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Darkness. Frigid cold. Directionless.
Pressure on his eyelids, and he cannot tell if his eyes are even open—
Tumbling. Head over heels and up is down is up is down is up—
He can see nothing, hear nothing, hear roaring; it is his heartbeat, it is the water, it is a thunderclap. He was seeking something. Where? What was it? Where did it go? He knows not, except that it is lost and the water is sweeping it away from him.
The water is everywhere. In his mouth, in his ears, in his nostrils; it forces itself into every orifice, every vulnerable chink in his body’s armor. Lost. He is lost, but that is not what frightens him. He has lost something…
He has lost someone.
Grasping. Clawing. Fighting tooth and nail against the rapids, but they are the hungry maw of a beast which foams with wrath, and he is but flotsam in the current. There is no air in his lungs and he is strong, he can fight the current, he can— He swims not through water but thick molasses, or perhaps the river is a living thing which takes pleasure in watching him struggle as it holds onto its prize. It makes no difference which; it is not enough. He is not enough.
Gasping. Spitting.
He cannot breathe.
Breathing is unimportant.
He cannot swim — swimming is the most important thing in the world.
He must find—
But he cannot, and if his hands ever brush against another’s in the crushing blackness, they are as cold as ice.
Valjean woke with a quiet gasp. The night was silent, moonlight pouring in through the open window. He lay in his own bed, the sheets rumpled where he had cast them aside in his sleep. Uneasily, Valjean took stock: his hair was plastered to his head with sweat, and his heart was galloping as though he had just raced across half of Paris. The dream… No, he did not wish to think of it. Some fears were better kept buried.
He was about to turn over, to try to return to an unquiet slumber, when Valjean perceived a figure frozen in the doorway. The figure did not appear to realize it had been spotted; if he wished, Valjean could feign sleep, and the apparition would doubtless soon return to its own room. It was a tempting thought, not to play the gracious host in that moment, but instead Valjean said aloud, “Javert?”
“Valjean.”
The figure took half a step forward, and now Valjean could more clearly make out the familiar outlines of the man, tall, stolid, stable. He wore a nightshirt which hung down to his knees, and his long hair was tucked under a cap. As he entered, Valjean perceived he held a candle, which he had hitherto kept covered.
“Did you need something?” Valjean asked, for it was unusual for the man to come to him at night; generally if the former Inspector required him, it was addressed over breakfast.
“You cried out in your sleep,” Javert said softly. “The door was ajar. I heard you.”
“Oh.” Valjean’s cheeks flushed blotchy with lingering adrenaline and embarrassment. “Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you. It was only a dream, and has passed now. Please, return to bed.”
“As you wish.” Javert made to withdraw, but paused with his hand upon the doorknob. “It is none of my business,” he said, “and I should understand if my mere presence here disturbs you. But this is the third night this week — you ought permit me to wake Cosette, at least, that you might speak of it to her.”
Valjean pushed himself up on his arm, brushing the hair from his eyes with a frown. He’d had no idea Javert knew of that, knew that he’d been waking nightly in a cold sweat to frantic terror seizing him in a desperate panic. But Javert’s shoulders were hunched, his posture uncertain, and Valjean’s sleep-muddled thoughts repeated back Javert’s words in his head.
“You do not disturb me,” Valjean said of the man who had been his jailer. “Only, I do not think… I would not wish to trouble you,” he finished instead.
Javert glanced over his shoulder, a quick and furtive thing. “It is no trouble,” he said. “Though I am certainly ill-suited to the task. Still, if you will not speak to your daughter, you may speak to me.”
In bare feet, for the August nights were warm and oppressive, Javert padded across the floor and set the candlestick upon the night table. The old oak floorboards did not utter a single groan of protest; such silent movement, it seemed, was as natural to the once-police spy as breathing. And yet, these days Valjean found such things to be more endearing than they were cause for alarm, as was the way Javert sat himself on the very edge of the bed, perched like a bird poised to take flight at the slightest provocation.
“So then,” Javert murmured. “You were dreaming?”
“Yes,” Valjean replied softly, sitting himself fully upright with a pillow propped behind him. “But truly, Javert, there is no need for concern. I am alright now.”
“Hmm.”
There was stillness for a few moments as they sat in silent tableau, Valjean gazing at Javert, and Javert looking decidedly at the floor. The man’s hands gripped at the mattress on either side, as though they were all which kept him from fleeing the room. Then, just as Valjean was about to urge Javert once more to return to bed, the man grit his teeth and asked, “Was it the bagne?”
Valjean stiffened imperceptibly. All at once, Javert’s peculiar behavior made sense. “No,” he replied, and felt himself soften again with impossible fondness at the incredulous look Javert shot him.
“What, then?” the man demanded, as though challenging Valjean to deny it a second time.
“Not that,” Valjean told him firmly. “I do not dream of that place so often anymore. No, this was…” He trailed off, thinking how to explain. He did not wish to be indelicate, and the matter did concern Javert, if not in the way the man feared.
When he did not immediately continue, Javert pressed, “The events in Montreuil? The rebellion?”
Valjean huffed a breath of laughter. Javert’s manner was more like that of a man conducting an interrogation, but Valjean could not help but be charmed; for a man little-practiced in offering comfort, Javert seemed determined to give it.
“Neither.” Valjean tilted his head, adding, “Though the rebellion is not so far a guess. Come, then, sit.” He patted the space on the bed beside him. If they were going to have this conversation, they may as well be comfortable.
Javert appeared positively dismayed by the prospect. That was another thing Valjean had noticed these last few months; Javert was a man unaccustomed to closeness of any kind. He had no family. He had never taken a wife. Yet after a long moment’s hesitation, Javert stood and crossed around the foot of the bed, climbing in to sit against the headboard by Valjean’s side.
“Go on, then,” he said lowly. “We shall be here all night if you insist that I guess.”
“It is only that you will think me foolish.” Valjean swept a hand through his hair again, glancing sheepishly at the man beside him. “Sitting here now, in the candlelight, speaking of it, I feel… silly. Like a child, who imagines monsters under the bed. The dream was unfounded, there is no cause for it to trouble me so.”
“Is it the same dream?” Javert asked. So quietly did he speak, his lips scarcely moved. “Every night?”
“It is,” Valjean affirmed. “Or similar. Not precisely alike in the details, but the subject is the same.”
“The night of the rebellion was closer, you say…” Javert mused. “Perhaps the sewers, then? Those are horrible enough when not carrying a dying man upon your back.” Neither commented on the fact that Javert had returned to guessing. It was safer this way, Valjean supposed, talking around the truth without cutting it to the quick.
“No, after that,” Valjean told him. “We met on the embankment…”
Javert frowned. “You thought I still intended to arrest you. Is that what you imagined happened?” Solemnly, he said, “I know you must tire of my repeating myself, and really you have no reason to believe it, but please be assured I will do no such thing. You are free, Jean Valjean, and neither I nor any man will ever change that, so long as I draw breath.”
Again, Valjean found himself flushing and he dipped his head against the weight of Javert’s regard. “So you have told me, and I do believe you. Even so, it heartens me every time to hear you say it. But to your query, no, Javert, that is not what happened, either.” Tucking his legs up underneath him, Valjean tugged the sheets back over his lap. The soft linens were a welcome distraction for his hands, which picked aimlessly at bits of lint as he continued. “You allowed me to take the boy home. I did not realize at the time how… unsettled you were.”
“Ah.”
Javert’s voice had taken on a carefully flat tone; whenever circumstance forced him to acknowledge aloud what had occurred that night, he affected a blasé air of indifference. It was the closest thing to a lie Valjean could ever remember hearing from him.
“The water was very cold,” Valjean murmured.
“Ah,” Javert said again. “You dreamed of the river. In that, I suppose we are alike — but then, you already know I often dream of drowning.”
Valjean had indeed held the Inspector’s hand through many such nightmares, and had seen too often the man shudder and weep and cry out to believe he was as indifferent as he pretended when awake. But now was hardly the moment for such revelations.
“It is true, I dreamt of La Seine,” Valjean nodded. “But it is not the rapids themselves which make the dream so terrible. It is the feeling of having lost something.”
Javert’s brow quirked. “Lost something?” he repeated, perplexed. “In the river, you mean?”
Nodding again, Valjean drew a deep, steadying breath. “In reality, I dived and swam, and God used the current to pull me to you. But in the dream… In the dream, it is dark and the water churns and no matter how hard I swim, how far I search, I cannot find you.” With that confession, it struck him anew: how lucky they both were to be alive, how easily it might have been otherwise.
Javert blinked slowly, owl-like in the glow of the candle, and Valjean could all but see the gears turning behind his eyes as he parsed the words and their meaning. “I… do not understand,” Javert said, and Valjean could not be certain he imagined the man’s slight hitch of breath. “It is I you are seeking? And— And when you cannot find me, to force air back into the lungs of my ungrateful corpse, you grow so distressed that you toss and turn and fling the bedclothes halfway across the room?”
“That is the gist of it,” Valjean admitted.
“Well, that is…” Javert stared at the wall opposite, dumbfounded. He shook his head slightly and muttered something under his breath which might have been, “Ridiculous.”
Valjean smiled around the waver of his lip. “I told you it was silly.”
“Well, of course it is!” said Javert bracingly. He turned then to Valjean, some of the same disbelief and wonder still written on his hard features. “I am right here, am I not?”
Valjean nodded, dropping his gaze. His eyes prickled with heat.
“Besides,” Javert was saying, “I am nothing to you — if anything, I am myself a bad dream. For you to waste what little sleep you get on me is -”
“You are not.”
It was silent again. Valjean’s hands were balled into fists in the sheets and he gazed resolutely at his lap, but in his periphery he was still conscious of Javert staring at him.
“I am not what?” Javert asked, a small pinch appearing between his brows.
“You are not nothing,” whispered Valjean. The heat was pooling in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut before it could become tears. “You are my friend.”
It was a sentiment he had not yet spoken aloud, though he had felt it for many weeks. It was a strange feeling; Valjean had possessed few friends in his life, none since Pere Fauchelevent’s passing. But still, the word felt right on his tongue; he could think of no other to encompass the great fondness he felt listening to the man gripe over weeds in the garden, the peace which fell as they read side by side at night, Valjean with his books, Javert with the newspaper. It was a warmth which thawed somewhat the frost left behind in Cosette’s daily absences, and one he could not now imagine doing without.
For his part, Javert appeared struck dumb. He opened and shut his mouth a few times without saying anything, and it occurred to Valjean that perhaps this assertion of his was not a wanted one. Surely Javert had better ways of spending his retirement than by befriending an old convict. Yet then, just as Valjean was wondering how to apologize, Javert cautiously extended a hand and rested it, just lightly, on Valjean’s knee, and Valjean felt a tension he did not know he was carrying begin to ease.
Several minutes more passed in the quiet of their shared breathing, the touch of Javert’s hand warm where it anchored him to the bed. Then Valjean said, “Tonight was not so bad, really. Two nights ago, it was much worse.”
“Worse?” Javert asked, shifting closer; their shoulders knocked.
Valjean glanced at him sidelong. “I told you, the details are not always the same. And it was so hot that night, before the rain, that my sleep was even more restless than usual.”
Javert turned to face him wholly, a single strand of hair slipping free of his nightcap. “What happened?” So close were they sitting that Valjean could feel the ghost of the man’s air over his cheek.
“It began the same way,” sighed Valjean. “I was in the river, disoriented, confused… I couldn’t see a thing, and I knew that every second wasted was one too many.”
He settled more securely against Javert’s shoulder, and wondered distantly if it was strange for the man to hear himself discussed in this way; through the lens of a dream, yet one which parroted real events. Certainly it was surreal for Valjean, that Javert of all people might simply sit and listen to him ramble. But Javert did not shrink from the contact, and that lent him the courage to continue.
“I don’t know how long I searched. Too long, certainly. Tonight, that is where it ended. But that time…” Valjean inhaled. “That time, I found you. Your skin was so cold it had gone blue, and I could barely lift you while fighting the current and the weight of your coat in the water.”
For a moment, Valjean’s eyes flickered to Javert’s face. He looked for any sign that he should stop, that the road his words were taking was coming too close to a wound scabbed over but not yet healed; but if Javert was perturbed, he gave no outward sign of it. He merely listened with the same vaguely consternated expression upon his face, as though he was not quite certain his ears were hearing right.
“By the time I hauled us both onto the riverbank… I tried everything,” Valjean said, closing his eyes and slumping back against the headboard. “Everything. But I couldn’t— You were— You wouldn’t w-wake.” The traitorous tears seeped from under his lashes, and he turned his head quickly before Javert could see.
“Valjean…” Javert sounded quite as lost as Valjean felt. “You should not… I am hardly some precious thing to be fussed and fretted over.”
“You should not say that,” Valjean told him, and he hated how wetly his voice emerged from his throat.
“You saw a man fall into the river and felt compelled to rescue him — very well, I can at least follow the logic in that.” The hand shifted from Valjean’s knee to his arm, as though to tug him until they were face to face again, but it exerted no pressure where it hovered at his elbow. “Suppose you had not seen it. Would it really have been so terrible,” Javert inquired softly, “if I had drowned?”
At that, Valjean could not stop himself whirling back around. “Of course!” he gasped. “Of course it would, how can you—?” He thought of sitting alone in that empty, drafty house while Cosette spent her days halfway across the city doting on her beloved; of solitary meals taken at night and before the sun’s rising in the morning; of silences which were bleak instead of companionable; of a life without anyone to share in it. Trembling, Valjean pressed his face into Javert’s chest, his hands clinging limply to the man’s nightshirt. “I do not know what I would do without you,” he whispered.
“But -”
Any word of protest was interrupted by Valjean shaking his head emphatically. “Every. Day.” Valjean mumbled into his shirt, and the tears, now flowing freely, refused to be stemmed. “Every day I worry that I will wake and you will be gone. That if I say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, you will disappear—” He cut himself off before he could reveal too much of his own thoughts. Perhaps he already had. Unbidden, the terrible specter rose once more in his mind, of Javert’s face ashen and lifeless as though carved from stone.
Yet the body next to his was anything but stone. It was warm, and alive, and as Valjean wept twin tear tracts into the front of Javert’s shirt, he felt two arms wrap cautiously around his middle.
“Well,” Javert hummed. “I am certainly not going to disappear.” His voice was a rumble Valjean felt as much as heard, and when he did not pull away, the arms around him tightened by fractions. “What is all this? Such carrying on. It is hardly seemly, you know.” He spoke almost into Valjean’s hair, and little by little Valjean felt his sobs begin to subside.
“That’s better,” Javert murmured. “Come, lie down. It is late and you should sleep yet.”
Valjean could not prevent the convulsive tightening of his fingers in the material of the shirt, unsure he could bring himself to let go even if Javert willed it. Then to his surprise, Javert pulled them both down to the mattress, Valjean’s head still tucked to Javert’s chest and Javert’s arm curled carefully around his waist.
“Sleep,” Javert repeated. “I shall be here, for however long you wish it.”
Breathing slowly through his nose, Valjean felt himself finally begin to calm. Javert’s word could be trusted; if he said he would stay, he would stay. Still, he made no move to extricate himself from the shelter of Javert’s arms and indeed burrowed his way closer, until he could feel the steady, familiar beat of Javert’s heart against his cheek.
They lay there unmoving, as moonlight slowly gave way to the first light of morning. There would be other nights when one or both startled to wakefulness with the long shadow of the past looming over them. Yet when he woke the next morning to find Javert’s arm still slung around his waist, Valjean smiled. He was confident there was one dream, at least, he would not have again.