Bidding farewell to his brunchmates, Zelnick headed into the sunroom, pausing to consider which of the other rooms to spend his time in
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Javert wasn't entirely certain what to expect as his nurse ushered him into the waiting room. He'd been here for two weeks already; if anyone in his 'real life' had wanted to see him, why hadn't they visited sooner?
He sat, straight-backed as ever, in the chair the nurse led him to, face betraying nothing, but someone who knew him well would have noticed a slight tenseness to his shoulders that wasn't usually there. Loath as he was to admit it to himself, he was slightly apprehensive.
He wasn't a fool. He'd read enough about the visitor shifts to know they usually brought in those people who were closest to the patients: family members, dear friends, those whom they had thought were dead. Javert had none of those, and he highly doubted they would bring in an imitation of the prefect of police just to inquire after his health.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Perhaps it was the mind-numbing routine of the days here, or his preoccupation with the coming Nightshift. Whatever it was, Javert was functioning at less than his usual quick wit, and the name of the one man whom he would otherwise have thought of evaded him entirely.
No one would call them good friends, but they had been close. There was a relationship between the two of them that was not civil, but it was there nonetheless.
He hesitated before entering the room, unsure of what to say or how to greet the man, or if he should be here at all. There was a part of his nature that always wanted to run, to keep himself quiet and anonymous. What he was doing was risky, especially knowing Philip's condition. On the other hand, in all cases of ethics between his goals to preserve his safety and preserve his soul, he always favored towards preserving his soul.
So it was that taking a deep breath, Jean Valjean entered the room. "Thank you," he said to the nurse who escorted him. "We'll be fine now."
He approached quietly and took a seat across from Javert. "Phillip," he said awkwardly, unsure of what to say next. "I'm sorry you're here."
Javert froze abruptly at the sound of that voice. For what seemed an eternity, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, almost forgetting to breathe.
It was pointless to try and convince himself he'd heard wrong. What was the use? He knew it like he knew his own. He should have thought of it - a gross oversight in his own estimation - there really would have been only one man they would have brought in, and he was sitting in front of Javert now.
"Valjean." The name escaped his lips in a strangled whisper before he was entirely aware of it, before he realized somewhat belatedly that he would almost certainly have another name here.
He looked up slowly then, ignoring for now the strange, clean-cut clothing this Valjean was wearing, focusing with not-quite-resignation on the other man's face. Exactly the same. Of course.
"Of course," he said out loud, letting out his usual half-bark of a laugh. "It would be you, wouldn't it..."
Valjean sighed softly, ignoring the man's use of a false name but instead pressing the issue of why he came. The nurses had warned him the truth might be too much for him to bear, but the weight of his conscience said that he had to offer the truth, pure and simple. "Phillip, I never wanted it to end like this," he said remorsefully. "I didn't come here for any reason but to apologize. I feel that it is my fault that you are here now."
Javert barely heard him. He wasn't sure what to think any more, wasn't sure what to say - there had been plenty of times here when he was rendered speechless, but even then he had always managed to come up with a sufficiently cutting response.
Now he had nothing.
Whatever had happened to his counterpart in this world must have been similar to his own life. Of course it's your fault, he almost said, but the words stuck in his throat and wouldn't come out. Did he mean that? If he'd known the answer to that question, he wouldn't have killed himself to begin with.
"You would do that," he found himself saying bitterly. "And how did you come to that startling conclusion?"
"Because I was there that night," he replied, his tone sorrowful. He wasn't going to remind phillip that he had been the one to pull him out of the fire, that he had lingered for far too long letting his own cowardice keep him from stepping in sooner. It wasn't out of fear now, but that he knew it would be wrong to try and accept gratitude for stepping in to save him. Phillip would not accept that he had been saved by Valjean, no matter the story, and it would only make things worse.
"I heard you curse my name," he said after a lengthy pause. "I never knew you harbored such a grudge against me for so long, Phillip. If I had been more conscientious of your feelings, perhaps things would have been different between us, perhaps you wouldn't be here at all. So I am truly sorry."
Javert froze. It was one thing to attempt suicide in this world; it was quite another to hear that Valjean himself had been present at the scene. He could hear Sohma's voice ringing in his ears now. You tried to kill yourself, Officer Hunt. You do not remember?
He didn't remember. Not this version. But the utter humiliation of Valjean's being there - it was a lie. It had to be - he knew it had to be - he couldn't bear the humiliation otherwise. It was a lie. He lifted his eyes and met the other man's sickeningly sorrowful gaze, fully intending to use the power that had been given to him almost a week ago.
"I'm still here, Valjean," he said, a harsh note entering his voice. He really did know the other man too well for his own good. "You wouldn't have stood there and watched me. That isn't you."
His gaze dropped to the floor in front of Valjean. He couldn't even meet the eyes of the man whose memories he most wanted to see. How disgustingly ironic.
"I didn't," Valjean replied. "I did everything I could for you. I even tried to convince them that you didn't need this kind of treatment, that being here wouldn't help you. Your being here is my failure to look out for you as I swore to God that I would." This last admission pained him, to think that he had broken a solemn vow that now found Phillip here, trapped by the horrors of his own mind. What had caused him to fall so far?
He couldn't help it. He had already been pushed to the brink of madness before his arrival here. The days spent in the Institute had, possibly in the face of Landel's original intention, given him a chance to recover from his apparently failed suicide. The nights here had given him precious little time to dwell on the life he had led prior to his arrival here. Fighting to stay alive in the present had allowed him to keep on running from his past.
And now that he was being forced to confront that past head-on...he wasn't certain he would emerge from it intact.
"You, look out for me? I don't need your sympathy, Valjean. You should have left me to the river if you'd wanted to help me."
Valjean cringed a little when he heard the man call him 'Valjean.' It wasn't his name, wasn't even close. It hurt to think that after all these years Phillip had forgotten his name.
"I could not have abandoned you, Phillip," he said. "I do not think God above would have forgiven either of us for such mortal sins. I wish you were free, not just of this place, but of your hatred against me. How could a man live with such a burden on his shoulders for so long, without ever even telling me?"
"You expect me to forgive you, then. How like you."
Did the man honestly expect him to do that so easily? Did he think Javert cared if the Almighty simply chose not to forgive him? He had been at an impasse then, had killed himself once already over it, regardless of what the staff here said, regardless of what Valjean said. The only reason he hadn't done so again here was the inexplicable feeling of duty he had to his fellow patients. Until some way out of this place was found...
"Impossible," he said at last. "I - "
His gaze faltered again, not for the first time. How could he forgive the other man when he didn't even know what Valjean had done in this life, nor forget what he had done in the last?
"Phillip," Valjean said, reaching for Javert's hand. "I don't ask that you forgive me for myself, though I do wish it for my own selfish reasons as well. I ask that you forgive me for you. This hate you have in your heart for me is a part of what brought you here, and what keeps you here. You can't let go of me, of what happened between us. It is a time that is dead, let it die. Be at peace."
Any remaining doubts about this man being anyone other than Valjean were completely dispelled from Javert's mind by now. There was no possibility of him being anyone else. This was no talented actor.
He withdrew his hand as Valjean reached for it, but he realized with something resembling curiosity that there was no anger in the action, only a faint irony. A mere five minutes ago, he would have asked what had happened between them; two minutes ago, it would have meant conceding victory; now, he found he no longer cared.
It was no use. Neither of them would yield. Nothing, he was sure, had changed over the course of two hundred years. Nothing ever would.
"You know as well as I do that I cannot." There was nothing but broken resignation in his voice now. "For God's sake, Valjean, leave me be."
Valjean was silent as he debated staying or going. Though they had just met, in his heart he knew Phillip was right. Nothing he said would influence the other man, nothing would free his heart. "I will do as you ask," he said, standing up slowly. "I am sorry I could not be a better friend to you. I only hope that God will be able to help you where I could not. Goodbye, Phillip."
He had done wrong to this man, he knew, and had spent so much of his life trying to make up for it both to him and to God. And yet it seemed there would be no act that would bring Phillip back now. All he had left for the man was faith.
He didn't respond at first. What would be the use? There was nothing left for him to say. Valjean had had the last word, as he had before, as he no doubt always would.
And as for himself, he supposed this was the end of it. He would remain at an impasse with himself for the rest of his stay here, until he was killed or somehow, against all odds, the patients found a way to escape - and then, he knew, he would inevitably meet his end. It seemed, even to him, a terrible life to live, but he could think of no other way. Not when the prospect of forgiveness - for himself as well as for the man now leaving - seemed so far away.
"Goodbye, Valjean. It seems you've won again."
The words were faint - even he was hardly sure he'd said them for a moment - but they left his mouth nonetheless. Javert buried his head in his hands and let out a sound that was more a choke than a laugh.
He sat, straight-backed as ever, in the chair the nurse led him to, face betraying nothing, but someone who knew him well would have noticed a slight tenseness to his shoulders that wasn't usually there. Loath as he was to admit it to himself, he was slightly apprehensive.
He wasn't a fool. He'd read enough about the visitor shifts to know they usually brought in those people who were closest to the patients: family members, dear friends, those whom they had thought were dead. Javert had none of those, and he highly doubted they would bring in an imitation of the prefect of police just to inquire after his health.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Perhaps it was the mind-numbing routine of the days here, or his preoccupation with the coming Nightshift. Whatever it was, Javert was functioning at less than his usual quick wit, and the name of the one man whom he would otherwise have thought of evaded him entirely.
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He hesitated before entering the room, unsure of what to say or how to greet the man, or if he should be here at all. There was a part of his nature that always wanted to run, to keep himself quiet and anonymous. What he was doing was risky, especially knowing Philip's condition. On the other hand, in all cases of ethics between his goals to preserve his safety and preserve his soul, he always favored towards preserving his soul.
So it was that taking a deep breath, Jean Valjean entered the room. "Thank you," he said to the nurse who escorted him. "We'll be fine now."
He approached quietly and took a seat across from Javert. "Phillip," he said awkwardly, unsure of what to say next. "I'm sorry you're here."
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It was pointless to try and convince himself he'd heard wrong. What was the use? He knew it like he knew his own. He should have thought of it - a gross oversight in his own estimation - there really would have been only one man they would have brought in, and he was sitting in front of Javert now.
"Valjean." The name escaped his lips in a strangled whisper before he was entirely aware of it, before he realized somewhat belatedly that he would almost certainly have another name here.
He looked up slowly then, ignoring for now the strange, clean-cut clothing this Valjean was wearing, focusing with not-quite-resignation on the other man's face. Exactly the same. Of course.
"Of course," he said out loud, letting out his usual half-bark of a laugh. "It would be you, wouldn't it..."
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Now he had nothing.
Whatever had happened to his counterpart in this world must have been similar to his own life. Of course it's your fault, he almost said, but the words stuck in his throat and wouldn't come out. Did he mean that? If he'd known the answer to that question, he wouldn't have killed himself to begin with.
"You would do that," he found himself saying bitterly. "And how did you come to that startling conclusion?"
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"I heard you curse my name," he said after a lengthy pause. "I never knew you harbored such a grudge against me for so long, Phillip. If I had been more conscientious of your feelings, perhaps things would have been different between us, perhaps you wouldn't be here at all. So I am truly sorry."
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Javert froze. It was one thing to attempt suicide in this world; it was quite another to hear that Valjean himself had been present at the scene. He could hear Sohma's voice ringing in his ears now. You tried to kill yourself, Officer Hunt. You do not remember?
He didn't remember. Not this version. But the utter humiliation of Valjean's being there - it was a lie. It had to be - he knew it had to be - he couldn't bear the humiliation otherwise. It was a lie. He lifted his eyes and met the other man's sickeningly sorrowful gaze, fully intending to use the power that had been given to him almost a week ago.
"I'm still here, Valjean," he said, a harsh note entering his voice. He really did know the other man too well for his own good. "You wouldn't have stood there and watched me. That isn't you."
His gaze dropped to the floor in front of Valjean. He couldn't even meet the eyes of the man whose memories he most wanted to see. How disgustingly ironic.
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He couldn't help it. He had already been pushed to the brink of madness before his arrival here. The days spent in the Institute had, possibly in the face of Landel's original intention, given him a chance to recover from his apparently failed suicide. The nights here had given him precious little time to dwell on the life he had led prior to his arrival here. Fighting to stay alive in the present had allowed him to keep on running from his past.
And now that he was being forced to confront that past head-on...he wasn't certain he would emerge from it intact.
"You, look out for me? I don't need your sympathy, Valjean. You should have left me to the river if you'd wanted to help me."
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"I could not have abandoned you, Phillip," he said. "I do not think God above would have forgiven either of us for such mortal sins. I wish you were free, not just of this place, but of your hatred against me. How could a man live with such a burden on his shoulders for so long, without ever even telling me?"
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Did the man honestly expect him to do that so easily? Did he think Javert cared if the Almighty simply chose not to forgive him? He had been at an impasse then, had killed himself once already over it, regardless of what the staff here said, regardless of what Valjean said. The only reason he hadn't done so again here was the inexplicable feeling of duty he had to his fellow patients. Until some way out of this place was found...
"Impossible," he said at last. "I - "
His gaze faltered again, not for the first time. How could he forgive the other man when he didn't even know what Valjean had done in this life, nor forget what he had done in the last?
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He withdrew his hand as Valjean reached for it, but he realized with something resembling curiosity that there was no anger in the action, only a faint irony. A mere five minutes ago, he would have asked what had happened between them; two minutes ago, it would have meant conceding victory; now, he found he no longer cared.
It was no use. Neither of them would yield. Nothing, he was sure, had changed over the course of two hundred years. Nothing ever would.
"You know as well as I do that I cannot." There was nothing but broken resignation in his voice now. "For God's sake, Valjean, leave me be."
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He had done wrong to this man, he knew, and had spent so much of his life trying to make up for it both to him and to God. And yet it seemed there would be no act that would bring Phillip back now. All he had left for the man was faith.
He turned to leave.
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And as for himself, he supposed this was the end of it. He would remain at an impasse with himself for the rest of his stay here, until he was killed or somehow, against all odds, the patients found a way to escape - and then, he knew, he would inevitably meet his end. It seemed, even to him, a terrible life to live, but he could think of no other way. Not when the prospect of forgiveness - for himself as well as for the man now leaving - seemed so far away.
"Goodbye, Valjean. It seems you've won again."
The words were faint - even he was hardly sure he'd said them for a moment - but they left his mouth nonetheless. Javert buried his head in his hands and let out a sound that was more a choke than a laugh.
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