Time: 6 minutes
Music: Les Miserables
Words: 332
Through the haze that came with the fever, he thought he saw the far-off face of Valjean, a brown blob that could barely be called a face. Every once in a while, the wet cloth on his forehead would be changed and he knew who was there. It was obvious. Not hard to guess.
When he was in a rare moment of coherence, Javert slowly reached out to grab Valjean's wrist, his large hands trembling. He was very sick, and knew it. "Valjean," he said softly, deep voice cracking from a dry throat "As soon…" he trailed off, coughing heavily. Whatever it was he had he was sure he would never want it again. "As soon as I am better, I am going…to arrest you." He felt a pair of lips press against his forehead, the fuzz of a well trimmed beard pressing against his feverish skin in a way that hurt immensely more than he could ever say.
"I am sure you will, Inspector. Now go back to sleep." Not wanting to comply, Javert managed to get out a half-hearted protest before the sickness claimed him again, sucking him back into the depths of its darkness.
He would never mention it to anyone, but he was glad Valjean was there to nurse him back to health. At least it meant someone would be there to see him die. And if he did get better (which the old convict knew the younger man would) he was going to arrest his prey with twice the fury he had already vowed to arrest him with.
And so Jean Valjean sat by his bedside, waiting out the fever with a wet cloth and occasional sips of thin soup or water, his saintly heart more full than ever by taking care of the Inspector. And Javert was none the wiser to the love from the other man, struggling on the verge of life and death as he was.
Valjean decided it was for the best.