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Sometimes Javert wonders if there’s still Seine water at the bottom of his lungs.
There isn’t any, of course. He knows he coughed it all up when Valjean pulled him up out of the river and threw him onto the bank. He doesn’t remember much, though. Javert remembers standing on the parapet of the bridge, looking at the fiercely churning water below, and then he remembers waking up in a small ill-lit apartment, so weak he could barely move. There was time in between, time that he lost. Valjean told him about it, how he blew air into Javert’s mouth to force him to breathe once again, how he rolled Javert to his side as he expelled vast quantities of river water, how he managed to get Javert on a cart to drive him to the apartment he eventually woke up in. There were things after that too, things that Javert is both sad and grateful that he doesn’t remember. Valjean’s efforts to nurse him back to health. Long feverish nights, Javert’s incessant coughing making him sleepless. Nightmares, hallucinations. Tears, sometimes, of pain or terror for ghosts who’d come back to judge him. You’d point to the corner but there’d be nobody there, Valjean said. There wasn’t ever anyone there.
Eventually Javert recovered—how he did that, he’s still not sure. He became strong enough to move around and when that happened Valjean promptly packed them off to the countryside. It was summer then. Even when Javert was a policeman, scrabbling and biting and snapping for every inch of his dismal existence, summer was always an easier time. More food, more warmth, more friendliness generally. There were no problems then, and Javert didn’t expect any. It was warm and sunny and safe and then he could forget that he’d once thrown himself into the river under a dark stormy sky. His past was behind him, the shackle of all that pain and guilt burned off and left in the dust.
And then the winter came.
There wasn’t really any other explanation for the trouble Javert began having. The way he got sicker quicker and easier, how difficult it was for him to shake even the lightest of chills, the way he struggled to breathe in the cold. Just like that, he was chained to Paris again. Chained to the Seine, to his decision to drown himself. There’s no brackish river water in his lungs anymore, but sometimes Javert fancies there might be. A reminder of what he did and the consequences of it. He can’t ever forget it now, no matter how long he stays in the countryside. He wakes up in the dead of night fighting for breath and then he’s there again. Standing on the parapet, looking at the water. Lying in that tiny apartment, feeling as if there are iron bands around his chest. Exhausted as Valjean takes him away from the city. As the winter sets in, Javert cannot sleep in the bedroom at all, so they sleep in front of the fire sometimes. He faces the grate and Valjean lies along his back, and the warmth from both sides gives his damaged lungs enough relief that he’s comfortable again. Tonight is no different. He tried to go to bed in their room as normal, but within ten minutes he’d begun gasping and they had to admit defeat. Valjean unrolled the pancake-flat mattresses and laid them out in front of the fire. “You don’t have to stay with me,” Javert says, sitting on the couch. His airways have nearly opened back up. He knows it’s not truly dangerous what he’s suffering, but it’s not at all a pleasant feeling either. “Go sleep in the proper bed if you want.”
“You think I don’t feel the cold too?” Valjean asks drily, repositioning the mattress and letting it slither to the floor. “I’d feel bad leaving you alone out here.”
“It’s not a big deal. It’s just for tonight. I can stay here by myself.”
“Mm, you can. But who would I be if I let you do that?” Valjean lays out the blankets; Javert lowers himself to the floor and slides underneath them. His friend follows him a second later, making sure he’s well tucked up. “You comfortable?”
Javert knows what Valjean is asking. “Yes. I can breathe again.”
“Good. Good.” Valjean tucks Javert under his chin, holding him close. “Wake me if you need me, hm?”
“I know. I haven’t forgotten since you said that last night. Or every single night before that.” Javert pulls up the blankets until he’s properly tucked up. It’s a little too warm for comfort, but he’ll be wanting that warmth when the cold deepens. Valjean kisses the top of his head, an arm winding around to rest against Javert’s chest. A way to feel if his breathing gets worse. A tiny wordless act of care that Javert still isn’t used to. He falls asleep soon after, and the parapet materialises in his mind’s eye. It’s much too big, but it’s a dream. Javert watches the dark water fretfully rushing below him. He feels himself walking towards the edge, even though he doesn’t want to. He knows what’s going to happen, even though he doesn’t consciously remember it. His body will go slack, falling from the edge, and he’ll hit the water with a force so great that it’ll knock him unconscious. You didn’t wake up until I got you breathing again, Valjean said, much later. In the dream Javert does fall, but when he hits the water he remains awake. He feels the dirty poisonous water entering his mouth and his nose and his throat, cold and immovable rushing into his lungs. No air left. Drowning.
Javert comes awake like this, struggling for breath, the coughing already starting before he’s even fully aware. He can never escape it. He is chained to the Seine and the Seine is chained to him. The river is a beast, swallowing him up and keeping him shackled close by for all the rest of his life. He feels hands helping him up to sitting, then a hasty shuffling to the fireplace. A couple of logs getting piled on, the whoosh of the flames growing to swallow them, then the circle of warmth getting larger. Enveloping Javert once again. Valjean comes back, rubbing his back as the coughing slowly subsides. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Javert waves it away. It’s not his friend’s fault the fire burnt low. Eventually Javert catches his breath, though not by much. He’s still wheezing, embarrassingly loudly. Not that he’d say he feels like that, because Valjean would certainly refute it. Javert presses a hand to his chest, almost expecting to feel the slight bubbling of water in there, but there isn’t. Just his own strained breathing. Valjean helps him lie down again, pulling the blankets all the way up to his chin. “Go back to sleep,” Javert whispers—he hasn’t got the breath for anything louder.
“Not until you do,” Valjean says, kissing his cheek. “We don’t have anywhere to be, my love.”
“We can find somewhere,” Javert grumbles, though he rolls into his friend’s arms all the same. He wonders if this year he will fall ill again, like he did last year and the year before that. Nothing was as bad as that first winter, though, when his affliction caught them both by surprise and they weren’t sure what was causing it. Javert would gladly sleep on the floor for all the rest of his life if it means he doesn’t have to go back to those long winter nights with his airways locking up on him.
“Well, yes, but it doesn’t matter.” Valjean holds Javert close once again, gently patting his back as if to soothe him. “The only place I have to be is with you.”