Work Text:
"Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart… anguish of the turn of the year, the time of impotent yearning, the inconsolable season."
-Angela Carter, Saints & Strangers
Autumn was just beginning when Jean Valjean took to bed. The leaves were turning shades of warm hues, and the tree outside his window a brilliant red, filtering in sunlight like a kaleidoscope onto the white bedspread. On cloudy days, it only served as a grim reminder of its reality; the leaves inevitably looked duller as they severed from the branches, drifting gracefully to the ground below. It was not a sad thing. In fact, the process was perhaps the most natural in all the world, but the thought made no difference in the air of wistful melancholy that accompanied each fall.
Javert paled slightly as he watched yet another leave the branch, drifting out of sight. Apart from this, nothing in his expression betrayed his temperament. He sat rigidly in a chair beside Valjean’s bed, eyes fixed on the window. Outside, beyond the trees which flanked the glass, was the garden they had spent so many years cultivating.
Twenty years, simply a number, was not enough to describe their time together. To measure their relationship with the garden was, perhaps, the most apt method to encompass it; vocabulary was limited, constricting. What they shared was infinite, so indescribable that Javert might choke trying to find the words. So, he looked only to the garden to think of those years. How difficult it had first been to turn its soil, for Valjean to force mercy upon Javert, to drag him from the Seine’s waters. How arduous a task to plant such seeds of love in his heart, to nurse them over time until they shared a home and a bed. Oftentimes Javert likened himself to a weed, only seeping the life out of others, a plant which any other man would rip from its roots with disregard. But, Valjean knew something of weeds; he was stubbornly determined to help them thrive.
Javert had not left his bedside since that first day. Initially, he reluctantly went to sleep in his own bed, afraid to disturb Valjean in his fragile state. Though Valjean made quite the recovery after his attempt at self-imposed martyrdom, its effects never fully left, and the years had finally caught up with a man who had run for all his life. When he could no longer rise out of bed, he simply stayed, following several unsuccessful escape attempts that only ended in Javert seizing him from the floor. Now, within the week, Javert had taken to sleeping in the chair, keeping a watchful eye, reading to him, and feeding him. Valjean still ate, obeying the doctor’s orders and grasping for any strength that might come back to him, though he clearly felt little hunger. It was a stark difference from his illness years ago, now desperate to hold onto his remaining life, even at the ripe age of eighty.
Cosette called upon them daily in that week, only bringing her three children once and her husband twice. She feared the excitement would agitate her father, and Javert agreed. It was only during her visits that Javert would leave the bedchamber to give them privacy, walking in the garden and staring worriedly at the window. He would not allow his emotions to break in front of Valjean, even as he slept, an activity he had taken to with frequency. He wished not to burden him any further.
The doctor had taken both he and Cosette aside to explain his state, and that he would be sleeping more and more with each day. The poor girl was incredibly distraught, but kept a mask of doting devotion and cheer in front of her father. Javert was glad for it; he did not think he could bear to see Valjean’s reaction to a hysteric Cosette, the sight would only worsen his condition. She understood as much and held her tears in, only shedding them in the comfort of Javert’s arms outside where Valjean’s ears might hear her cries. Through the years, they had not always seen eye to eye, but their care for Valjean only brought them closer together, forming a mutual understanding of the complexity of being close to a man so determined to hide himself. Valjean was, simultaneously, so easy and so difficult to love, like wrangling a nervous animal into calm.
During one of these visits, Javert made to return to his rooms to close his eyes for a moment. Walking down the hall, Javert heaved without warning, coughing roughly into his handkerchief. Valjean was not the only one ravaged by the events twenty years prior. Though he had been able to live with it, his lungs had been irreparably scarred by the grip of the Seine. This was also a weakness of person that he fastidiously withheld from Valjean; there was no reason for him to fret over such things in his state.
Yet, he was now speaking less and less while spending more time in a deep sleep. When he was conscious, it was to carry out one of two actions. The first was to pray in soft tones under his breath at a volume and speed Javert could not interpret. The second was to stare intently at the foot of his bed at something, or someone, Javert could not see. He did not ask what it was, for he doubted he would receive a coherent answer, but did nothing to pull him back to the reality at hand. Whatever it might be, it did not frighten him and, if anything, calmed his spirits enough to bring him back to rest.
It was the next day that Javert heard him speak with any kind of cogency for the first time in the week. He was dozing slightly in the chair, holding Valjean’s hand when he felt a tight grip in return. Javert immediately sat up, leaning forward and bringing his other hand to surround Valjean’s rough, wrinkled palm. The motion felt commonplace, practiced through the years, but felt distorted to see the owner of that hand so thin, so pale. Valjean’s eyes were open, looking at Javert with the most beautiful smile he had ever seen grace his expression.
“Javert,” he said weakly. The sentiment was full of affection in spite of it all.
“I am here,” Javert said, bringing up that hand to kiss his knuckles gently. Satisfied, he seemed to brighten even further at the touch, a sight that made his aching heart bloom as if he were a teenager in springtime. It was a feeling he would never tire of, the way his heart fluttered and made a fool of itself at the slightest loving gaze. To think such a wild tangle of dying greenery had been tamed by that look; it was something he could never comprehend fully, but was indebted for it. Confusion, once his reaper, was now his savior. Trying to understand the depths to which Valjean would go to love him was one of the few things that kept him grounded in what he had come from, and where he could go forward.
It was then that he heard a knock on the door. Regretfully, he returned Valjean’s hand to his side and went to greet Cosette. He closed the door gently behind himself and Cosette came to clasp his hands.
“How is Papa?” she asked.
“You have come at a most opportune time, Madame,” he said. “He is awake and speaking.”
Cosette gave a tired sigh of relief. “Thank you, Monsieur Javert. I feared we may… may never speak again together.”
His expression turned to that of understanding. “Call for me if you have need of anything,” he said and added in low tones, “If I might be forward with you, Madame, I... I think it soon.”
She nodded and exchanged with him a slightly sad and knowing smile, placing a gloved hand on his arm. The woman locked eyes with Javert, but said nothing. Her eyes were wet with tears she would not allow to spill. Javert was overcome with admiration for the girl Valjean had given so much for, cursing himself for ever turning away from such a soul. He gave her a curt nod and opened the door, closing it carefully behind her as she entered.
He left again to the garden to allow Cosette her time, letting more coughs ravage his chest as he walked the grounds. The leaves were beautiful, now fully shifted to their dying shades. Before, he would not have considered such things beyond the passing acknowledgment of the season. It now filled him with an immense sense of gratitude, that he could live to see its dramatic change, a reminder that he himself could transform just as simply. Even if he had to shed all the vestiges of his old self, he would grow anew.
When he returned, he bid a good night to Cosette, cradling her in his arms. Though slightly perturbed, she seemed more at peace after whatever words she shared with her father. He sat again in his chair, preparing himself for the night ahead. Valjean’s eyes were closed, but he sat contentedly against his pillows. Javert thought him asleep until he heard a whisper coming from Valjean and strained to hear what he was repeating. His voice was low, slightly pleading, but Javert could only make out a faint “...face of God...” come from his parched lips.
“Jean?” he said, holding gently onto his hand.
“...To love another,” he breathed, “... is to see the face of God.”
Javert bent forward, hoping Valjean might not see his twisted expression; he held Valjean’s hand tightly, knuckles white, as if his soul might escape him if his grip faltered. “I know more than any man,” he replied quietly. Valjean echoed the phrase, but his tone, as if he might have heard his response, became softer, less urgent.
“Please, rest,” Javert said, and Valjean soon stopped, closing his eyes as if he had accomplished a huge feat.
Hours had passed and Javert had not moved a muscle. He held resolutely to Valjean’s hand and counted the seconds between breaths. Bit by bit, the seconds were stretching to minutes, and Javert felt on edge. Each sudden inhale was enough to make him shake with relief, but his heart sank as they became further spaced apart and more rattled in his throat. It was now dark, a candle on the table lighting just enough to illuminate the two. Alarmingly, Javert found himself muttering frenzied prayers between each breath, still keeping track of the spacing of the gasps for air. Prayer was something he never found use in; he was of the opinion that living right by Valjean was a sure way to praise the Lord. Living humbly in the service of others was prayer enough. Now, he only wanted to plead with that mysterious God. For what, he scarcely knew.
He found that he had been counting for some time and rose his head slowly. Valjean looked so peaceful in that moment, and no longer seemed so old. Any lingering lines of pain left his face as he exhaled with a long, drawn breath. He did not move again. Javert did not count.
Snaking his fingers from his hand to his wrist, Javert felt for a pulse over those old scars. There was none to be found, and he covered them again with his sleeves. He sat still, hunched at the edge of the bed, for several minutes, feeling Valjean’s hand grow cold. The room was unbearably silent now, and felt as if the world itself had become entirely mute in its wake.
There was much work to do be done to prepare the garden for winter. The last of the vegetables needed to be harvested and the returning plants pruned and cleaned before the first frost, not to mention the weeding. It was much work for one man so accustomed to accompaniment in the task.
Javert wiped his brow, feeling oddly flushed even in the late season’s chill. He sat on his haunches in the flowerbed in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, clearing the dead bulbs from the perennials. As he spotted and reached for a nearby weed, he felt a harrowing cough rising in his chest, sending him to rest on his knees. Two weeks in Valjean’s absence and already his body refused to cooperate with his mind; the thought infuriated him. He would not sit idly by as life seeped from him, it would be wrestled from him without mercy, for it was a life hard earned and a precious gift. He would not give away so easily this confounding, irreplaceable thing Valjean had left to him.
Though, he was sure he could hear Valjean’s voice, beckoning him to rest, to refrain from straining himself. It was the dissent of his body and what he knew Valjean would say that compelled him to rise, staggering to the nearby bench. He leaned against it heavily, coughing wetly until he was able to sit. As the fit subsided, he sighed, thinking to find a brief reprieve before returning to the bed. It would only be a moment, but he felt so tired, so overcome by exhaustion. Since Valjean’s passing, he found each day more arduous. To wake to an empty bed without reprieve, to know Valjean was not in the next room, physically pained him. But each day he fought, clawing at his thoughts and made his way to the gardens, attempting to exorcise the urge to relent his spirit.
Against his better judgement and the screaming protestations of his mind, he closed his eyes. Never had he felt so in need to lose himself to sleep; there was nothing to be done to fight the impulse, and he was vacantly pleased for it. He would rest for no more than a short time and continue his work. All would be well if he only might close his eyes.
Blackness gave way to sunlight when Javert opened them again. He thought to have slept for but a brief moment, but he found some time must have passed, for it was now spring around him. The trees and flowers bloomed in full and the sky a perfect blue expanse as he squinted upward. He blinked, feeling a warmth atop his hand. Turning, he faced Valjean, a serene smile on the man’s face as he sat on the bench, hand covering Javert’s.
“The Lord has surely sent me an angel,” Javert said hesitantly. “Though I know not what for.”
“I am to take you from this place, of course.”
As their fingers intertwined, something in Javert finally broke. The wave of emotion he had kept in those weeks locked and sealed escaped in tears and laughing sobs as he crumpled into Valjean’s arms. His affection was overwhelming, more comfort than he had ever felt in all his years. Unsure if he wept at the thought of heaven or at Valjean’s presence, he further buried himself in Valjean’s embrace. He suddenly thought to wrap his arms around him, to kiss him, pressing Valjean closer so that he may never leave his sight again. They sat, embracing for what may have been minutes, days, years before Valjean spoke, his beard scratching against Javert’s cheek.
“Come with me,” he said softly.
When he pulled away, Valjean held their hands together, marveling at Javert with the warmth of a man overjoyed by love, the weight of the chains of the world blessedly removed from his neck.
“I have no need for paradise if I may only stay by your side,” Javert whispered, voice cracking.
Valjean chuckled, his hand going to stroke Javert’s face. “It is just as well, you are welcome regardless.” He pulled Javert’s face towards his own in another kiss. “Come, everyone is waiting.”
Standing, he reached a hand towards Javert. Tentatively, he took it, an exasperated, loving smile on his face. They stood together, hand in hand, and walked from the garden. Any trace of the winter’s impending chill faded into everlasting warmth, a wind ever-changing at their backs.