Another Valvert drabble. Perhaps, one day, I will do something more. This can be seen as a bit of an Alternate Universe, though it wasn't meant to be.

"They had flowers at Faverolles, you know. I was a pruner."

Prisoner 24601 seemed to enjoy talking to himself, Javert noted. He would do it often, even if nobody was there; prattling on and on about Faverolles, waxing eloquence on life there; it was astonishing, considering the fact that the man had come here an idiot.

Not an idiot, Javert decided. Simplistic. Basic. He had none of the pomp of some of the more high-profile criminals. 24601 did not boast of his crimes; in fact, he almost never ceased speaking of how he had been wrongfully imprisoned. It was only bread. Children were starving. There was no work. He had no choice.

In Javert's experience, there was always a choice. He could have stayed in the gutter for his entire life, amongst the jail rats - the whores, the murderers - but he chose not to. He fought his way out; why could others not do the same? Did they lack the motivation? Was that it? Well, how could they expect to get anywhere without the drive to move themselves?

"Do you like flowers, Javert?"

Why 24601 insisted upon attempting to converse with him, Javert would never know; it could have been that Javert was the least likely to spit at him or attack him out of all of the guards. The young man had never struck a prisoner who did not deserve it in his life; besides, 24601 did not start a fight with anybody unless provoked. Monstrous though he may have been, Jean le Cric wasn't keen on more beatings.

He had already attempted to escape once, and since then, Javert had arrived in Toulon. Having just been released from solitary confinement, 24601 had stopped in his tracks upon seeing the guard; from that time onward, he would try his best to coax Javert into talking to him. The first time he received an answer, he was overjoyed. Javert was unsurprised; after all, the other prisoners rarely held civil conversations; but why would he choose to pursue (what did 24601 seek to gain from this anyways? a friend? something less platonic? after all, every prisoner had his partner, or partners) Javert, of all people?

"I think you would look very nice with flowers, Javert."

"Do you think me a woman?" the guard snapped back, though he kept turned away from the cell, and the convict that it contained. His arms were folded firmly over his chest, eyes locked on the hallway; it was childish, in a way, but he felt as though, in speaking, he had somehow given in to the Jack's will.

"No. I mean, you are pretty, but you are certainly a man. A young man, though. You'll grow, but flowers wouldn't do you any harm." There was a shuffling noise behind him, and then the lightest sound of skin on iron; Valjean was probably gripping the bars. "Don't you also like flowers, Javert? Do you like anything?"

Javert's mouth curled into a sneer. "Flowers do not grow here. Go back to sleep, 24601." The days rolled on. "Do you like roses, Javert?" "I don't feel any exceptional attraction to them." "Lilies, then? They seem more to your tastes." "I do not have a taste in flowers, 24601. Stop talking."

It continued in this way until Valjean attempted to escape for the third time. The second had passed without incident; rather, none that the heads of the prison knew of. Javert and Valjean did not speak of that time; Javert recovered beautifully from his concussion, Valjean seemed to carry some reassurance with him everywhere he went - the third attempt broke this peace. He stopped asking about the flowers, then; he stopped speaking about Faverolles altogether. A heavy uneasiness settled over the cell. 24601 did not provoke any other prisoners, but his responses to brawls were more violent. If attacked, he would return the favor with a rage never before seen. At night, he would rant and rave under his breath - to the moon, to the stars. No longer did he address Javert; he did not even turn the guard's way.

In all honesty, the gypsy boy was thrown off by this; not because he had wanted to speak with 24601 (or so he told himself), but because the sudden silence was deafening; an oxymoron, if there ever was one, but terribly appropriate. There was no happiness in Toulon, it simply could not exist; but in Jean le Cric's voice, there had been, if not a light, a respite from the crushing darkness. It had become familiar, something to be expected; Javert cursed his own foolishness; how could he have allowed himself to become comfortable with a convict's senseless mumblings?

Still, he preferred the talk of flowers over the growls for vengeance.

Javert was wise; from the moment he had been born, emerging into a world composed of three walls and a door made of bars, he had begun educating himself in the ways of the world; his lessons would not have been found in any school, yet this did not make them any less useful or applicable, for all knowledge had its time and place, and Javert was simply using that which was practical for him at that point; but he could not be called experienced; though wisdom and experience go hand in hand at most times, Javert's knowledge was primal; another word for it was instinct. He sensed, rather than saw, prisoner 24601 begin to descend into the madness that eventually claimed all of those wretched wraiths of the jails; Valjean had held out admirably, but it could never have lasted.

Once, amongst his ramblings of roses and lilacs and the sun on grass (the sun in Toulon was hot) and the wind through the trees (the trees were different, in Faverolles - the forests around the ocean town were imposing and entirely unfriendly, much like the prison itself), Valjean had mentioned seven little children. Suffice to say, these children were forgotten; they became another group of faces on the distorted monstrosity that was humanity; a beast which wanted nothing more than to swallow Jean the Jack whole. He hated this creature with every fibre of his being; Javert, whose sworn duty it was to protect that very devil to the best of his abilities, scented this hatred, and it sent a profound shudder down his spine.

The days dragged on; Javert and Valjean lived in perpetual night - Javert, that of servitude, though he was pitiably happy with his position; Valjean, that of insanity. This blanket would cover Toulon for the rest of their days within its walls; though Javert would leave to study in the city for some time, and would return to a prison lacking in le Cric. He would have been fine with this - after all, 24601 meant little to him, if anything at all - if not for a chance flickering of candlelight in the darkness.

"Javert."

The guard nearly leapt out of his skin. It was a voice which he had not heard for several months, now; at least, not in this way. Snarling had roughened and deepened it, but Javert still recognized it all the same. A ball of worry coalesced in his stomach, causing a slimy layer of sweat to break out over his skin. Should he remain silent? Would that anger Valjean? What if he spoke up, took the opportunity to hear something that would hopefully offer more than a curse upon society?

Why so indecisive? It was one prisoner, hailing him; though he could have been more respectful, he had not been rude; and what title would he apply to Javert, anyways?

"Yes?"

He kept his back turned to the bars, as always, arms folded behind him. There was a shuffle of movement, but Javert kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead - until a hand tugged at his ponytail.

Yelping, more from surprise than pain, as it had not hurt at all, Javert jumped forwards and spun about. Valjean stood there, one massive hand having managed to squeeze through the door; he was clutching something, but Javert could not see what it was.

"Come here, Javert." The convict beckoned, face set in an expression resembling determination.

"Why? What do you have there, in your hand?" the guard demanded, backing away. Valjean looked frustrated.

"It is a surprise. Just come here, please."

"I don't take orders from you, prisoner 24601!"

"Javert!" At this sound, the young man had no choice but to freeze; it struck something primal within him, rooted him to the spot with a hook through his gut; it was a warning of danger, but somehow, he knew in that instant that this man was not about to hurt him. He was a convict. He could drag Javert over, bash his skull in, and take his keys; but he was asking Javert to trust him, and the guard found himself moving forwards.

He bowed his head, eyes screwed shut, waiting for the inevitable blow, and was met with rough fingers in his hair; Valjean had not had human contact apart from fighting and carrying in so many years that he fumbled through what should have been basic motions. Javert shivered in place, partly from being touched, partly from the disgust chilling his very soul; here he was, lowering his gaze before a criminal, allowing him to run his hands all over his head. One strand of hair which had escaped from the ponytail was brushed behind his right ear; the fingers lingered there, then withdrew, only to return to that same ear a moment later. Something fuzzy tickled there, and Javert bit his lip to keep from making any noise. A few uncertain seconds more, and then footsteps were shuffling backwards, and the hands were gone.

"Thank you."

Javert opened his eyes, immediately moving to feel his face; he was not in any pain, but who knew what this man could do? Nothing. No bumps, no pinches, no bugs. Scowling, Javert took a step back.

"What did you do to me?"

In the face of this venom and distaste, Valjean was tranquil; he seemed to have found peace in something, at last.

"Go- look there. There should be a puddle towards the wall; there is a leak in the floor above, and it is always damp here."

Javert was slow to comply, but eventually made his way over to the tiny pool and looked down. He stared at his reflection, taking note of the tired grey eyes and pale skin; he needed sleep, and soon. He might have to force himself to not register for an extra shift, just for one night. A confused frown settled upon his lips; he saw nothing extraordinary in the water.

"What-"

He saw.

There, behind his ear, was a tiny yellow flower. Javert tilted his head in wonder, unable to tear his gaze from that little piece of perfection. At length, he swallowed down his astonishment, returning to Valjean's cell.

"Where did you find it?"

Valjean looked revoltingly pleased with himself. "When we were working. They took us past the little patch of grass down that way. You told me that flowers did not grow here, but there it was! So I took it. I wanted you to see it."

"You wanted to prove me wrong." Javert scowled. "That flower did not belong to you, and still you plucked it. Forever a thief, I see."

The prisoner's face discolored with rage, but he was stopped from snapping by Javert's voice.

"-why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you bring it to me? Why me?"

There was a brief pause, a hesitation as Valjean leaned against the bars. He wet his lips before speaking. "Because- because you are young and- nobody looks to you, and when they do, they don't see past your skin, or your work. You are as human as anybody else, aren't you? You- you're just as much of a prisoner as I am."

The flower was torn from behind his hair, and Javert flung it to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel. His chest was heaving, and his hear was disheveled from where his hand had ripped at it. Valjean stared, and Javert stared back; in doing so, he found himself unable to bear what he found there: pity.

"Stay away from me." This was insanity, this was nonsensical; Valjean was behind bars, and he, Javert, was free! Free, thanks to the law! The law had set Javert at liberty and caged Valjean due to his misdeeds. "Don't look at me! Don't-"

He was backing down the hall, hands raised, expression caught between anger and something sadder, something broken.

"-there are no flowers here, 24601. Flowers don't grow inside a prison."

He spun on his heel and fled, fled from those brown eyes with their pity and their understanding, so ill-fitting on the face of the Jack. Valjean reclaimed his seat by the tiny window, feeling hope give one last weak flutter of its wings before falling still. Hatred trampled over it - hatred for the law which could break a simple pruner like Jean Valjean and enslave a young boy like Javert.

There was no more pruner, no Jean Valjean, no flowers. There was 24601, and years to struggle through until the good Bishop would rest his hand upon the forehead of that criminal, pardon him, and raise him up to God.

Night reclaimed its hold of Toulon.

Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated! I'll probably get a beta reader someday. That day is not today.