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English
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Published:
2022-07-09
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2,233
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1/1
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The Flickering Ember

Summary:

Fantine has sworn off love for good. Sure she has <3

Notes:

Me: *sitting down for Saturday writing adventures* So we're behind on this fic and this fic. And the people want more Obidala. Plus there's that ACGAS July writing fest going on. Where should we start?

Writer-Girl Brain: Umm how about some random Les Mis Fantine/Jean Valjean just because?

Me: What? Where is this coming from?

Writer-Girl Brain: *shrugs*

Me: That's completely out of the question. We have responsibilities, you know.

Writer-Girl Brain: Yeah...to poor Fantine and Jean Valjean. Have you read Les Mis? It's all so terribly tragic. We must continue to right the wrongs done in ancient times...make haste.

Me: 1862 is ancient times to you?

Writer-Girl Brain: Sure. Whatever. Let's do this ;)

(I'm setting this in the 2018 miniseries universe only because Lily Collins/Dominic West are too pretty together but the 1998 film version lives in my head rent free so influenced by that as well)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

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At just shy of twenty-five years of age, Fantine is attempting to begin her life all over again. Here, in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

She’s still young enough that perhaps she’ll manage it. So long as she keeps her head down, tends to her work, and never falls in love again.

Never again. No, she can’t risk it.

Whatever St. Paul may say about it, the love she’s known is neither patient nor kind. Félix taught her this with smirking relish.

Those sweet nothings that he poured into her ear, while running his teeth at her lobe and nuzzling her throat, soured like wine left out in the summer sun. His rosette kisses came with stinging thorns, too many still embedded in her heart. And all his promises went cold, and then colder still, like dying embers.

She no longer loves Félix. In reflection, she wonders if she ever truly loved him at all. Is it possible to love someone before one discovers what love truly means? She thinks not.

It was infatuation. And of a reckless sort, even for a naïve young girl. She’ll be ashamed of how easily she gave herself to him until the end of her days. She should have known better. She should have recognized the shallow fount of his affection. But she was so caught up, desperate for anything resembling love, and carried off in a whirlwind of dahlia petals and slow, afternoon kisses that played her false, leaving her penniless and all alone.

No, that’s not quite right.

I’m alone in the world…she promised Monsieur Madeleine, giving him a noble lie, if there is such a thing. Did he believe her? Part of her wonders if he didn’t see right through her at once. His piercing eyes…

But yes, she has Cosette. Or rather, she will have Cosette. Just as soon as she can save enough money and find them a safe place to live. A home, whether here in Montreuil-sur-Mer or the countryside. She just needs to find a home.

She knows it won’t be simple—she knows little more of home than she does of love.

Where was her last home? Paris? The orphanage that she grew up in?

She imagines what a true home might look like and sees a small white cottage with green pastel curtains and a thatched roof, a little garden blooming with root vegetables and marigolds, wet laundry on the line and house slippers propped up by a cushioned chair. Honestly, it sometimes seems wholly beyond reach, even these simple dreams, but she’s determined to try for them, nonetheless.

For Cosette…

She loves her daughter—this she can say without hesitation. She loves her, even if perhaps she shouldn’t.

If Madame Victurnien, Our Lady of Virtue, only knew the terrible truth, Fantine knows the older woman would force her out of the factory, throwing her into the gutter by her long dark hair. And then she would shake her head, purse her lips and declare it plainly before the whole village, “She’s your ruin and your regret, mademoiselle. And you are hers. And you’ll both be damned to eternal hellfire for it.”

Fantine can’t see how that would be true. At least not the last part. She’ll be condemned forever for what she’s done, she knows that. She accepts it. But whatever her sins may be, Cosette has nothing to do with them. She’s never done anything wrong. She’s just a little girl, with Félix’s golden curls and Fantine’s dimpled smile. She never asked to be born, especially not to such a wretched and disappointing mother.

None of this is her fault.

She hopes the Thénardiers are giving Cosette all the love they can. Even a fraction of that which fills up her own heart might be enough to get them through these last few weeks apart.

Only weeks now…she promises herself, holding to this hope. Love may still be a stranger to her, but she knows hope well enough.

Near sunset, Fantine makes her way through the village streets with haste, as she wants to finish this last errand quickly. She’s anxious to check the post, in case the Thénardiers have written. If they need more money, she’ll want to reply at once, and the public letter-writer closes early on Thursdays.

The account ledger in her hands feels like a ponderous weight and she wants to deliver it to its destination as soon as possible, lest something should happen and she loses it or drops it or someone steals it or she’s beset by a thousand other calamities, a cruel number of which have been running through her head ever since she left the jet-bead factory.

She has no idea why Madame Victurnien entrusted her with this task and she takes no joy in it. It makes her uneasy that the supervisor singled her out in this way. She knows this is no errand of honor. There’s no trust in it. At best, it was a random assignment. At worst, she expects that the woman hopes to find some reason to dismiss her.

Losing this ledger would prove satisfactory enough.

Madame Victurnien dislikes Fantine vehemently. She’s made no secret of it, not since that first day. Fantine knows she hasn’t helped matters. She’s always been too proud and she might have shown more humility and grace when she first arrived. But it just isn’t her way and what’s done is done.

If not for Monsieur Madeleine, Fantine knows she would be out of a job already. She throws up a repeated prayer to the Virgin Mother, Bless him.

His house is the last on the lane, all white brick and sturdy cornerstone, his wrought iron gate and trellises blooming with morning glories. He wasn’t at the factory today, which made Fantine even more uneasy. She wonders if he’s ill? Or perhaps away on business?

She hopes it’s the latter, as the thought of that man in sickness brings her pangs of grief, though she can’t imagine why. She hasn’t known him more than a month. And he’s her employer, nothing more. He’s not her…

But Madame Victurnien failed to give reason for his absence, giving the girls a look that said it was none of their concern. At the end of her shift, she shoved the day’s ledger in Fantine’s astonished hands, telling her to take it to their master’s home and leave it on his doorstep before the evening bells.

“Go directly and don’t dawdle,” the woman commanded, in a sharp and pinched tone. “He’ll want to review the account this evening before his supper and I’ll be sure to ask him exactly when he received it.”

The evening church bells are only minutes away from tolling.

Fantine hurries up the cobblestone walk to the door, knocking twice at the planks without thinking. It’s only at the sound of the bells across the village green that she remembers she’s to leave it on the doorstep. She’s not to disturb Monsieur Madeleine.

She cringes at the error, feeling stupid. She bites her lip slightly, hoping he’s not home, or that perhaps he didn’t hear the knock. With one hand, she gathers her long hair to one side, before she stoops down, ready to push the thin volume right through that crack beneath…

Unexpectedly, the door swings back, opening wide. Fantine looks up to find her employer standing tall above her. His pallor is a touch greyer than usual, although she knows he’s a burdened soul in the best of times. But he’s holding a handkerchief in one hand and looks like he hasn’t slept well.

“Mademoiselle…?”

Yet his eyes light up as soon as he recognizes her. He tips his head slightly at her crouched posture, his words drifting off in the peculiarity of her presence here. She thinks that he might be struggling to remember her last name.

“Thibeau,” she supplies, helpfully, while straightening up. She rises awkwardly and her fingers hold that ledger tight, her grip increasing as she brings it back to rest against her chest nervously. She continues, “It’s Fantine Thibeau, Monsieur Le Maire.”

“Yes, I know,” he nods slowly, his eyes still holding hers. He’s curious how she came to be here at his house and it shows. But he’s not upset by it, she can tell.

Her lips twitch on the curve of a small smile. It happens nearly every time their eyes meet and has done, since she first walked into his factory looking for work. As soon as that smile graces her lips, he seems compelled to answer it, in habit, if nothing else. And this, despite obviously being under the weather.

It’s the same sort of smile they’ve been sharing almost daily, whenever he happens to glance up from his books and she turns her head away from braiding those beads, almost sensing his eyes upon her.

She can’t help it. And neither can he, apparently. The warmth that fills her breast at his return smile fills her up, like sunshine in a cup, or like a match set on those cold embers. The only other time she feels this way is when she thinks of her darling Cosette. But she’s not sure why it keeps happening. These shared smiles speak of things that…well, she’s not sure exactly.

But it feels like something Madame Victurnien would not approve of.

And here, at his house, just the two of them standing so near…a very strong flutter in her chest, moving down like a shiver through her belly, has her casting her eyes down quickly, towards his feet. He’s wearing a dressing robe and house slippers—does he keep them by his chair when he’s not wearing them?—and that somehow makes it worse.

Whatever it is.

She suppresses the blush that she knows is about to bloom on her cheeks, feeling his continued gaze and wondering at how he’s able to hold it so steady. But maybe he’s as out-of-sorts as she is. She’d have to look up to know for sure.

“The ledger!” she blurts out suddenly, gratefully, her reason for being on his doorstep coming back to her in a rush. Oh, bless that ledger.

She nearly pushes it into his hands, ignoring the way their fingers lightly brush by each other in the process. She tries to recover her poise, admirably lifting her chin just a little and bringing her voice down to a more reasonable pitch, as she explains, “Madame Victurnien said that I should bring it over to you.”

“I see,” Monsieur Madeleine is nodding again. He opens the ledger, previewing the many rows of scribbled numbers almost wearily and with a muted sigh. There’s so much weariness in that sigh.

She wonders…has he slept? Is someone taking care of him?

“Are you all right, sir?” she asks, before she can think better of it. At her soft voice, he looks up again, meeting her gaze.

His voice is a tad gravelly, as if recently beset by a hoarse cough, and she can tell his head must ache, just by the way he shies away from the glare of evening sunlight. But he assures her, in nearly wry tones, “It’s merely a cold, Fantine. I doubt I’ll die from it.”

“Please see that you don’t,” she answers in kind…almost as a tease? And with another smile to accompany it, one that she hopes might bolster his lagging spirits.

And then they’re both just standing there, at his door, lost in a single moment in time that’s gone on far too long.

Whatever is she doing? Don’t loiter, don’t bother the mayor, Madame Victurnien’s instructions were very clear. But Monsieur Madeleine would have closed the door as soon as he received that ledger if he wanted to be alone, wouldn’t he? And what is that look he gives her, as if he can see right through her…

“I must bid you goodnight, monsieur,” she says, with a belated bob of her head, making her escape before she can let her mind wander any further—indulging in thoughts of who will make him dinner tonight, or if he must sup alone, and if perhaps it would help if someone were to…but this is none of her business, is it?

With effort, she breaks off their shared gaze first, for she’s fairly certain that if she stays here any longer, she’s going to say something completely inappropriate.

“Goodnight, mademoiselle,” he replies. His tone is congenial but…is that regret she hears? Or is it more weariness? The illness taking its toll? Or plain loneliness? She shouldn’t speculate. Maybe he’s grand. Maybe he just wants her off his doorstep so that he can go back inside to the peace and quiet of his own evening.

She turns, her hands coming together then breaking apart. She walks down the cobblestones quickly, before she embarrasses herself any more, or entangles herself further, not wanting to give any passing or prying eyes more to gossip over.

But she can’t resist turning back at the gate. She just can’t. And in the span of an instant, her heart jumps as before, that fluttering returning just as strongly, those embers flickering to life. For he’s still standing in his doorway, watching her go. And when he sees her look back, he grants her another smile, like always.

Fantine smiles back.

Notes:

Writer-Girl Brain: Ohhhh now let's get them together and make them kiss *jumps up and down*

Me: *sighs* I swear to God...