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When Valjean woke the bed was cold and empty beside him.
It was never hard to tell if he was alone—behind Javert’s crazed animal eyes and hard exterior and black police uniform belied an extraordinary ability to run hot, his body keeping everything warm and toasty even as the cold encroached on them. They didn't even have to touch each other for Valjean to feel it. It was there, a little cloud of warmth nearby, as if Valjean was sharing the bed with a tiny sun. Of course they were always touching. Not a night went by where Javert wasn’t practically lying on top of him, snoring and snuffling against his chest. Valjean had no idea what to make of it, not at first. The idea of Javert wanting that, coming close enough to be hit or hurt or pushed away again—it seemed like too much to expect. As the weeks and months went by Javert’s outer layers peeled away until Valjean had to realise that yes, this man did want love and affection in the usual way. Maybe there was always an affectionate man trapped under there, beaten into nothing by years and years of hardship, slowly growing from a seedling to a flower. Feeling secure and happy in their cottage that was just for them, far away from the city and all the pain and torment and suffering that came with it. Javert was not there right then, of course. He was elsewhere, being driven up and out by nausea or midnight hunger or a bad dream. Deciding not to wake Valjean again… Of course, he could just be taking a piss in the outhouse. There wasn’t any sense in catastrophizing, was there?
Valjean laid on his back, staring at the ceiling above him. Of all the people…of all the times. Of all the places… It had not been his intention to scoop the little rat inspector out of the Seine, tossing him onto the cobbled path next to the river. It had not been his intention to wait until the other man had finished coughing up all the water. It had not been his intention to take him to his dingy little flat and dry his hair and peel him out of his hateful uniform. It had not been his intention to walk slowly and speak quietly while Javert quaked in the corner of the room. Valjean would see Javert there pressed into the space where the walls met, a blanket rucked up around him like it would do anything if Valjean’s fists came flying. Had his eyes always bulged so? Did he always look so crazed and feral? It was enough that Valjean could feel the inspector’s gaze on his back. Never ever did his gaze waver until finally he slept—though that was more exhaustion than anything else. Javert always tossed and turned. Sometimes he muttered, sometimes he whimpered. Sometimes he gasped himself awake and laid there shaking for hours. Very occasionally he cried. What was there to be done? Valjean could hear him sobbing, sometimes gasping as he did so, the wet sniffles as he wiped his nose with his hand. And then, in the morning, sitting up again and shivering against the wall as if his housemate might run a knife through his throat.
It took a while. It took a long time. It took many nights of speaking quietly and walking slowly and putting a plate of bread down and then backing away. Studiously ignoring Javert as he wolfed down whatever he was given. It seemed to help. Keeping his distance worked. When Valjean finally moved out of the city Javert went with him. There wasn’t any discussion. Valjean packed up and there Javert was, loping along beside him. They sat together on the train, their belongings stuffed in one battered suitcase. The whole ride Valjean couldn’t relax. Javert had long since ceased wearing his uniform, and it was unlikely anyone recognised his face, but it didn’t matter. He just looked wrong. Bulging eyes and gritted teeth and a definite quake to his still-softening body. At any moment he could have gone wild with rage and Valjean wasn’t sure when. Valjean wasn’t sure if he could calm the former inspector down. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. When the train passed through a long tunnel Javert trembled. The seat seemed to wobble with his trembling. His fear was so palpable Valjean could almost taste it. Thick and acrid and terrified. Why was that? Surely a man like Javert was accustomed to dark and dreariness. Born in a prison and wandering the gutter for criminals. Surely the midnight was his home, his sanctuary. Scuttling around in his waiting to strike. As time passed the darkness only got more complete. Deeper and deeper into the tunnel to somewhere. Javert began to whimper, almost loud enough to be heard over the clattering wheels of the train. He didn’t sound at all like the soulless rat inspector that Valjean knew. Cold and unfeeling and ready to maul at a moment’s notice. It seemed like that was the real Javert. Whimpering in the dark. Sick and afraid, having been torn from everything he knew. Not that there was much to go back to, but still… Valjean reached over without a thought. He placed his hand on Javert’s and gave it a squeeze.
And then everything sprouted from there.
There was a town in the countryside, small and friendly and quiet. There was a cottage down a dirt road and a garden out the back and a tiny stable for animals if they wanted them. There were rooms enough for two men living together, a hearth, a fireplace. A table and chairs and a sofa. A bed for them to share. Warmth and affection and gentleness. No more violence, not ever, no guns or hands raised against each other. Rain sometimes, yes, but no more awful pervasive cold and damp. Just them and the house and the garden. If Valjean wanted he could still call that image of Javert into his mind’s eye, the very first day when they had arrived. Javert standing next to the table, looking frizzy and nervous and like he might bolt up the wall from nervousness. Sit down, Valjean told him; he was shaking from tiredness. It is your house too, now. The other man did as commanded, though he looked as if the chair might explode beneath him. Valjean had to keep saying that, over and over again. It is your house too. Again and again until Javert began to relax and breathe and take up space once more. Again and again until he was willing to laze about on the couch or the bed or sit at the table nursing a cup of tea. Closer than that. It was not just the house. It was Valjean too. Touching him, holding him, kissing him. Taking him in the dead of night and making him bite the pillow in ecstasy. Javert said I love you for the first time and he went a pale shade of green—it was done. The inspector was no more. He was someone else, his old callousness completely washed away.
Valjean yawned, getting up from the bed. He’d spent a few minutes pontificating and there was no sign of Javert. There was likely nothing seriously wrong, but he didn’t want to assume. Javert had the habit of disappearing when he felt badly; Valjean often found him in front of the fire or snuggled up in the hay in the stable. Wanting to be somewhere else. Wanting to be outside of his own mind. Valjean pushed open the bedroom door. The light from the fireplace spilled into the room, warm and inviting. Javert was sitting on the sofa, facing away, his frizzy hair backlit by the fire. Over time his hair had improved—it would never grow any thicker, but at least it didn’t look like dry grey straw anymore. Sometimes Valjean got to brush it if he was tired or sick. He was murmuring quietly, his voice almost lost in the crackling from the grate. Valjean went closer. Javert’s shirt was draped over the back of the kitchen chair. His upper half was bare and his swollen belly was on display, made orange in the dim light. Valjean could not feel it or even see it from this distance, but he knew Javert’s stroking hands were following the movements of the baby inside him. The baby never seemed to sleep, not once. It must have inherited Javert’s squirrely energy. Sometimes Valjean would wake and feel for its wriggly kicking, and every time he found it easily. “Javert,” Valjean said softly; the other man startled, whipping around. “It’s alright. It’s just me.”
Javert breathed out, his hands dropping. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back to bed.”
“You don’t have to. It’s warmer out here, yes?”
“Mm.” Javert shifted over a little to make room for Valjean, snuggling into his arms a second later. “It was getting colder. Built up the fire.”
It was coded language, Javert’s way of saying what he didn’t really want to say in plain words. Somehow a man whose heart was on his sleeve didn’t want to be honest. His face let everyone know his fear or anger or distress, but it still took many months to tease the real problem out of him in words. “Bad dream?”
Javert gave an uncertain, noncommittal noise. “Mm. I suppose. Thought I could keep the baby warm, at least,” he said, his hands returning to their earlier places on his belly.
“It is always warm inside you. You know that.” When Javert’s abdomen started to swell and it became evident what had happened between them, Valjean sometimes imagined the baby as a tiny nugget, floating around in the warm dark. Bumping against the walls of the pocket it lived in. “The baby knows it’s warm,” he added, laying his own hands on top of Javert’s. “It is alright.”
Another noncommittal noise. “Don’t want it to…know the cold and damp. Or the rain. Any of that.”
“We can’t do much about the rain, my love.”
“You know what I mean,” Javert whispered, defeated. “You know.” A sigh. His whole body seemed to deflate, his finger tapping a worried rhythm against one of his stretch marks. “It doesn’t matter. I’m acting the fool, I know. I’ll come back to bed. Let you sleep too.”
“It’s alright. If you want to stay out here we can.” Valjean dragged Javert over into his lap—the other man instantly melted, relaxing against his chest. “I’ll stay out here all night. If you want to be where the fire is.”
Javert breathed out. “You know, it’s your big baby that’s been kicking me all night long. That’s why I’m out here.”
“So now it’s mine?” Valjean scratched at the underside of Javert’s middle, near his waistline where he’d noticed it got itchy sometimes. Javert relaxed even further. “Only when it’s irritating you.”
“I just don’t think this baby sleeps,” Javert whispered. “Never. It’s always kicking.”
“Whose fault is that, hm?”
“Yours.” Javert sounded decidedly sleepy now, his voice muzzy and thick with tiredness. Somehow he managed to sleep even as the baby thrashed and wriggled inside him. “It got its strength from you.”
“It’s not me that stays up all night.” Javert didn’t even react to that. He was already mostly asleep, his eyes fluttering closed. “Come on now. Back to bed.” Valjean stood, helping him to his feet. “I’ll keep you warm. Both of you.” Javert followed along, sleepy and trusting, rubbing at his nose like a child. Like there wasn’t any danger anymore. No risk to being led to bed and tucked under the covers. No risk to being drawn into a hug, blankets gathered around his belly and a hand snaking underneath to rest against his skin. Within ten seconds Javert was snoring, his chest rising and falling against Valjean’s hand. His ribs were still a little more prominent than usual. Maybe Valjean would have to get him to eat more. There was always tomorrow morning. Javert would wake up rested and there Valjean would be, out in the front room in front of the oven. Here, eat this bread. Yes, eat it. You don’t have to share, it’s alright. It’s all for you.