a/n: well, this is the second chapter! Three more to go! And, as a response to many reviews, I appologize for how choppy the constant changing of Point of Views is, but this is a pre-typed story and it would be very difficult to go back and change all of that. Also, to clear up some things, I have read the book, but since this is pre-typed, I had written this before I read the book, so there may be a few details from the book, but not many, and I know the movie really didn't show a lot of what really happened like the book does, but I really had no way to get my hands on the book any sooner.
Thank you Ms. Pen, ViveLaBagatelle, NightmareFX, Tay-kun, and AmZfor the reviews!
And now, to the story!
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Only two hours of peace before the trouble starts. Two hours before I'm trying my hardest to calm a very violent fever.
Javert started tossing and turning after about an hour and forty-five minutes. He had done that a lot, and thought he would continue to rest. He didn't.
Instead his body woke up with violent heaves, emptying what was left in his stomach and then some. Now I watch as a trickle of blood winds its way from his mouth, down his chin, and drips to join the rest of the mess beside the bed. I am at his side, trying to control his shaking and distressed body with little luck. My hand traces a gentle line down his spine, which juts from his back at this awkward position. I had taken off his uniform jacket long ago, when I first brought him here. Well, maybe not too long ago, but it seems I've waited forever for signs of life. I have left his pants, but loosened them, allowing as much comfort as possible.
The shaking decreases and he manages to find his voice, "Can… you get me… something cool? It seems… quite warm… in here."
I look at him in surprise for only a moment before nodding, "Of course."
Opening my bedroom door and quickly closing it, I make my way to the kitchen undetected. I sigh in relief, having survived half the battle and praying that I survived the war. I know that won't happen though, my family has the right to know, Cosette has the right to know. Just not yet.
Filling a small basin, along with a bucket, with cold water, I grab some cloths and safely make it back to my room.
I knock lightly on the door, though it seems a silly thing to do. His voice comes through as a weak moan, but I enter any ways. He's laying down now, completely on the bed, curled into a fetal position in the middle of the jungle of covers, the covers having been discarded.
"It's warm and cold at the same time," he comments.
I nod, "I know… I know…"
He looks up at me, his eyes very wary, very untrusting. I set the bucket on the ground and the bowl on the bedside table. Placing all but one of the cloths aside, I wet the one I'm still holding and lightly start to run it along his cheek.
He growls and reaches for it; "I can do this myself."
I place his hand back at his side; "I'd rather you not hurt yourself worse by trying."
JAVERT POV
I hate to ask this man for help, I hate to admit that I need help, I hate to be helpless. I glare, but I know that fighting him will only injure me worse. He smiles lightly at me and runs the cloth along my face.
Though I long to, I do not close my eyes; I do not give in to the pleasant feelings that this small action brings me. I know that I can not do this, because doing that would mean that I forgive him, that I have put aside what he is and I have allowed myself to give in to his "reform", his "new life". If my parents could not change, then I see no way that this man can either.
I despise Jean Valjean. He was always a rebel in Toulon and he still is, he has to be! If my mother could not set aside her years of prostitution to take care of her son, then I see no way for Jean Valjean to change. If my father could not put his reputation as a thief aside, if he could not stop his terrible ways long enough to care for his son, then I see no way for Jean Valjean to change.
I watch as Valjean lightly sets the cloth into the cool basin and turns back to me, "Are you feeling any better?"
I shake my head. The nausea might be gone, but my body is wracked with pain. I see no end to this suffering. Why couldn't he just let me die?
He had said something, I remember now, before I passed out again, he said something about being "brought back through religion and a good deed". I don't believe him, but I am curious.
"What was the good deed?" I whisper.
He turns back to me, looking at me from the floor. He had been mopping up the mess that I made, and I feel guilty about it.
"What?" he asks in disbelief and confusion.
"What was the good deed that brought you into your so called reform?" I manage to speak in my normal voice, though the words seem a little chopped off.
He sets the now dirty cloth aside, along with the bucket of water, "It's sort of a long story."
I laugh, my normal, cold, voice leaking into the edges; "I'm not going anywhere."
He nods, then lifts himself up and sits on the edge of the bed, "When I was first released on parole, I was given only a yellow passport and the name of a city in which I was to report in so many days, as is required with all men on parole. On my journey over there, no one that I ran into would shelter me, since I was honest about who I was, I wouldn't hide that I was a convict, not from someone that would have me in a house with them. I tried to sleep on the streets, but a pestering old woman told me to knock on a bishop's door. They took me in and fed me. We talked, and eventually I did thank them and I made a comment that with the food and a real bed, by morning I would be a new man. I had been joking. That night, in a last act of desperation for money, I will admit that I stole the silver, and knocked the bishop unconscious in the process. I left, only to be caught the next day, and taken back to the bishop's home. He gladly confessed to giving me the silver, and even added some to what I already had. When I questioned his actions, and I will never forget the answer, he said that he was buying my soul from evil with the silver that he gave me, and that the night before I had promised him that I would become a new man. So I did."
VALJEAN POV
I watch for the look of pure loathing on his face. I wait for the onslaught of insults. I watch as silence falls around the room. He doesn't look at me, not at first, and when he does, his face is not covered with his usual mask of hate and indifference, but replaced with something softer, and more inviting. He seems almost like a child when his eyes meet mine in a quick and terrified glance, but only for a moment before they flutter to look at the floor.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, breaking the silence that was enough to choke.
"For what?" I brush some strands of hair from his face that seem to stick from sweat.
"For thinking all my life that everyone is one thing or the other," he looks up, "you're not only a lawbreaker, you're a law abider at the same time. You do both at once and you don't even realize it. Not many people would. But I do, or at least now I do."
He starts to cough and I gently run my fingers through his hair, comforting him the best I can, and when the coughing ceases I resume wiping his face with a damp cloth. He doesn't smile, but he does close his eyes. To me, that's a wonderful compliment, coming from him. It shows that he trusts me.
I smile weakly at this small action, a weak gesture for a weak gesture, but it's more than either of us have given the other. I was willing to allow him to keep his job, I was forgetful enough to spare his life when he wouldn't have done the same for me, and he, in turn, was willing to give his own life to allow mine to be lived free. He was willing to give his freedom and eternal life in heaven so that my life on earth was not the living Hell that it had become. I thank him for that, in my silence and in my help, but most of all, in my prayers.
Wetting the cloth once more, I turn him so that he is lying on his back, and I drape the damp cloth over his forehead. When his body starts to shiver yet his fever rages, I lightly pull the covers over his legs, waist, and chest, leaving his neck and face exposed.
Eventually his eyes flutter open once more, and the unreadable expression has returned. I inwardly frown, but I know that I have made improvement. Not too long ago, this same man would shoot me without a second thought, but now he lies in my own home, in my own bed, and seemingly feels safe.
JAVERT POV
"Do you need anything?" his voice is as soft as silk.
Do I need anything? I guess in this position, it's whatever he thinks I need. I have no control over what happens to me, I have no defense. This man could kill me, and though I know he will not, it still does not answer the question he asked though.
The nausea has subsided, very much so. My stomach is empty, and if I don't eat, that could mean trouble for me in the long run, but right now? I'm not too hungry. I don't need anything; I don't want anything, not from Jean Valjean.
"No," quick, precise, harsh.
He nods and sits in a chair at my side.
"Aren't you going to protest?" I inquire, "You never were one for giving in so easily, Valjean."
He shrugs, "If you don't need anything, then you don't. I can't argue about something that I know nothing about."
Does he know nothing? He seems to surprise me with how much he truly knows more and more recently. He could be lying, but why would he? What good comes from him lying about this?
I don't think I will ever truly understand the mind of Jean Valjean.
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a/n: please review!