cannot, I understand.”
Feuilly’s face changes at the words please promise me, and Enjolras presses on. It’s not that Enjolras thinks Feuilly will have an easier time of this than the others, but Feuilly’s endless generosity, his fierceness in protecting others, and his innate pragmatism make him the right choice, with Bahorel’s help.
“Nothing may happen. But if it does, please protect the others, Feuilly. I cannot ask this of Courfeyrac, and in this instance Combeferre would…” Enjolras trails off. He knows asking any of his friends to take this burden is too much, but Combeferre, no matter his strength and the brilliance Enjolras so loves, cannot do this. He could not let Enjolras go.
“You’re asking me to live with it if something happens to you, Enjolras.” Feuilly’s words are almost inaudible.
“I know.” Enjolras blinks, letting a tear escape him. “And I’m sorry.”
Feuilly stares at him and Enjolras stares back, the love they bear each other hanging in the air and shimmering in the new, raw, sunlight.
“All right.” Feuilly blinks, wiping away a few of his own tears, squeezing Enjolras’ hand tight. “I will, Enjolras. I promise.”
Bahorel nods in agreement, looking solemn for a moment, and Enjolras thinks it doesn’t suit him.
“I will not promise not to break you out of jail,” Bahorel whispers, his voice brimming with feeling. “I make no promises at all about the lengths we will go to later, if something happens.”
Enjolras nods, out of place laughter bubbling up his throat. “Thank you.” Enjolras allows his voice to break here in the quiet with his two friends. “Thank you both.”
As the cannons fall silent, there’s nothing to do but go forward. Enjolras feels Combeferre’s hand on his back as they stand together awaiting their fate. Courfeyrac’s there too, and Enjolras steps in-between his two friends for a fleeting moment, placing an arm around each and pulling them close to him before he has to let go.
He hopes the small action conveys the I love you that he means.
He stares down the shattered barricade in front of him, taking a deep breath.
Then, they all run. Over pieces of the barricade. Through the ruined middle. Everywhere. The clash of swords and the crack of pistols echoes against the shouts of the National Guard and the single, unified roar of his fellows as they burst through.
Everything happens at once.
Marius! Courfeyrac’s voice shoots through the air, worry threaded through every letter of his friend’s name.
Enjolras whips around for a split second, seeing Pontmercy fall. He sees the old man rushing over, and he sees Courfeyrac fending a guard off with his sword cane, but he can’t see the extent of the wound. The approaching footsteps of a soldier force him back to the task at hand, a bullet whizzing just past his cheek with a sharp, insistent sound.
Enjolras has a sword himself—he’s honestly not sure of the origin, he only knows Combeferre handed it to him—adjusting his canne de combat skills and using them with a blade instead of cane. His sword clangs against a soldier’s bayonet, the sound crashing into his ears as he forces his opponent to the ground and kicks the weapon away. Gun smoke fills the air, and he can’t keep his eyes on all of his friends at once, he can only focus on what’s in front of him, he can only focus on the sheer confusion they’ve started, watching some of the men from their barricade rocket into the street and away from the National Guard, who don’t quite know what to do.
He hears a cry of alarm behind him,
Joly. It sounds like Joly.
His friend’s freckled, cheerful face appears in his mind, and Enjolras spins on his heel, seeing a soldier aiming for a limping Joly with a sharpened bayonet.
And then, another figure. Someone pushing Joly out of the way. Someone with a head of unkempt brown curly hair and stubble on his face.
Grantaire.
Grantaire pushes Joly clear just as the soldier lunges forward with his bayonet, the blade slashing against the side of Grantaire’s arm. Both of them go toppling over, and Enjolras rushes over, kicking the soldier in the knee, hearing a sickening crack resound beneath his shoe. Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eye and helps him up, offering a smile as Grantaire grasps Joly like his life depends up on it. Grantaire gives him an unsure, lopsided smile back just as Bossuet comes to their side.
“Go to Bahorel’s.” Enjolras seizes Bossuet’s wrist, squeezing it tight, admiring Grantaire’s courage even if he can’t process it right now. Grantaire’s loyalty and friendship have always been his good qualities. It’s his follow through where he runs into trouble. But there’s something in Grantaire’s eyes, today. Something new. “Meet there, as agreed upon.”
Bossuet squeezes Enjolras’ wrist in return, his skin slick with sweat in the warm June air. Grantaire looks hesitant to leave Enjolras there, and he grasps Enjolras’ hand before he throws Joly’s arm around his own shoulders, he and Bossuet both helping him walk. There’s not time for another word, there’s not time for another thought, as Enjolras watches his friends run down the narrow Rue de la Chanverie.
The chaos is to his advantage.
Until it isn’t.
He hears the words, you bastard, just before he feels someone kick his shin, a boot heel smashing into the bone hard enough to leave a bruise, at least. Enjolras keeps upright, spinning around and facing a man who can’t be much older than him.
“That artillery sergeant you shot?” The man bites out the words. “That was my friend. But you don’t care about that, do you?”
I do care, Enjolras wants to say, but he can’t let that memory overcome him. Not right now.
“The leader is here!” the soldier shouts, drawing the attention of his fellows. “Let’s haul him in.”
Several soldiers rush over, and though Enjolras thinks he could fight off a few on his own, he’s not sure he can push all of them off at once. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bahorel emerge from the crowd and the smoke, holding up someone much smaller than him. Someone unconscious, but breathing.
Enjolras’ heart beats faster.
Prouvaire. Jean Prouvaire is alive. Blood drips from a wound on Jehan’s forehead, his reddish-blonde hair matted with sweat.
But he’s alive.
Gavroche stands at Bahorel’s elbow, a gun in his hand despite all their efforts to keep one from him.
One of the soldiers looks behind and directly at them.
If Enjolras lets the soldiers take him, maybe they’ll be too distracted to notice their other prisoner being taken away.
He drops his sword and throws his pistol to the ground, locking eyes with Bahorel, a thousand years passing in a matter of a few seconds.
Then, he raises his hands.
“Don’t move!” one of the soldiers shouts, as another seizes his arms roughly and pulls them behind, making quick work of binding them with rope, the coarse material cutting into Enjolras’ skin.
Enjolras hears a voice. He hears a voice calling his name.
Enjolras!
Courfeyrac.
He just makes out his friend’s face, realizing with a jolt that he hasn’t seen Marius or the old man —they never did get his name, did they?—since he saw Marius fall.
Nearby, he sees an open sewer grate.
Did they go through there?
He doesn’t have time to think further, his heart screeching to a halt when someone else runs up beside Courfeyrac, his spectacles cracked.
Combeferre.
Combeferre doesn’t need to speak for Enjolras to make out the devastation on his face.
Both of them step forward as the soldiers drag Enjolras away, and Enjolras would rather die here and now himself than watch bullets strike Combeferre and Courfeyrac down when they’re so close to getting away.
Enjolras!
Courfeyrac’s scream pierces the air, and Combeferre cocks his pistol, preparing to shoot the guards pulling Enjolras down the street.
No. No no no. If Combeferre shoots, if Courfeyrac runs forward, both of them might die for trying to save him. He remembers shooting Le Cabuc. He remembers his own words.
Soon you shall see the fate to which I have condemned myself.
And Combeferre’s words.
We will share thy fate!
He knows better than anyone that his friends knew what they were risking by doing this just as much as he does. But they’re so close to keeping their lives intact, they’re so close, and he can’t bear to see them go down now. Feuilly runs up to Courfeyrac and Combeferre with Gavroche at his heels. Bahorel comes up behind him, Prouvaire still slung over his shoulder. Feuilly keeps Courfeyrac physically back as Combeferre argues with Bahorel, likely knowing Enjolras’ motivations. Enjolras can’t make out the words, but he knows how sharp Combeferre’s barbs can be better than anyone, especially if he’s upset.
The trouble is, the ruckus draws the attention of the guards pulling Enjolras away. He sees two of their gazes dart over toward his friends as Feuilly and Gavroche tug Courfeyrac and Combeferre away, Bahorel’s hands full with carrying Prouvaire. Enjolras’ hands are bound, but his feet are still free, and he kicks one of the guards with all his remaining strength, their attention falling back on him.
One of the soldier’s slaps him so hard that he stumbles, falling to the ground and smacking his head on the paving stones.
The last thing he sees as his vision goes blurry are his friends rushing down the narrow street. The last thing he hears is Combeferre shouting his name, his friend’s voice ragged and broken and spilled out across the ground in pieces.
Enjolras!
Then, everything goes black.
Javert directs the carriage back to the station.
He’s not even sure why, really.
He should be dead.
He should be dead.
Valjean should have killed him. Instead, Valjean had offered himself up. They rode in a carriage together to take the Pontmercy boy home, then to Valjean’s home itself.
And then…
And then Javert left. He didn’t arrest Valjean. He didn’t do his duty. He just…
Left.
The entire world shudders beneath his feet as he steps out of the carriage, the fog in his mind refusing to dissipate.
Valjean let him go. Valjean spared him. Valjean went through the muck and the mud for an insurgent and for what?
Valjean is…
Valjean….
Valjean is right.
Valjean is good.
No. That cannot be. It cannot be.
It is. It is.
Javert steps around to the side of the station and out of sight of two of the officers exiting.
Has goodness been Javert’s goal? Being irreproachable, yes. But good? What is good? There is the law and chaos. Criminals and citizens. Everything made sense, before today. Everything made sense.
He can’t do this. He can’t do this.
What’s this, the voice in the back of his head asks. What can’t you do?
Live, he answers back with an internal snarl. I can’t live. Not like this.
He curls one hand into a fist and leans against the wall, a rush of maddening energy overcoming him. A letter. Yes, he wants to write a letter to the prefect. He’ll just go inside, do that, and then…
Well then he’ll throw himself into the Seine. Yes. Yes that’s it. That’s what he’ll do. A loud, shrieking noise screams an unending chorus inside his head and he shuts his eyes, feeling tears run down his cheeks. Tears, of all things!
He hasn’t cried since…
He doesn’t know the last time he cried, the memory lost to time.
You’re going to kill yourself after someone spared your life?
He didn’t want a criminal sparing his life. He can’t live under the weight that Valjean was right all along, perhaps. That he was wrong. Long buried feelings rise to the surface, memories of his boyhood raised by the state after they took him from the prison where he spent his early years with his mother, memories of anger and fear and loneliness. He possessed but one choice, in those days: to prey on society, or to guard it, because he could never take true part. Not someone like him, born in the world’s gutter.
He chose to guard.
Except now he can’t even do that, because he let.Valjean.Go.
What is the world, if not how he’s defined it for so many years?
Maybe he shouldn’t go inside at all. Maybe he’ll just write his letter and then…
“Inspector Javert, sir.” One of his underlings, Chevalier, approaches, cutting through Javert’s spinning thoughts. “Are you quite all right? You look pale.”
“I’m fine, Chevalier.” Javert stands up straight again, ignoring the fact that his buckle is somewhere near his ear instead of in the proper place.
Chevalier bites his lip, but ploughs forward anyway. “We’ve been looking for you, sir. For your help with something.”
“My help with what?”
“The National Guard brought in one of the barricade leaders, sir. From the barricade where you were, I believe.”
Javert stares at him, not quite processing the words.
“From the barricade on Chanverie, sir?” Chevalier’s voice goes higher in question. “One of the last to fall. If not the last.”
“Yes, I understand!” Javert shouts, making Chevalier jump. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel into his veins. “What happened?”
“The insurgents rushed the National Guard, and they…well…” Chevalier twists his fingers, his eyes darting around and looking anywhere but at Javert himself as though fearing a reprimand. “…most got away. But they caught the leader. He surrendered to them.”
Javert perks up, the overpowering thoughts of flinging himself into the deep, dark river still swimming forefront in his mind, but he can’t tear himself away from this. He can’t look suspicious, after all. Or they’ll suspect him of wanting to throw himself into the Seine.
Or worse, of letting a criminal go. Not just Valjean, but an insurgent, too.
Javert rubs his temples. The worst possible situation, if so many got away.
Of course.
“What do you need my help with, Chevalier?”
“They’ve been interrogating him for hours, sir. He won’t tell them anything. We thought maybe you would be able to do something.”
Javert gestures him forward, and there isn’t even a moment for him to collect himself, his heart still racing as heavy nausea takes root in the pit of his stomach, pushing upward until his throat burns with acid.
Bisset, another inspector though still below Javert in seniority, meets him outside the door of one of the unused offices in the station, where they must be keeping Enjolras.
“Javert.” Bisset nods. “We’ve been waiting for you. The insurgent is inside. We hope to know where some of his fellows might have gone, plans for any other strikes, things like that.”
Javert half waves his colleague off, making the other man draw back in confusion.
“I require a moment alone with the prisoner,” Javert says, not really knowing why he’s saying it. “Open the door if I knock.” He stops when he puts his hand on the doorknob, remembering Enjolras’ fierceness. “Is he in irons?”
Bisset nods in assent.
Then, Javert goes inside.
Enjolras looks terrible.
He sits with his legs tied to the chair, his wrists in shackles. He looks up when Javert comes in the door, his bloodshot eyes widening in utter shock. There’s a wound near the side of his head, the blood dried into his unfashionably long fair hair. A purple bruise spreads across his left cheek like a violent flower, the knuckles of his right hand cut up and smeared with red.
And those are just the injuries Javert can see.
Javert steps further into the room and Enjolras just keeps staring at him, those bright blue eyes Javert remembers from when the boy offered him water oddly hazy and unfocused.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
Enjolras’ voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been without water for far too long.
I wish I was, Javert thinks. Soon, I may be.
Javert clears his throat, stepping closer so he might gain a better look. “I’m not.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes at the obvious answer, but Javert’s gaze is drawn down toward the boy’s arm, which is oddly bent. Enjolras holds his wrist gingerly in his opposite hand, his forearm laid out across his lap, an awkward feat while in irons. The sleeve is still down, so Javert can’t get a proper look.
“Is your arm broken?” Javert asks.
Enjolras curls into himself out of reflex, meeting Javert’s gaze and clearly wondering if the question is a trick, but he does answer.
“Yes.”
“How?”
Enjolras narrows his eyes even further, the blue irises turning to slits. “What?”
“Are you an imbecile?” Javert snaps. “I said how.”
Enjolras coughs, wincing, and Javert suspects his ribs might be bruised, also. “I know what you meant. I don’t understand why you’re asking.”
“Because I’d like to know if my officers did this or not. Yes or no, for now.”
“No.”
Javert strides to the door, his knock making a resounding echo through the small office. Bisset opens it, sticking his head inside. “Yes, sir?”
“Water, please. For the prisoner.”
Bisset raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment. Javert steps outside and shuts the door behind him, feeling angry for reasons he doesn’t entirely understand.
“Did the officers here do this? He’s in rough shape, which you didn’t bother to tell me.”
Bisset furrows his eyebrows instead. “No, sir. The guardsmen got a bit out of hand, I suppose. Not surprising, that wretch must have killed plenty of their fellows.”
Javert huffs. “The National Guard will not have to pay for his medical care. The water, if you please.”
Javert thinks again of the letter he intended to write before he got pulled into this, and the section on barefoot prisoners and medical costs he intended to put in. The dark, whirling waters of the Seine seem far away in the bustling station, the chatter of officers loud even in the middle of the night. Usually it’s quiet now, but the chaos in the streets has everyone on double time.
What would Valjean do in this situation?
Javert closes his eyes once more, centering himself in the here and now. He cannot let this internal war inside him spill outward to his colleagues’ notice. It doesn’t matter what Valjean would do. Valjean is not a police officer. Valjean is a convict.
It does matter now, and you know it.
Javert looks around the station, studying his fellow officers. Do they have these conflicts? Do they feel torn? Do they question?
He doesn’t dare ask them.
Many of them have wives. Children. Friendships. People they love and who love them, he supposes.
He has none of that. Not really.
What is love in the face of the world’s darkness? A complication. A danger. Nothing more.
Are you sure?
He loved his mother as a boy, though the memories of her are faint. Should he have loved a criminal? A child didn’t know better.
He soon learned.
He pushes a stray piece of black hair behind his ear, adjusting his buckle so it’s in place. Bisset brings the water and Javert goes back into the interrogation room without another word. He carries the water to Enjolras, who leans away from him, his sharp intake of breath loud in the quiet room.
“Drink this.” Javert’s words are nothing less than a command, and Enjolras pulls back further, even as his eyes dart down to the glass of water with a hint of desperation.
How long has he gone without?
Javert hasn’t checked the time for a while, but it’s past midnight, he thinks. On the seventh. If they took him in early this morning, it’s been fifteen hours or more.
“Drink.”
Enjolras meets Javert’s gaze dead on then looks down at the glass again, giving a nod. Javert doesn’t dare undo the irons, so he tilts the glass to Enjolras’ lips like Enjolras did for him at the barricade.
This brat was going to let Valjean shoot you. He was going to have you killed, no matter what. Remember that before you feel sorry for him.
I don’t feel sorry for him.
How can you complain about him ordering your death if you want to be dead anyway?
That was before…it was before Valjean. Before he let me go. Before I owed a convict my life.
I suppose that shows how little you care for your own survival.
Enjolras drinks half the glass down before he ceases, and up close Javert sees the sweat beading along his hairline. Javert puts the glass down on the desk that’s been pushed aside, his mind running a mile a minute.
This is any other interrogation. This is any other day any other minute any other second.
It isn’t. It isn’t. His life stands on a fragile edge as he looks out into the abyss, everything shattered around him.
He doesn’t know who he is, anymore. So he’ll have to pretend.
“I have heard that you’ve refused to give up any information on your comrades who escaped,” Javert says, standing in front of Enjolras. “I assume you understand why they sent me in here as a last resort.”
Enjolras keeps his eyes fixed on the wall behind Javert, not looking at Javert himself. “I assume because you are the one who makes people talk.” Pain weaves itself into Enjolras’ words, and Javert feels something strange pricking his chest. Something sympathetic.
No. No. No.
None of this forgiving, weak, Valjean nonsense.
“I am not afraid of you, Inspector Javert.”
Enjolras words, soft as they are, ring in the room. Inside Javert’s head. Perhaps out into the streets of Paris itself.
No one will fear him, if they get word he let a convict go free.
Javert steps forward on a wave of anger and mania, seizing Enjolras’ chin even as the boy’s involuntary gasp of pain sinks into Javert’s bones.
“You will tell me. And you should be.”
If he can get this information, any information, on the insurgents, no matter how small, maybe that will make up for letting Valjean go free?
You can go arrest him if you want, fool. You know the address.
I can’t. I can’t.
“No.”
“I will make certain the court knows you were uncooperative when the time comes for your trial, and it will certainly weigh on your sentencing. It might mean the difference between prison and death, do you understand me, boy?”
Enjolras meets Javert’s eyes again, and the burn in them makes Javert flinch, because it feels like a judgement.
“I understand very well, inspector.”
Javert remembers Enjolras’ strange kindness to him at the barricade, especially odd given Enjolras also sentenced him to die. He lets go, stepping back again.
“I am not so important,” Enjolras continues. “Not even the chief of a large barricade. Only a small one.”
“We are interested in any insurgent, their knowledge, and their comrades,” Javert growls. “What is more important than saving your own skin, hmm?”
Enjolras looks somewhere off in the distance when he speaks again, a flash of life passing across his drawn, bruised face.
“My own safety, my very life, is not worth more than the safety and lives of my friends, Inspector Javert. You will never hear me utter their names or their whereabouts. You will not hear anything that was ever discussed among us, no matter what you or a court might promise me in return.”
Enjolras speaks the words with the ring of an old hymn, something ancient and powerful that might echo at night from the bell tower of Notre Dame.
Something about it sounds like Valjean, too. Three simple words that turned Javert’s world upside down.
You are free.
Then later, after they took the Pontmercy boy home: Inspector Javert, grant me yet another favor.
And he did it. He did it because Valjean spared him, even though Javert shouted at him to kill him. The kindness in his voice was unbearable, and Javert can’t stop thinking about it.
He hears that same kindness in Enjolras’ voice now, different and perhaps less gentle and more passionate than Valjean’s, but God, he hears it still.
But criminals are selfish. Criminals think only of themselves.
Valjean stole to feed children, didn’t he? And this boy risks his life for his friends? Is that selfish? The voice speaks again.
It’s illegal, he argues back.
When Javert gets up, he barely knows what he’s doing. He knocks once more on the door to the office, and Bisset and Chevalier both step inside.
“This is a useless exercise,” Javert says, abrupt. “And unfortunately we must tend to the insurgent’s broken arm. Where are the rebels being sent?”
“La Force, for now,” Bisset answers, still looking perplexed. “But we can keep him here, surely. Call for a doctor.”
“No.” Annoyance cuts into Javert’s voice, even though he has no plans to take Enjolras to La Force at all.
He’s going to Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.
“La Force has an infirmary already,” Javert continues. “And therefore we will not incur extra costs paying a private physician. Besides, you did not see this particular insurgent in action. I did. He needs to be locked up where he cannot get out. Trust my word.”
“Yes sir.” Bisset looks less suspicious and more worried now, sharing a look with Chevalier. “Are you sure you’re quite all right, Inspector Javert? Have you slept?”
“I am perfectly fine, Bisset. I will sleep as soon as I am able. Retrieve me something that might be used as a sling for his arm, if you please, and Chevalier, hail a fiacre.”
Both men do as asked. Soon enough Enjolras’ arm is in a makeshift sling and they’re climbing into the fiacre, Javert forced to help Enjolras inside given his injuries. They sit across from one another, moonlight flowing in through the window and lending an ethereal glow to Enjolras’ young face.
“How did you break your arm?” Javert asks, speaking his curiosity aloud without really meaning to. “Not during the fighting itself?”
Enjolras stares at him, the blood in his hair and the bruise on his face somehow more prominent in the eerie light of the Parisian streets at one in the morning.
“Why?”
“Answer me, Enjolras.”
Enjolras sighs, probably too exhausted to fight him.
“One of the guardsmen struck me with the butt of his pistol until I heard a snap. That, and the pain indicated to me it must be broken.”
A month ago, a few days ago, Javert would not have cared about the injury of a criminal. A treasonous criminal, at that. And if he had, he would have pushed it down down down until it vanished.
Now, he does. He cares about the excessive use of force after someone’s surrender.
Why does he care?
He hates it.
He hates it.
Yet, here he is.
When the fiacre pulls up to Valjean’s street Enjolras speaks again, confusion and exhaustion melting into one emotion in his voice.
“This isn’t La Force.”
“Very astute,” Javert grumbles, as he helps the boy out. “Don’t say a word, do you hear me?”
Enjolras doesn’t agree, but Javert steps toward number seven anyway, giving a firm knock on the door.
Valjean appears when it opens a few seconds later, his shock of white hair tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over again. Javert watches emotions cascade through Valjean’s eyes: fear, grief, a strange sort of relief, and some things he can’t name.
“Inspector Javert you’re…” Valjean pauses, unsure how to finish his sentence, his hand grasping the doorknob until his knuckles pop white. “…back.”
Javert gestures Enjolras into the doorway, and Valjean’s eyes widen as he gives a start.
Javert speaks four unexpected words to the most unexpected man of all.
“Monsieur Fauchelevent, I need your help.”