OOM: Infirmary - Javert

[spit_it_out]

 

The patient is sleeping. Maybe this would be an opportunity to go and get tea, but ever since Guppy told him the guy tried to kill himself, Bruce hasn’t wanted to leave him alone. It feels wrong to look at him while he rests, like it’s an invasion of privacy, but he can’t help the odd glance. And it’s not because – or, not just because – he’s monitoring his condition. This new information changes things, and he can’t pretend it doesn’t.

He asks a rat to bring him a drink. When he hears the signs of stirring from the bed, he doubles the order. Turning to face him is probably a little harder than it should be.

‘How are you feeling?’ He takes the chair by the bedside, noting how wary the guy is, and how his rosary is still tangled in his fingers. ‘I’m Bruce Banner. I was here when you came in.’

He gets no reply. The man’s gaze doesn’t leave his face, so he smiles a little bit in an effort to be reassuring. ‘Your name is Javert, right? Am I pronouncing it correctly?’

Soft ‘J’, silent ‘t’. Javert just looks at him. And, eventually, nods. Bruce locks his fingers together, and bites back all the questions he shouldn’t ask. He’s not trained to go there. ‘You’re French?’

A soft ‘oui’, which the bar doesn’t bother to translate.

‘And a police officer?’

‘Inspector, of the First Class. But you know this, though you may lie and tell me you do not.’

Bruce frowns. The name is familiar, even though he doesn’t think it’s common. He takes a moment, swims back through the years of science and numbers, and arrives at a semester of high school French. And at once, things slot into place. Not many things. The text was not required reading, but it’s not like Victor Hugo is unimportant in the study of French history. He had read the book. He doesn’t remember everything, but yes, enough to place the name. Though how Javert would know where he was written, he can’t guess.

‘Well, first things first. How’s the pain?’

‘No more than it should be.’

Probably bad, then. There’s a patina of sweat on his forehead, and Bruce shifts uncomfortably, because he remembers how cold that can be, and what it means. ‘I’ll up your dosage a little. Though it shouldn’t last much longer. Guppy fixed the rest of the fractures, didn’t he?’

‘Give me no more relief, sir.’

‘You really don’t have to suffer it.’ Though his hand pauses midway to the machine that would ease whatever physical pain he’s feeling. The mental agony, he does not feel equipped to deal with. ‘No one will think less of-‘

Javert’s sneer is all the answer he needs. His hand drops back to his lap. ‘OK. Well.’ They sit in silence for a moment. ‘What year did you come from?’ A glance of confusion, so he adds, ‘everybody comes from different times, here. I don’t know much more than you tell me.’

Javert takes a breath, and pulls himself a little more upright on the pillows. Bruce tries not to help, but in the end, hits the button that raises the bed. He sees the man freeze, clear shock on his face, but doesn’t stop until he’s semi-reclined. ‘Sorry. Your uniform – I’d guess you’re not from what I would call modern times. The bed works on electricity, as do the lights, and most of the equipment. You’ll get used to it.’

The man does not look as though he wants to get used to anything, but he’s still on drugs. And given the circumstances of his arrival, clearly not in a stable frame of mind.

‘Where is my uniform?’

‘Right there in that locker.’ Javert looks, and stretches for it. ‘Here, let me-‘

Again, he is thwarted by the man’s stare. So he just watches as the remains of his clothes are pulled free, and doesn’t miss the way the man’s face crumples as the cut strips of cloth fall apart in his hands.

‘What have you done?’

‘We had to get it off you to treat you. I’m sorry.’

Javert is staring at the remains of his uniform as if his life has disintegrated before him. Which, if he remembers right, may not be far from the truth. He can’t feel bad about it; it was necessary, and he didn’t know what it would mean. But it’s hard not to feel sorry for the look of abject pain on the man’s face. He doesn’t add that at least the remains are now cleaned, and ironed. That would be cruel, though the mental image of the Loompas carefully cleaning what are essentially rags, makes a bubble of inappropriate laughter swell inside him.

With sudden energy, Javert pushes them away. They fall to the floor, and Bruce watches him turn his face so it can’t be seen.

Yeah, he’s definitely not qualified for this.

A few moments more of silence. ’I should probably explain a few things, now you’re mostly fixed up. It’ll be easier once you understand.’

‘I understand perfectly.’

‘Uh…actually, I doubt that. Sorry.’

Javert turns back to him. His glare is quite something, and Bruce doesn’t really appreciate the scrutiny. He can’t keep eye contact. ‘I do not recognise your accent, monsieur. What are you?’

‘I’m American. I’m sorry, I don’t speak French. But the bar translates everything into whatever language people understand.’ He gets the feeling the question was directed at more than just his homeland, but he doesn’t know how to address that. Not unless Javert frames it for him.

Javert doesn’t look inclined to frame anything, at present. ‘American.’

‘Yes.’

‘You do not look like one of the heathen people.’

He feels his eyebrows quirk. ‘That’s because I’m not. There are no heathen people.’

A snort for that, and fingers that twitch on the rosary. It is reply enough.

‘It’s 2006 where I come from. Some years further on from you, right?’

Javert swallows, and the stare flicks away. ‘You are concerned about time. That is strange. And what you say makes no sense. It is the year 1832, and while I understand that human years may have less meaning here, I cannot countenance your words.’

Bruce smiles, a touch sadly. ‘Try.’

And off the man’s look, ‘it gets easier, I promise.’ If he tries.

Javert mutters then, possibly just for his own ears. ‘Things that make noises and move at a touch. And light! With no candles! And devices that fix a man’s bones, when they should not be fixed, when he should no longer breathe. The deuce! What is this version of Hell, and why did I choose it?’

‘You didn’t. It chose you.’

‘Chose me, you say? Then who am I to say it is not right. I have no right, this is true. Very well. I will accept your words, though they are the words of a demon. It is no more than it should be, and I no more than a servant to it. Yes. There will be no questions. It is so.’

Bruce watches in concern, as the man’s quiet agitation makes his face shine with perspiration. There’s a greyness to him he doesn’t like; it could be residual pain from the bones strengthening on their own, and tissue repairing. But it’s more likely mental, and again, his sympathy rises. ‘You can ask questions. You can ask as many as you like. You don’t have to work it all out for yourself. There’s help here, if you want it.’

‘Help? Help. You would offer me aid. What is this? A temptation. I will not. You would prolong my sentence. I see it. It must not be so.’

‘I’m not trying to prolong anything. This isn’t a sentence. It’s a bar, and I know it’s weird – sorry, strange – but it’s only as bad as you make it.’ He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, but if Javert notices, there is no sign of it. ‘It’s called Milliways. And it runs on magic, or some science we don’t understand. It’s going to be hard to understand, but it is for everyone when they first come. It was for me. No one knows why they come here. And you can leave, if there’s a door back to your world. No one’s forcing you to stay.’

If anything, this seems to make things worse. Javert’s fist clenches around his rosary, and the other in the sheets. ‘Back! Ah yes, you would send me to the river, with no hope of redemption. You are a serpent, monsieur, but I am no woman to be offered an apple. I am Javert, and I will not be bribed.’

‘I’m not-‘

‘Enough of this! Say what you must, it will not cause another fall. My ears are closed to it.’

‘You need to calm down.’ Bruce needs to calm down. He takes a breath. ‘Please.’

Another snort. He’s glad when Javert looks away. Even more so when the door opens, and a rat brings the tea. He pours it, and checks his pulse monitor. It’s flashing, but not too high. ‘Here. You need to drink this. And you need to eat something. Do you take sugar?’

‘Leave me.’

‘No, I can’t do that. Milk?’

Javert’s expression is incredulous. Bruce chooses to ignore it, and puts the drink down, undoctored. Then he sits and drinks his own. Nothing is said for the duration. Javert continues to stare at him, and Bruce averts his eyes. It’s a mug of tea, and it’s hot. A long time to endure such a gaze. But he can’t leave him, and he won’t be bullied by a scared man.

Eventually, the eyes move away. He says nothing as Javert picks up his own mug, and takes a sip. Bruce relaxes a little, and sits back in the chair.

‘There are only three rules to this place. No outside business, which means if people from your world appear, you can’t continue old disputes. At least, not with violence. No one’s stopping you arguing. Second rule, no violence. Third rule, no nudity or lewd behaviour in the bar itself. There are rooms upstairs for that – and for just living in, while you’re here. The bar will keep a tab for you. That is, add your expenses to your bill. And there are people here from all over time, and from lots of places you won’t have heard of. It’ll be strange, like I said. But you will get used to it. There’s a security force if you break the rules, and cells for punishment. And, uh…lots of people use magic, or have special abilities.’

He says this last like an apology, because from all the evidence, there’s no way Javert is going to either believe him, or accept it. Indeed, the expression on his face proves him right at once, but there’s nothing he can do about that. It is what it is.

‘You are so casual about devilry. Yes, it would be so. Perhaps it is usual in this place, and placed here to contain those who have earned their freedom. I will have no part of it. I will serve my time. It is just.’

This man is not encouraging himself to think. It’s more alien to Bruce than any being from another planet, and he doesn’t know how to counter it. Javert’s just going to have to work that out on his own. Or have thought imposed on him by someone with less scruples than himself. Sympathy turns to pity, but he’s careful not to let it show.

But something is clear, and he can’t, in good conscience, ignore it. Even if the man won’t hear it. ‘This isn’t Purgatory, you know. It’s a bar. You’re not dead.’

Javert was taking a drink. He sets the mug down quietly now, turns his face to Bruce, and smiles.

It is not a reassuring sight.

‘Of course it is not. And of course, I am not.’

Bruce eyes him. Javert eyes him back. Then, slowly, reclines once more, and raises his attention to the ceiling.

‘Leave me.’

It’s probably for the best, at this point. Bruce nods, and stands. ‘I’ll just be in the next room. You’ll probably be OK to leave the infirmary soon. But I think you should stay at least another night.’

More because of his mental state than physical, but he’ll leave a note for Guppy to that effect. He’s pretty sure mentioning it here won’t bring any good result. Javert gives no response, only closes his eyes again. Bruce waits for a moment, uneasy to his core. But there’s nothing else he can do. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he can help.

No - if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to be near this. Someone else will have to take it from here.