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Marius threw his cards on the table and conceded the game. “It’s been fairly quiet. You think we’ll be lucky today?” he asked as he stacked the cards and put them away.
“Could be,” Valjean knocked on wood. They looked at each other, shrugging shoulders and not expecting it to be so.
“Not another alarm would be nice for a change. Sometimes I dream of a nine-to-five job; hardly stress and no unexpected overtime. It would be heaven.”
“Really?” Valjean grinned at his younger partner. “You wouldn’t know what to do with extra time on your hand.”
“And you would?” Marius raised an eyebrow.
“Yep.” Valjean nodded. “Next month, I’m having the 7th off. That day it’ll be eight years that Fauchelevent and I were called to a major car crash well after midnight. The driver fought arrest tooth and claws despite his injuries, and shoved a flic hard against the bridge’s parapet. The officer lost his footing and plunged into the river. When he didn’t surface, I jumped after him. It was sheer chance that I caught hold of a collar and dragged him ashore, half-unconscious.” He grinned. “That’s how Javert and I met.”
Valjean closed his eyes. He had never believed in love at first sight, but that was when it hit him. Even resembling a drowned rat, hair plastered to his skull and smelling like the sewers, Javert had looked extremely kissable to him. A few days later, he had found out that this feeling was mutual.
They’d had their share of misunderstandings and vicious arguments, of course. Their different views on mercy and justice had once even led to a break-up, but they had been unable to let go of each other. In the end they agreed to disagree and had moved in together the day after. Since then, Valjean had learnt that justice, when properly applied, had its uses. On occasion Javert would show mercy within the boundaries of the law. They still had their arguments, but nowadays making up was all the sweeter for it.
Over the years Valjean had often insisted on sharing his favourite poems, and Javert, though he detested books unless they were for work, had not minded in the least. Their work schedules permitting they had begun reading poetry together and earlier this year Javert had confessed how much he enjoyed Valjean reading to him. Fortunately, Valjean enjoyed nothing more than doing so.
He sank deeper into his chair. Maybe he was getting too old for this job. Paramedics saw carnage, desperation and heart-break on a daily basis. Years had not made it easier to deal with those images. What if one day he would see his daughter injured? What if, one day…?
He shook himself because ‘what ifs’ never led anywhere. Instead he focussed on the end of this shift and what was to follow: croissants, coffee and Javert, not necessarily in that order. Often, they did not speak a word in the mornings after their shifts. Sometimes they sat across each other at the table, sometimes they shared the bench. Sometimes they even shared their coffee, though never their baguette. But the one thing they always shared, ever since that fateful night by the river, was their lives. And poetry.
Valjean squinted at the clock on the wall. Fresh bread and a long hot shower were within reach and in about two hours, his hunter would return; not from the hills, but from the commissariat several blocks down the road. Smiling at the thought, he closed his eyes again to doze away the remaining minutes when the alarm sounded.
*~*~*~*
A call had come through police channels about a shooting in the outskirts. Valjean glanced at his watch. He would be late for breakfast. The air in the kitchen would be blue with cigarette smoke by the time he made it home. This was nothing new. It happened every time he was overdue from work. He worried about Javert as much as Javert about him - not that his significant other would ever admit to it! They only dealt with the situation differently: Javert chain-smoked; he scrubbed the kitchen floor.
The ambulance screeched to a halt. Valjean concentrated when the security pivots unsnapped so they could open the large back door to get out. A flic hurried over, pointing them in the direction where they were needed. Valjean and Marius grabbed their equipment and ran into a back alley while the policeman beside them panted out explanations.
Out of the corner of his eyes Valjean saw that a couple of police cars had wedged in a dark limousine. He and his partner passed men with their arms behind their heads, guarded by others, all in civilian clothes. There was something about these guards, their stance maybe, which spoke of plain-clothes detectives; after all, he lived with one.
A man was propped up by a wall. There was a make-shift tourniquet around one leg, likely the work of the policeman next to him. Marius knelt on the other side of the injured, asking and explaining what he was doing in a calm voice that offered reassurance.
Behind them, Valjean noticed a tall man who sat on the ground, leaning against the frame of an open door. He held his right hand straight up, his elbow supported on a knee. His clothes looked disturbingly familiar: the black suit, the dark shirt, the still impeccable tie. Even though there was no sign of anything but a minor injury, Valjean’s heart plummeted.
“Javert!” He went on his knees beside his companion and received a wan smile.
“Valjean, fancy meeting you here.” Javert coughed, grimacing slightly.
“What happened?” The paramedic in him demanded that he treat Javert like any other injured person. In the reassuring tone of years of experience he added: “Let me see your arm.”
“Must have sprained my wrist during the fight.” Javert slowly extended his arm. He slurred his words. That was unusual, but Valjean put it down to post-fight exhaustion. He took the arm and wrist into deft hands, pressed here and there to find out if anything was broken.
“Sprained wrist, as you say.” Valjean reached for a brace. “I’ll put this on and then it’s to the hospital for an X-ray of your arm, just to be on the safe side.”
Javert had closed his eyes while Valjean worked, still leaning against the brick corner. His breath came in shallow gasps.
“Will you need a painkiller before I give you a hand up?”
At Valjean’s question, Javert’s eyes fluttered open once more. This time they were no longer clear, his gaze unfocussed. His brow furrowed, his mouth opened and closed silently. He licked his lips. Valjean hardly heard the whispered ‘I am sorry’ before Javert’s eyes rolled back in his head and he sagged forward.
Valjean managed to catch him at the shoulders. His right hand came away wet and he stared aghast at the blood on it.
“Javert!”
Everything inside him screamed to gather Javert into his arms, but Valjean collected himself. One of the first priorities was to keep the victim stabilized. He carefully straightened Javert out on the ground, mindful of the braced wrist. He turned Javert’s head sideways so the man could breathe easier. In the morning light, he saw the minute movements of Javert’s chest as it rose and fell.
Valjean shouted for Marius. A stranger replied: “Sir, he’s on his way to the ambulance with that detective.”
“Then call for a second ambulance,” he roared. “Now!”
Valjean reached into his emergency case for the pair of scissors and cut away the fabric of the Javert’s jacket. The shirt’s left sleeve was soaked through with blood. He worked his way down and around Javert’s body, looking for further bullet or knife wounds. Now and then he felt Javert’s throat for a pulse. He found a number of shallow cuts and some bruises, but no other wounds apart from the one in the shoulder, where a bullet had gone through-and-through. Valjean allowed himself a small sigh of relief at that, because he knew full well what damage a fragmented piece of bullet could cause inside the human body.
Javert’s skin was cold to the touch. Valjean covered as much of him as possible with a blanket to keep his body temperature stable. Then he opened the sterile covers of several bandages and used them as pads to apply direct pressure to the wounds. Blood seeped through, dying the bandages red.
Valjean’s hands stiffened and his arms ached as they waited for the other ambulance to arrive. By now Javert’s breath had become irregular. His face was ashen and small beads of perspiration trailed down its side.
“Javert, don’t you dare leave me. Grow old along with me, you hear?”
A shaky breath answered him. “……the best is yet to be…you think?”
The words, the second line of the poem Valjean hadn’t noticed he had quoted, came in shallow gasps and were hardly audible, but never had a sound been so welcome. Weak as it was, it meant his companion was still with him. Valjean ached to kiss Javert, to brush his lips over his temple and down his cheek. Impossible. The pressure on the wounds had to be maintained if Javert was to have a fighting chance. What was taking that damn ambulance so long?
Javert coughed and sucked in his breath. He said something, but the noise of approaching sirens nearly drowned him out. “Not. Leave…” He sighed, and his body went limp.
“No, Javert, stay awake!”
No response. Behind him, Valjean heard the footsteps of several men and the rattle of a stretcher trolley. “Hold on just a little longer. Come on!”
A paramedic knelt down by Javert’s other side, taking a good look at the stained bandages. “Looks more dead than alive, this one,” he grunted, but nevertheless bent to his task and helped Valjean.
*~*~*~*
It was a quiet day in May, made for a stroll in the parks, for having coffee in a tiny café or for spending a lazy afternoon in their garden. From where he stood the weeping willow near the wall was in Valjean’s line of vision, and he noticed a few remaining blossoms.
A breeze as gentle and warm as a caress mussed up Valjean’s hair. He felt for the thin volume of poetry in his pocket. Browning had always given pleasure, but today Valjean would read Hugo’s Aimons toujours!, Javert’s favourite.
He clasped the little book tightly when Javert’s partner Bernard approached and halted before him, reverently handing him the ceremoniously folded Tricolore in the courtyard of the commissariat.