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angedemystere · 4 years

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In Need of Company (Les Miserables Fic)

Title: In Need of Company

Fandom: Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)

Characters: Jean Valjean, Inspector Javert

Rating: T

Warnings: mild language, mentions of racial slurs

Summary: A little what-if scenario from Jean Valjean’s youth. It’s 1786 in Faverolles, and a well-meaning if careless peasant boy is about to make an unexpected friend.

One summer morning in Faverolles, Jean Valjean rushed through a few household chores and slipped out of what remained to scurry up the apple tree in their garden and relish in the shade. The sun winked between the leaves. Nothing but placid green and teasing light and a soothing breeze.

A small rock pelted at his thigh. Another hit his boot.

“Hey!” he shouted groggily. “Philippe, you ass.”

“Shut up and get down here,” answered a tall, blond young man. His long bony limbs reminded Jean of that marionette his brother-in-law Henri made for his oldest son.

“Make me.”

“Yeah? I will find bigger rocks, you know.”

“Your aim won’t get better.”

“Fine. I’ll drop in and say good morning to Jeanne and let her know where you are.”

“She already knows,” Jean lied, and in the same breath swung down by the nearest branch. His feet hit the ground as loudly as an elephant’s step, but the shock of it evaporated and Jean straightened as smoothly as he would rising from a chair. “What do you want?”

“My old man is sending me into town for a few things. Boring things. You need to keep me company.”

“Sure, and you’ll ditch me as soon as we get there for Marguerite or some other girl.”

Philippe snickered. “Maybe I’ll get you to finally talk to a girl.”

Jean made the kind of throaty gargle and tongue lurch expected of a seven-year-old rather than a seventeen-year-old.

“Jean, you are too old to think girls carry the plague.” Philippe grabbed his arm. “Come, let’s get you cured!”

Arm in arm the friends ventured to the market square. This morning happened to be market day, which meant an uptick in activity and liveliness that jarred against the characteristic daily drone. The square hosted a dozen stalls for textiles, toys, tools, and produce. Philippe sailed through, Jean in tow, to a stall selling ironworks.

As Philippe finished paying and scoped out the next destination, a crew of lads the same age as he and Jean came into sight like jackals looking for a carcass to loot.

Jean patted Philippe’s shoulder. “There’re the boys.”

Philippe’s delight far outshone Jean’s. “Oh, good! And look, they found a new friend!”

The group led by Leonard was tailing a gamin. Leonard was a well-looking boy who could be charming, but his smiles tended to twist into sneers even in good humor. Nothing unintentional about his sneer now, floating above the brown-skinned urchin like a falcon ready to dive for him. The other boys caught on to Leonard’s game and mirrored his expression. It looked contagious. Even Philippe sharpened his smile with impish elation. Jean felt none of that giddiness. He felt like he’d swallowed a rock.

The boy, no older than seven, wore fabric with strong shades of red, yellow and purple in bold geometric patterns that were lost under wear, tearing and recent dirt. He carried an embroidered and beaded satchel on his shoulder. The clash of vibrancy and desolation marked him a gypsy. His black hair hung in his eyes and close to his shoulders. The bag appeared full of food, an acceptable sight on market day. Leonard and the gang didn’t agree.

Whistles, snickers, provocative spurts of words like “darkie” and “gutter trash” littered the boy’s wake. The boy acted deaf and watched only the road and his ripped shoes that flapped like dead fish with every step.

“Say, darkie,” Leonard cooed, “how about a little dance for us? Where’s your tambourine? In your bag there? Say, that looks heavy. Must be exhausting carrying what you steal from honest, hardworking people like us. Must be nice not to have to work, just swindle your way across town. How about a song? Sing a song and earn something for once.”

The flow of venom set Jean’s ears ringing. While some adults observed this taunting and simply watched, most turned away and pretended nothing was happening. The child wasn’t doing anything. If he were another village boy, Leonard and his cadre would’ve been scolded off by someone’s mother—maybe one of theirs. Where was this boy’s mother? Didn’t someone care?

Merde. He cared.

But he couldn’t be asked to do something, surely! No one was asking anything of him now. Philippe was busy laughing at Leonard’s vitriol, so Jean could sneak off if he tried.

“Come,” he muttered to Philippe, “let’s get going. Leave him.”

Philippe grimaced like Jean had told him to set himself on fire. “What? Why?”

“Philippe!” Leonard called. Then he pointed at the gypsy boy and pantomimed a stumble. Philippe, tittering, angled his body. The gamin was getting close to passing him. Philippe moved his foot forward.

“Philippe!” Jean grabbed his friend’s shoulder. Then he flushed and stammered, “This is stupid.”

Philippe was as astounded as Jean, and he’d been spun off-balance momentarily, so his words came out in a harsh rush: “You’re the one being stupid.”

“Jean!” Leonard shouted. “What’s the matter with you? You ruined it!”

Rather than face Philippe, either to reprimand or apologize, Jean’s eyes veered to the gypsy boy. The grey eyes staring through the uneven curtain of bangs bowled him. The boy had paused, but all at once he hustled past both young men.

Leonard pointed at him. “Hey, he’s getting away!”

Philippe leaped like a jungle cat hungry for a second chance at his prey. His long legs bounded and brought him to the boy in a couple strides. His foot swung up and landed. The gamin fell hard on his chest and hands, skidding a little on the street. His bag spilled open. Fruit rolled free. He grunted, punched by the unforgiving ground.

A few gasps came from the otherwise passive vendors. Jean couldn’t gasp or move right away. His shock almost pushed a giggle out of his windpipe. Any fleeting humor was swept away by the likeness to seeing his nephews and nieces falling and crying out until Jeanne or Henri came to their rescue. This boy didn’t cry. He didn’t even get up. He must have been stunned.

“Good work!” Leonard called, catching up with Philippe. “Let’s give him a proper welcome—make sure he knows that he and scum like him should know better than to stir up trouble here.”

Both young men moved in. Jean could imagine the first kicks landing in the child’s ribs and legs and possibly worse. He must have imagined these while sprinting because in the next instant he was pushing Philippe and Leonard back with force he reserved for moving heavy branches and logs. He stood over the gypsy boy’s feet.

Philippe’s congenial face twisted with confusion. “Jean, what—”

One of the vendors hollered at them: “Take this somewhere else!”

“Get out of here,” Jean barked at the group.

Leonard put his hands on his hips. “Ho-ho! I didn’t realize we had a gypsy-lover in our town! Is that your problem, Jean? You like darkies? Your own people not good enough for you?”

“Why don’t you rough up someone who can fight back?” Jean didn’t know a thing about fighting. He didn’t raise his arms to anticipate a brawl. A fight was far from how he wanted this to end, but some part of him braced for it. Most of him silently yelled at the boy still on the ground to get up and run.

Leonard’s lip curled up. Philippe clapped his shoulder. “Forget it.”

More vendors were paying attention. A few started to step out from their stalls. Hard to say who they were defending. The message got through to Leonard, anyway. He shook off Philippe’s hand. He snarled at Jean. “I’ll take care of you later.”

The other lads gathered behind Leonard. Maybe they thought Jean’s strength was more trouble than they were prepared for. Or they anticipated jumping him the moment they were out of the public eye. Jean grimly accepted the second. Somehow the stone in his stomach had disappeared. But Philippe sent him a disparaging scowl and followed Leonard’s horde out of the square. That stung as betrayal only could from someone one has known since toddlerhood. Jean watched them all leave. Once they were gone, he turned around, ready to see an empty patch of street behind him.

The boy was just finished putting his fruit back into the bag. He sensed Jean’s attention, met it, and slowly stood, returning the bag to his shoulder.

“You all right?” Jean asked.

“I’ll live.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think they’d do something so …”

“I should’ve known better. The moment I saw them, my feet told me to start running. I should listen more.”

At first, the boy’s mouth seemed to flinch into a smile. He gripped the straps of the bag with just fingertips. The knees of his trousers had split open, revealing red, open scrapes.

“Let me see your hands,” Jean said. “They’re bleeding.”

The boy clenched those same hands. He winced, no doubt about it this time. “So?”

“I can clean them for you.”

“I can clean them myself. Why should you?”

Jean didn’t have an answer. He did pull out a handkerchief—just a cotton rag. “I’m Jean.”

The boy eyed the rag. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Jean sighed. “Well, M. Fine Thank You, I have plenty at home. Take it.”

“I don’t want to. And my name is not Fine Thank You. Idiot.”

That sounded like a taunt his oldest nephew would make. Jean folded his arms. “How about this, M. Idiot: I walk you home while you use the rag to clean your hands and knees. When we get there, you can give it back to me.”

“I don’t need a gadje’s help.” The boy’s gaze dropped, all at once embarrassed. “I mean … I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I’m looking for an excuse not to go home and get a scolding. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

Gray eyes narrowed. They skimmed over Jean. “What about your friends?”

“Them? I barely know them.” Jean winced and was glad Philippe and Leonard were clear of the square. “I know them because we’ve lived in this town all our lives. I spend time with them when I don’t want to be alone. But I usually don’t mind being alone. It’s hard to be alone in a house that’s always adding new children.”

The boy sniffed and shifted his weight on his feet, teetering better two choices. Then his eyebrows went up. “Do you think they’ll be back soon?”

“Who?” Jean’s thoughts were with his sister and her children.

“Your—the boys who were bothering me. Do you think they’ll be back soon?”

Jean considered it. By now they had probably lost interest in the gypsy boy and were daring each other to sneak to the river and spy on the girls washing laundry there … oh.

The notion that occurred to the boy came to Jean, too. The boy’s stare and one raised eyebrow said it all: “You better catch on or you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

A chuckle tickled up Jean’s throat. “I bet they’re right around the corner of that house there.” He pointed to the end of the square. “Waiting for the moment I leave you alone.”

The boy nodded. “Then I should have you come with me. My very own guard.”

With his own nod and a restrained smile, Jean walked up to the shoulder that carried the sack. He handed over the handkerchief. The boy took it.

“Does that mean I can know your name?” Jean asked.

Another hoist to keep the bag in place. He began blotting his skinned palms. “Fine. I’m Danior.”

“And where are we going, M. Danior?”

“To the inn at the edge of town. Mama and I are staying there.”

They walked for a few minutes in silence. Jean still had questions, yet the wordless stroll brought contentment he was reluctant to disturb. A wanderer, a complete outsider to Jean’s world, was letting him escort him to relative safety after a minute or two of meeting each other. A rather fascinating boy—he walked with a purposeful gait and straight shoulders. He carried himself like he wanted to be as grown-up as Jean, if not more. A boy his age should have been running around or climbing every tree and hay bale he could find.

Jean did have one question that he dug up the courage to speak. “Do you live in a wagon when you travel?”

The pointed look from Danior summoned regret, but the boy answered: “No, Mama and I don’t live with other Roma. She left her people before I was born. I don’t think my father is Rom, so maybe her family didn’t like she married a gadje.”

“Does your father ever travel with you?”

Danior turned his head frontward and pressed his lips, unsure. Jean immediately guessed that, like him, Danior’s father was dead, or worse, had scarpered to live free of his family. Ears turned hot.

“He’s in prison.”

Jean’s throat closed. He swallowed to relax it. “Sorry.”

Danior’s face filled with fierceness and helplessness. “He’s been in prison my whole life. I can’t be sad about it. Mama and I get by.”

Perhaps they did in the barest sense. Not that Jean could say much for his own tattered cuffs on his shirt and trousers. But to be without a father and a settled home? Faverolles, for all its boring parts, was reliably here. He wanted to put a hand on Danior’s head the way he did his sister’s children whenever he passed them, or when they asked for help with their chores and games. Danior wouldn’t like that. He looked like he hadn’t played a game in years.

That he felt compelled to withhold the small gesture urged Jean to keep in close step with Danior, never mind the difference in their strides, and throw a glare at anyone who made the smallest grimace at the gypsy boy.

They reached the inn, a popular stop for travelers of all ilk, which meant Jean was advised to avoid it. A spark of illicit intrigue ran up his arm as he pushed open the front door. As it turned out, the ground-floor room, equipped with tables and chairs and a hearth, was just as ordinary as the rest of the town. A few renters were sitting inside on this fair market day. Danior skipped the tavern and marched to the stairs leading to the rooms. He stopped suddenly to spin around to Jean.

“I think I’m safe now. Thank you.”

The declaration rang with such a serious tenor that Jean had to laugh. He saluted. “All in a day’s work. Maybe I should go into the service.”

Danior shrugged and began to pivot, only to stop, peer up, frown with an unspoken question, and finally regard Jean with what might have been fear or longing. “I can pay you.”

“What? No, that’s ridiculous. After what you went through, it’s the least I could do.”

“But it’s not. You didn’t need to do anything. I owe you.”

This poor child. To think a harmless bit of kindness needed rewarding. Jean shook his head. He tried to be casual, affable, but accidentally gave away more tenderness than was wise to show a boy unaccustomed to it. “Danior—”

“Danior?” came a bark from above.

Their attention followed the voice to a steel rail of a woman leading over the banister. As with Danior, the woman’s colorful clothes had lost much of their vivacity with use. The hues looked as wrung as she did. The bones of her face pushed against her skin; the dark hair poking from under her headscarf was showing grey, though she otherwise looked hardly older than Jeanne.

“Sorry, Mama,” Danior quickly uttered. He skipped up to the first landing where the stairs turned before stopping again. “This is Jean. He walked me here. I had a fall and he lent me his handkerchief. Oh, here.” He reached for Jean with the rag, a little flecked with blood.

Jean’s hand stretched for it. It jumped away at the woman’s snapping voice. “Danior, don’t give him that when you’ve dirtied it! I’ll clean it and give it back later.”

“I don’t mind,” Jean said. “I’ll take it now, or Danior can keep it, which I know he doesn’t want to do.”

“I’ll clean it,” Danior said. “I can do that much.”

“All right. I’ll come for it tomorrow.” Jean found himself smiling again. The mother was a bit intimidating—and she and Danior shared a timbre in their voices—but the idea of having more time to know Danior brightened him.

“We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” said the mother, dry and tired. It was as if she guessed his feelings and warned him of reality’s disappointment.

“I’ll come by early, I promise.” To Danior, Jean waved and bid him good day, and to clean his scrapes. Good God, he was sounding like Jeanne! Shaking his head at the thought, he left the inn.

Then a cloud settled on him, despite his having stepped into the glaring daylight from the gloom of the inn. They were leaving tomorrow. One last goodbye and they’d be gone. Couldn’t they stay a little longer? Maybe permanently if Danior’s mother found regular employment? But there was Leonard, and to a lesser extent Philippe, and the people who reacted to Danior’s abuse only when Jean stepped in. It was better the pair of them kept moving.

He went home, patted his nephews and nieces on the head, asked Henri if he needed help with anything at the workshop, went to bed early and rose early to run to the inn. The two Roma, staying there under the name Javert, were already gone. The innkeeper handed Jean the clean handkerchief.

#les miserables #jean valjean #javert #inspector javert #valvert #myfic

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