Fic: Lost in Shadows (4/?)
Title: Lost In Shadows (4/?)
Rating: PG
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: Javert gets some answers, and they aren't the ones he wants.
___________________________
Two days past before his solitude was disturbed again.
Javert’s eyes were following the movement of a sluggish spider across the ceiling when the door opened. He did not need to look, the hesitation of his expected intruder telling him precisely who was there.
Footsteps approached. When Javert did not speak, the low stool scraped on the stone floor, set closer to the bed. The silence deepened, and Javert’s eyebrows drew together, though his gaze remained fixed on the spider.
“Your health improves?” Valjean was the one to finally break the silence.
Javert condescended to look at the man, as old, if not older than him. How foolish they must look, two ageing men in a room that was little more than a clean cell, enemies for as long as he dared to remember.
Valjean offered that small, infuriatingly tranquil smile. “You have better colour,” he offered, as if that were a comfort.
“You did not tell them who I was,” Javert said coolly. It was only one of many matters that made no sense to him.
“Them?”
He gave the man a cold look. “The Sisters,” he said. “Had my name been known, there are those who would wish to know my whereabouts.”
Valjean looked down at his hands that were lined, almost frail with age. His skin seemed almost translucent, and he looked a shadow of the superhuman man who had once broken his chains, the man who could lift a runaway cart to save another. He had offered himself, Javert remembered, surrendered his security. Giving in.
“Sometimes, it is better when people are unaware of who you are,” he finally said. He raised pale, tired eyes. “This seemed one of those occasions.”
Javert stared at him. “It was not your place,” he snapped.
“You had not told them,” Valjean said with a lift of his shoulders. “It was not my place to tell your tale.”
“My tale?” Javert would have snorted bitterly, had not pain lanced his side. His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of my tale?”
Valjean gazed at him, the steady, honest gaze of a born sinner. “I know you were found, nameless and wounded on the banks of the Seine, some distance from the place where we last met, and were brought here,” he said.
Suspicion crept over Javert, a suffocating uncomfortable suspicion. “Some distance,” he echoed, his voice tight with effort of control. “And I suppose the identity of my Samaritan is unknown as well.”
“I did not see him,” Valjean murmured.
“Him,” Javert said quietly. “A man who promised an hour more, I wager.”
Valjean looked back at him steadily, calmly. “I did not see him,” he repeated quietly. “My daughter’s betrothed was my burden that day.”
“Why you were upon the barricade.” That at least explained matters.
Valjean nodded. “There were things I had to do. And you found me once more, as I took him home.”
Javert turned his attention back to the spider creeping across the ceiling. “Why?”
“He was wounded,” Valjean replied just as quietly. He moved slightly, the stool’s ancient wood creaking beneath him. “I did not see him fall, but he needed care when I reached him. Who would have aided him, if I had not?”
“Do all such wretched charity cases deserve such care?” Javert sneered, though his throat felt seared, painful, though not through any wound.
“Some,” Valjean said quietly. “Why should a man be left for dead simply for choosing a path that did not end as he intended?”
Javert stared viciously at the ceiling. If his gaze could have killed, the spider would have dropped from its perch.
Then Valjean touched his shoulder.
It was so unexpected, so uncalled for that Javert could not think to shrug him off or protest.
“God spared you for a purpose,” the man said, conviction in every word. “Whatever happened after we parted the ways, whoever it was that cast you into the river, you were spared. Do you not want to know why?”
Javert stared at him. He knew why: damnation, cruelty, rejection.
“Get out,” he said hoarsely. “You are not welcome here.”
“Javert,” Valjean said with that foolish, unshaking gentleness. “You need not be alone here.”
“Get out!” Javert pushed Valjean’s hand away with such violence that his ribs wrenched and he cried out.
He was caught by the other man, who laid him back against the pillow.
Javert caught his collar, dragging his face close, every word agony in his chest. “I do not want your pity!” he hissed. “Go to hell and stay there.”
Valjean stared back at him, then gently loosened Javert’s hand from his collar and pressed it to Javert’s chest. “Rest and regain your strength,” he murmured. “I will not trouble you again, unless you wish me to.”
“Get out, damn you,” Javert whispered, breath aching in his lungs.
Valjean lowered his head in a curt nod, and rose. His movements were stiff and careful, weighted with old age, no longer the man he had once been, even days - or was it weeks? - before on the barricades. He moved the bible onto the bedside beside Javert’s hip. “Should you need comfort,” he said quietly.
Javert turned his face away angrily. His hands were balled into fists on his chest, clenched so hard that his nails bit into his palms. He did not doubt they would be marked with bloodied crescents. He wished to rise, strike the man down, scream out against him, against his inability to act as he was born to. But all he could do was meet the damned man’s mockery of kindness with silence.
There were footsteps and the door creaked as it opened, then closed quietly.
In the silent hospital cell, Javert lay motionless for some time, his eyes open and staring blindly at the wall in front of him. Only when the daylight began to fade did one hand move and close, once more, on the leather-bound Bible by his side.
Rating: PG
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: Javert gets some answers, and they aren't the ones he wants.
___________________________
Two days past before his solitude was disturbed again.
Javert’s eyes were following the movement of a sluggish spider across the ceiling when the door opened. He did not need to look, the hesitation of his expected intruder telling him precisely who was there.
Footsteps approached. When Javert did not speak, the low stool scraped on the stone floor, set closer to the bed. The silence deepened, and Javert’s eyebrows drew together, though his gaze remained fixed on the spider.
“Your health improves?” Valjean was the one to finally break the silence.
Javert condescended to look at the man, as old, if not older than him. How foolish they must look, two ageing men in a room that was little more than a clean cell, enemies for as long as he dared to remember.
Valjean offered that small, infuriatingly tranquil smile. “You have better colour,” he offered, as if that were a comfort.
“You did not tell them who I was,” Javert said coolly. It was only one of many matters that made no sense to him.
“Them?”
He gave the man a cold look. “The Sisters,” he said. “Had my name been known, there are those who would wish to know my whereabouts.”
Valjean looked down at his hands that were lined, almost frail with age. His skin seemed almost translucent, and he looked a shadow of the superhuman man who had once broken his chains, the man who could lift a runaway cart to save another. He had offered himself, Javert remembered, surrendered his security. Giving in.
“Sometimes, it is better when people are unaware of who you are,” he finally said. He raised pale, tired eyes. “This seemed one of those occasions.”
Javert stared at him. “It was not your place,” he snapped.
“You had not told them,” Valjean said with a lift of his shoulders. “It was not my place to tell your tale.”
“My tale?” Javert would have snorted bitterly, had not pain lanced his side. His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of my tale?”
Valjean gazed at him, the steady, honest gaze of a born sinner. “I know you were found, nameless and wounded on the banks of the Seine, some distance from the place where we last met, and were brought here,” he said.
Suspicion crept over Javert, a suffocating uncomfortable suspicion. “Some distance,” he echoed, his voice tight with effort of control. “And I suppose the identity of my Samaritan is unknown as well.”
“I did not see him,” Valjean murmured.
“Him,” Javert said quietly. “A man who promised an hour more, I wager.”
Valjean looked back at him steadily, calmly. “I did not see him,” he repeated quietly. “My daughter’s betrothed was my burden that day.”
“Why you were upon the barricade.” That at least explained matters.
Valjean nodded. “There were things I had to do. And you found me once more, as I took him home.”
Javert turned his attention back to the spider creeping across the ceiling. “Why?”
“He was wounded,” Valjean replied just as quietly. He moved slightly, the stool’s ancient wood creaking beneath him. “I did not see him fall, but he needed care when I reached him. Who would have aided him, if I had not?”
“Do all such wretched charity cases deserve such care?” Javert sneered, though his throat felt seared, painful, though not through any wound.
“Some,” Valjean said quietly. “Why should a man be left for dead simply for choosing a path that did not end as he intended?”
Javert stared viciously at the ceiling. If his gaze could have killed, the spider would have dropped from its perch.
Then Valjean touched his shoulder.
It was so unexpected, so uncalled for that Javert could not think to shrug him off or protest.
“God spared you for a purpose,” the man said, conviction in every word. “Whatever happened after we parted the ways, whoever it was that cast you into the river, you were spared. Do you not want to know why?”
Javert stared at him. He knew why: damnation, cruelty, rejection.
“Get out,” he said hoarsely. “You are not welcome here.”
“Javert,” Valjean said with that foolish, unshaking gentleness. “You need not be alone here.”
“Get out!” Javert pushed Valjean’s hand away with such violence that his ribs wrenched and he cried out.
He was caught by the other man, who laid him back against the pillow.
Javert caught his collar, dragging his face close, every word agony in his chest. “I do not want your pity!” he hissed. “Go to hell and stay there.”
Valjean stared back at him, then gently loosened Javert’s hand from his collar and pressed it to Javert’s chest. “Rest and regain your strength,” he murmured. “I will not trouble you again, unless you wish me to.”
“Get out, damn you,” Javert whispered, breath aching in his lungs.
Valjean lowered his head in a curt nod, and rose. His movements were stiff and careful, weighted with old age, no longer the man he had once been, even days - or was it weeks? - before on the barricades. He moved the bible onto the bedside beside Javert’s hip. “Should you need comfort,” he said quietly.
Javert turned his face away angrily. His hands were balled into fists on his chest, clenched so hard that his nails bit into his palms. He did not doubt they would be marked with bloodied crescents. He wished to rise, strike the man down, scream out against him, against his inability to act as he was born to. But all he could do was meet the damned man’s mockery of kindness with silence.
There were footsteps and the door creaked as it opened, then closed quietly.
In the silent hospital cell, Javert lay motionless for some time, his eyes open and staring blindly at the wall in front of him. Only when the daylight began to fade did one hand move and close, once more, on the leather-bound Bible by his side.