The floorboards of the hospital are scrubbed smooth, the varnish long since sanded to dust by feet, and iron bedsteads. They are almost white, soft with age, and Valjean feels his uneven gait absorbed into them, as if printing himself on their grain. This ward is full, but quiet; the coughs of the consumptives can be heard at a distance, not loud enough to penetrate the stillness here. He looks at each face he passes, giving them equal weight, and each a silent prayer for deliverance. They lie as if already dead, their faces pallid, with torpid limbs covered by un-creased sheets. He can see them breathing, but in one or two he has to search for it. He recognises no one by sight, but the physician he is following does not hesitate, and leads him to the end of the ward.

'Here,' he says, dispassionately. 'The one you seek.'

'Thank you, monsieur.' He presses a coin to his palm. 'For your trouble.'

The doctor hesitates, but does not refuse it. 'Are you responsible?'

'For his injuries?'

'…no monsieur, I would never suggest such a thing. For him.'

'Oh!' Valjean smiles, though it's weak, and shakes his head. 'No, not at all. He is merely a…an acquaintance, I suppose you would say.'

The doctor sighs, more impatient than disappointed, though it's laced with that too. 'There seems to be no one. No matter. He will never leave.' He turns and walks away without adding more, and Valjean is left alone, the only truly living man in the room.

For a long time, he simply stands and listens to the quiet breathing from the beds around him. The smell of the place – vomit, blood, piss, an underlay of creosote solution – has been with him since he entered the hospital, and is no stronger here than elsewhere. There is a window on the wall just above his head, and while it is tightly fastened, blue sky can be seen. He watches the light until a bird flies across, and breaks his reverie. Then he sighs too, and pulls a wooden chair to the side of the bed. There is no need to speak, because there is no one with enough life left to hear. And yet, the body in front of him compels it. Deserves more than his silence, after all this time.

Valjean looks him up and down, from the unnatural shape of the splints under the sheets, to the wrappings visible under the collar of his nightshirt. There is sweat on his forehead, and his whiskers have grown untidy. They stand out black against the sickly grey of his skin.

'Javert-' he does not know what he can say. He does not know what happened, and it looks very much as though he will never find out. So he falters. But then leans forward, and drops his tone, as if someone could be listening. '-if I freed you to meet this end, I am sorry.'

There is no response. Of course, there would not be. Valjean sits back in his chair, and casts his eyes down. The apology has done nothing to unburden him, as why should it? There is no implication that this is anything to do with him. And yet – it seems hard to believe that it cannot be. In some small way, at least. And if he thinks about it honestly, he cannot tell what he thinks about that. Sorrow, yes, if it is true. Exasperation at the man, because there has always been that. Valjean searches for signs of triumph within himself, knowing they are not there but wanting to be sure, needing to test that what he said at the barricade was the whole truth. There is nothing that I blame you for…nothing in the life of Fauchelevant, no. Nothing in the life of Madeline. But in the life of 24601? He cannot say that man did not hate Javert, once. Is it excused by the way the hate was not specific to him, but levelled at everything, and everyone, in the world? Perhaps. Unlike the man he contemplates, Valjean is capable of compassion. Less towards himself than everyone else, but a morsel for the sake of his own soul. So – is any part of him glad of this? No. There is nothing but sadness. Javert may have been a thorn in his side, but no man deserves to end up so broken. He should know.

A patient stirs along the ward, crying out and twisting in his sheets. Valjean rises slowly from his chair, but before he can take a step, a nun enters and goes to the man. He watches her mutter over the contorted form, make the sign of the cross, then leave. A minute passes and she returns, bearing a bowl and cloth. He sits again as she soothes the distress away, but does not avert his eyes. When the man is calm, she looks his way; he bows his head to her, and she smiles before leaving the room. The ward is silent once more, and he looks back at the bed he sits next to. Javert has not moved. Valjean looks down at his hands. He has spent so long trying not to look him in the face. It seems…invasive, to take the opportunity to stare. As if it is taking a liberty to examine the man while he is no position to object, or retort. It is impossible to face his fear, and perhaps vanquish it forever, while the other man cannot face him in return.

That supposes, of course, there is anything more about him Javert would care to discover. But the man had a gun on him, and let him go. He had his address, and never came to find him. He can only hope this means that something has changed– but what, he cannot guess. Maybe it is true that he will never find out, but while Javert breathes, it is hard to think of it as a finished chapter.

He sighs, and stands up. 'I will return,' he says, quietly. 'Have no fear.'

As he walks out, he contemplates these words with a frown, because why would Javert have fear of him not returning? Of all the people in the world, surely he would be the least welcome at his bedside. To suppose otherwise is foolishness.

But then, Valjean gets the impression there is no abundance of more suitable volunteers.

###

On the second day, he makes himself stay longer. After thirty minutes have passed in silence, the doctor from the day before comes to him.

'Monsieur, I would not see you troubled. If you leave your address, the hospital can send a boy when there is news. There are always boys looking for sous; it would be no effort, and would save you-' he gestures towards Javert's form, unmoved since yesterday. Valjean looks steadily at the doctor, and raises his eyebrows.

'You would begrudge him company?'

'No, sir. Not at all. But what is he to you? You said just an acquaintance. Few people stand vigil for a person known to them in an inconstant fashion.'

Valjean cannot help but laugh. 'I assure you, monsieur, there is nothing inconstant about Javert.'

The doctor gives a strange look, and steps closer. 'You do understand, sir, that he will never wake? The damage – he should not be alive now.'

'Should that not be cause for hope?'

'In his case, there is none.'

Valjean watches the steady rise and fall of Javert's chest; each breath, though barely moving the sheet, a challenge to the doctor's defeatism. Something inside him says no, and reminds him that Javert has never let go of anything in his life. Probably. He cannot claim to know all his past. But it would be consistent with what he does know. 'I disagree, doctor. I know this man, and there is none more tenacious. If there is life to be found, he will find it.'

The doctor is silent. Valjean notices after a moment, and glances up to meet the man's look of confusion. He queries it with an eyebrow, and receives a shake of the head. 'Just that it is a strange thing to say, considering.'

'Considering what?'

'The reason he is here.'

Valjean regards him with what he imagines to be a calm expression. Inside, something twists nervously in his gut. 'He fell into the river, did he not? There was an uprising that night. He may have been pushed. And I understand the Seine is dangerous above where he was found, but surely as he survived the water…'

The doctor is shaking his head. 'Monsieur, his injuries are not at all consistent with being near-drowned. While I would expect broken bones from being buffeted underwater, what we see with him…' he walks to the bedside, and pulls the sheet down before Valjean can stop him. He only has time to think Javert would hate this, before a patch of livid skin is exposed at the chest. It is purple and swollen, with a split like an overripe plum. The inside of Javert spilling out is not unlike soft fruit flesh, and the smell of decay rises in the air. 'He is crushed, monsieur.'

Valjean swallows, and looks away. 'Cover him, please.' And when it is done, 'I don't understand what you are implying.'

The doctor's stare feels hard, and he does not meet it. 'Monsieur…' A break, a breath. 'He was discovered not far from the rapids between the Pont au Change and the Pont Notre-Dame. This much damage is consistent with a fall from height. Perhaps great height. '

The words hang between them, in the space over a man held together by – what? Skin, nothing more. Valjean swallows, his throat dry and thick. 'You are saying he may have been pushed from a bridge.'

The alternative is not something he can reconcile in his thoughts. Not with a man of God. Not with Javert. The doctor shrugs a shoulder, and seems resigned. 'Or he jumped.'

'No.'

A hesitation, and the man looks to the window, the one point of light in this room. 'You know him better than I, monsieur,' he murmurs, and Valjean is grateful that that is that. 'Leave your address with the sisters, please. If there is news in the night, we will send someone. You do not look well, monsieur. A hospital is not safe for you.'

Alone, he sits and watches the floor. His thoughts roil, bubbling to the surface to be swept away by the next. The suspicion aroused, he tries not to think on it. But how can he not? Javert had his address, and did not come. He had been confused by his release at the barricade, and angry, perhaps. He had not fired his gun, even after saying one more step and you die. Valjean remembers his expression, remembers the thought he had had. If he stayed, and was taken, Marius would die. If he walked on and made the attempt, perhaps Javert would have shot him. But at least he would have died attempting to save the boy.

There had been more to it, hadn't there? Time has passed; time taken up with Marius' recovery, and plans for the wedding. And while Javert has been an ever-present figure for a large portion of his life, he has only ever embodied the law, and capture. Thinking back on that expression, the man's face was…he does not know. There is scant way to measure. It was not the stoic prison guard of Toulon, and it was not the righteous subordinate of Montreuil sur Mer. Not the police inspector rounding up the Patron-Minette after a blackmail attempt, or the captured man facing death. It was not something he had seen before. But he should have guessed something was wrong. Because while his thoughts had been centred on Marius, he does now remember a detail. Javert's hand had been unsteady. He would not go as far as to say trembling, but the gun had wavered in the air. For a man as precise and exact as this…yes, he should have realised something was wrong.

But, no. This is madness. Valjean shakes his head, and the world swims before his eyes. When they were colleagues, Javert had often said this is the way to please the Lord, and similar sentiments, when they had discussed the work to be done in Montreuil sur Mer. Javert held himself to a standard above. He was a man who seemed intent on working his way through life as efficiently as possible, so he could stand before Saint Peter and be welcomed with open arms. He held himself irreproachable, while not seeing that his unblemished police record surely stained his heavenly report through lack of mercy. He belonged to the law, and to God. So no, he cannot believe Javert would damn himself this way. It was a night of madness, and the man had been wearing his uniform. A loose group of students could have sent him over the bridge.

Valjean knows he has a small, dark part of his mind remaining; a part he had hopes of diminishing to nothing before the end of his days, though that looks unlikely now. From that part, he hears his conscience offering a truth. That it is easier to believe Javert did not commit this sin, because then it would mean he, Valjean, did not drive him to it. Never mind that the evidence of the man's character points away from suicide. To be sure, he must find evidence. If the man was the victim of a grievous assault, he can pray him into the afterlife, and sit with him as he goes. If he was not, then – his thoughts flounder. What can he do? Amends must be made. But he does not know of any family, or friends. He does not know the man's Christian name, or if he has one. He knows nothing of him, beyond that hasty confession of his birth during a fight. Valjean is ashamed to think, now, that he has not given the information a second thought in the years since. Javert has only ever been one thing to him, and it was not a man.

He stands, and looks at him lying there. The doctor's exposure of his chest has left the nightshirt slightly opened. He hesitates, then reaches over to make the cloth straight again. If nothing else, he knows Javert would appreciate a tidy appearance.

'It seems the Lord is not done with us yet.' He tilts his head, and wonders if the man's mouth was open quite that far an hour ago. There seems more space between his lips, but perhaps it is just the change in viewing angle. 'I may be later tomorrow, but I will come.'

He waits for a response that cannot come, simply because it seems respectful to treat the man as though he were whole. A span of heartbeats, and he inclines his head. 'Until then.'

He leaves his address with the sisters, and strict instructions to provide word at once of even the slightest change. At home, he takes some bread and water with a little cheese. Tomorrow may require strength, and it would not do to lose too much of it now.