One of my common story structures is to alter POVs every chapter or so, so every character gets a say. I think, for this story, I will alternate between Javert and Valjean, but don't be suprised if random chapters appear in other voices, okay? Thanks.

For the sake of preserving my sanity, all further chapters are counted as having been disclaimed in chapter1. I will not be repeating this. I. Do. Not. Own. Les Miserables. Okay?

Chapter 2

Valjean watched as the doctor carefully peeled Javert's clothes away. He blushed uncomfortably, remembering the man's distress when he had attempted that. In a way, he was glad the stubborn policeman was not conscious of this, despite the worry that came from the collapse. It was possible that if he lived another hundred years, he would never forget the sensation of that powerful man quaking in his arms. Lord have mercy, he had never thought to see the other man brought so low. And he never wanted to see it. Javert was stubborn and powerful and completely unconscious of threats to himself. Or at least he was meant to be.

The doctor began opening Javert's shirt, having carefully removed his outer garments. Cosette gently cleared her throat beside him, and he startled, remembering her presence, and what it meant.

"Cosette ..." he rumbled, embarrassed.

"I'll leave you, father," she murmured gently. "I'll be upstairs."

He turned to her, struggling to find an explanation, to apologise for having so recklessly sent her out into danger. He should have gone himself, once Javert was safe. He'd made a fine mess of trying to help, anyway. She forestalled him, reading his anguish without having to hear a word.

"I'm alright, father. The streets behind were quiet, and a doctor was needed," she smiled reassuringly, then glanced towards the supine figure on their couch, looking away quickly with a blush as she realised what state the man was in. She met his eyes gravely. "I don't pretend to understand, father. He frightens me, and you. He will not yield, or give up trying to hunt you. So I don't understand why you are helping him. But I know you must do what you feel you need to." She embraced him, quickly, and left.

He stared after her, the warmth of her grasp lingering strangely over the warmth from his desperate attempt to comfort Javert. A curious ache grew in his chest, love for her, for understanding him better than he himself ever could. Because he didn't understand himself, or what he'd done. All he knew was that when, on the stairs, he'd glanced out the window and seen Javert facing down the ring of ruffians, the first thing he'd felt was a sudden pride, and then an unexpected terror as they'd fallen on him. He hadn't even stopped to think, merely shouted for Cosette to run, to fetch a doctor, and leapt back downstairs and outside. He remembered realising that, in the minute between window and door, Javert had gone down, buried somewhere under that writhing heap of bodies and anger. And he'd felt a fist of fear and horror close over his heart, and remembering it, he was confused, and afraid.

In the prison, so long ago, he'd been a different man. He'd kept his peace well enough, alright, but when provoked, his strength and bulk had made him a force to be feared. And he had used that, used the fear he'd inspired to control his surroundings to what little degree he'd been able. He'd used violence as both shield and saber, and had soon been feared by guard and prisoner alike. Since then, since the bishop, he'd learned another way to live. He'd learned to value each person and life and to always keep his peace. He'd slipped along that path at times, but always he'd tried to hold to it. But in that instant, seeing that melee, and knowing that under it lay this man, injured or dead, all his lessons fell away and 24601 had leapt roaring out of him to sweep them away. And that frightened him.

"Sir?" The doctor's quiet summons jerked him out of his musing with a vengence, and he moved in an instant to the crouched man's side. The first thing that caught him was the sight of the slim hand in its dapper cuft laid over a chest mottled black with bruising. Javert's chest. The doctor followed his gaze and nodded. "Three ribs broken. It's not so bad up front, but his back's a mess. And there's this." The hand moved down to where a trouser leg had been cut away to bare a long slash in the policeman's calf. "Nasty thing. Whatever did it looks to have been rusted. I don't think there's blood poisoning, though I can't tell at this stage, but the risk of infection is a problem. A big problem. Monsieur ..."

Valjean looked into his face anxiously, waiting for what had stopped him to emerge. Surely it could not be worse than ... than this! This man seemed to be weighing him, even as he felt his anxiety build. "What is it?" he growled harshly. Immediately, he regretted it, and made to apologise, but the doctor raised a hand.

"Monsieur, forgive me. I was trying to find a way to say this gracefully. I am afraid, you see, that this man cannot be moved. I understand the imposition on you and your daughter, but I see no way to avoid it. If his injuries come in contact with infectious material, the risk of illness and infection is too great. In this state, I would be concerned for his chances in fighting a fever or blood-sickness. I'm sorry."

Valjean stared. "You mean he must stay here, on the couch?" he asked slowly. Javert would never tolerate that. It was too public for him to endure. Not to mention the difficulty of him preserving any dignity while being a semi-clothed invalid in front of Cosette. But, thankfully, the doctor shook his head.

"No. If you have a clean room to lay him in, that will be sufficient. You will have to be careful of his ribs, of course. No. It is the streets I'm worried about, and the conditions in the gendarme hospital. He would be better not to move outside the house." Then the doctor looked closely at his doubtful face, and said pointedly, "I don't mean to presume, but this man would seem to have been injured in defense of your house. It would be ... impolite ... to reject him."

Valjean started. "No, Monsieur! I did not mean to imply that I would not have him. But you must understand, he and I ... We are not exactly friends. I do not know how he would take having to remain in my house."

The other man smiled ruefully, shaking his head. "I do not suppose Monsieur l'Inspector has very many friends at all. I doubt it will worry him unduly. Unless," he shot a sharp look at Valjean, "you intend to give him reason to worry?"

Valjean couldn't restrain an appalled look at the implication. He would never harm a man in his care, especially one so injured as Javert. But ... "Never, Monsieur. But, pardon, you know him?"

"Is he supposed to be in disguise?"

Valjean blinked. "No. At least, I do not think so. But how ...?"

"Do you think you are the only man in this city to have crossed paths with the redoubtable inspector?" He smiled gently. "Let us simply say that our friend has a tendancy to make an impression on people. Myself included. And you, no doubt."

Valjean smiled back uncertainly. If only you knew, he thought. Then he turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "He will stay. What do I need to take care of him?"

The doctor stood. "I will dress his injuries myself now, and will send replacements and instructions later. I should also check up on him at least once a week, more in the first two. Is this appropriate?" Bemused, Valjean nodded. Two weeks ... at least! Javert would not be happy about this. He would have to see to a room, on the ground floor so as not to injure the inspector bringing him upstairs, that would give the man some semblance of privacy. Otherwise, he didn't think the inspector would last very long at all.

He looked down at the taunt face tipped against the arm of the couch, frowning even in sleep, and along to the black mass of bruising that the man had recieved fighting for them. For Valjean did not doubt that Javert had stood his ground for their sake. It would have been wiser to retreat, get support, and return. But the man had a sense of honour you could use to hammer steel. It simply wasn't in him to allow an injustice to be commited for the sake of expediency, for all that his view of what actually constituted an injustice was skewed. And Valjean could no more refuse to help him than Javert could have abandoned them to the mob.

"Do what needs to be done, Monsieur doctor. I will take care of him." He didn't look up, still caught in his confused examination of this enigma, and when the hand landed softly on his shoulder, he started.

The doctor looked down at him gravely. "I think you will. Forgive me my presumption, but you seem the kind of man who would. But I do not understand why you say there is nothing between you. Few men would challenge a mob, or countenance such a period of care, for someone they cared nothing for."

Valjean looked back down at Javert. "I did not say there was nothing between us," he corrected softly. "Only that what there is cannot be called friendship. We have a history together, many years in the making. And wherever we go, we always seem to find each other at the journey's end. This man will not die for me. I will not allow it." I will not allow it, he repeated to himself. Not Javert. Their business was yet unfinished. After all, Javert had yet to complete his arrest, end the hunt. And that would be what gave the man will to fight this illness, in the end. Javert disliked mess, he remembered. Well, a mess this would be, until the inspector was healed, and ready to fulfill the promise made so long ago.

Valjean did not notice the doctor leaving tactfully, nor did he fully realise that his hand had strayed up to catch Javert's. He leaned down slightly to murmur to the sleeping man. "I swear to you," he remembered, "I will be there. Rest easy, Monsieur l'Inspector. When the time comes, you will be ready to finish what we started in Toulon. You will make true on your promise in M sur M. I will see to it." He owed Javert that much, for Marius and now Cosette. Their lives were worth a hundred times his, and for helping save them, Javert could have what he wanted of him.

He took one more look at the harsh face, and went to prepare a room.

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Look, I know that promise was from the musical, not the novel, but I always liked it, so here it is. I think that duet in the musical says so much about the two characters and their views of each other. That aside, what do ye think? I hope to continue this, at the cost, it must be said, of some other stories, so R&R?