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It is not until Javert is kissing Valjean that he realizes he has wanted to for a long, long time.
The kiss is brief, a tentative taste, a brush of lips, a tingling down the spine. Javert leans back, hoping he has not misread this, already preparing to dismiss his feelings and give Valjean any avenue out he might need. Valjean's face is flushed, his lips parted in surprise—and then he touches Javert's hand, and there is the cold weight of a coin in his palm.
The moment is broken. Javert looks at his hand, startled—it is a franc. Valjean has just given him a franc. That cannot be. When he looks up, the light flush in Valjean's face has deepened, and he is already halfway across the kitchen. "Did you just pay me?" Javert asks.
Valjean smiles with too much teeth. "Did I? No, but I do think I will go for a walk. Have a good evening!" And he exits the room with a flurry of coattails, walking directly into the broom closet.
"Valjean," he says, not sure if he is insulted or not, "what the devil are you doing? Come out and take back this franc."
Valjean's laugh is a touch desperate. "I've walked into the closet."
"Perhaps you should come out."
"This door does not take me outside."
Javert pinches the bridge of his nose. It would be funny if it weren't the worst way he could think of being rejected—one so strange he had not, indeed, even considered it. "Yes, I think we've established that. For God's sake, Valjean, come out, and I'll promise to never do that again."
There is no reply for several moments; Javert turns the franc over in his hand, scowling at it. "If I come out," Valjean says, finally, "would you perhaps—instead of not doing that—do that again?"
Heat creeps up Javert's collar and he snaps his head up. "Well!" he says, and takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "Well! I'll think about it, if you agree to never give me a franc for it."
"...did I really give you a franc?" The door creaks open, and Valjean peers out, his face still very much red, though his expression has sobered. Javert holds up the franc so it glints in the sunlight. "Ah."
"Indeed."
"Forgive me," he says, bowing his head.
Javert shakes his head and tosses the coin onto the table with a noisy clatter. "Come help me clear the table," he says.
With a small nod, Valjean slinks out of the closet; they clear the table in silence. Their fingers brush as they both reach for the same plate—and Valjean actually gasps at the touch. It makes no sense. He has never bothered to stay his hand when it came to touching Javert—it has always been gentle and sure, whether it was to help him dress or to cup the back of his neck as he drank or to gently clasp his arm as they walked past each other in the hall. He has even run his fingers through Javert's hair, slowly, and at the time Javert thought he knew what it did to him. Surely he knew. Yet he has been calm and self-assured through it all, never faltering, never flinching—and even as Javert leaned forward to kiss him, he watched him with that assured benevolence and did not move away.
And now he gasps at an accidental brush of fingers, and when Javert goes to chide him, finds that he is blushing. "Now you've done it, Javert," he says to himself under his breath. "That's just the thing I need—to make a fool of us both."
"Pardon?" Valjean says.
"Nevermind."
It is a relief when the dishes have been cleaned and Valjean can make his escape out the back door.
*
Their second kiss is an act of grim determination. Javert would not even bother with it if not for the way Valjean seems utterly incapable of doing it himself, but since that first time, Valjean has made several aborted attempts to kiss him. He has tried it on the couch, in the hall, before leaving to give alms, each time leaning forward, grasping Javert's arm, each time determined until the last moment when his face grew flustered and his touch hot. Twice he patted Javert on the head. Once he attempted to fix his collar. Another, he pressed a franc in his hand, and then, laughing, took it back and hurried away.
It is rather like being courted by a nervous bird.
And so Javert, sick of Valjean's dancing about, takes it upon himself to kiss him. It is early in the morning, with the sun still rousing itself on a gray horizon, and Valjean has not dressed yet. Javert is in the living room, eating a piece of bread and sipping at coffee; he watches Valjean meander past him into the kitchen. A moment later, without thinking fully about what he intends to do, he sets down his breakfast and follows Valjean.
"Good morning," Valjean says. He sets the kettle on the stove; though he occasionally takes coffee, he prefers tea.
Javert touches his shoulder and he turns—perhaps he should say something charming or witty, but he is thinking only of the way Valjean's body shows through his white shirt, and so he does not bother. Instead, he touches his cheek, leans forward, and kisses him, altogether too roughly for this early in the morning. Valjean shudders and opens his mouth, which is so startling a temptation that Javert does not dare to even consider it, and instead sucks at his lower lip before pulling back.
Blush blooms in Valjean's face and runs down his neck; Javert can see that his nipples are hard.
"There," Javert says, more to himself than Valjean. "That was not so difficult." Triumphant, he turns on his heel and returns to the living room. His coffee is, thankfully, still warm.
When Valjean joins him in the living room, he is still blushing, but he is also smiling, and does not jerk away when Javert squeezes his hand.
*
A glass of wine with supper, Javert discovers, is an incredible cure for Valjean's shyness. They can sit together on the couch and kiss for any length of time without Valjean balking and excusing himself, though he still flushes, and cannot handle being touched too familiarly, which is fine with Javert. There is happiness enough in the slow burn of their kisses, Valjean's wet tongue and the taste of wine, the careful way Valjean threads his hands through his hair and strokes his face and neck. If the glass of wine turns into two or three, then it is inevitable that Valjean will kiss Javert until he drifts to sleep, his kisses becoming lazier and lazier, trailing off into gentle brushes along his jaw and neck and shoulder and then the quiet descent into sleep.
Tonight, Javert has gambled on two glasses of wine and has been rewarded greatly for it—they are spread out on the couch, Valjean resting on top of him, their bodies fitted together. Valjean has undone his queue, and he lazily runs his fingers through Javert's hair and kisses at his neck. Javert strokes the back of his head, his strong shoulders, his firm back—and when his fingers dip against his lower back, Valjean gasps into his neck and jerks his hips forward, so that it is evident to them both how hard he is. Gratitude washes over Javert; he has wondered whether or not Valjean is so saintly that he does not feel such base desires—but there is no ignoring such firm evidence, and he rolls his hips up against Valjean, so that he might know he is not alone in his arousal.
Valjean shivers and presses his face into Javert's neck. His hands have gone still, tangled in his hair. "Father forgive me," he whispers.
"Please tell me you do not have any francs on you," Javert says, lightly.
It earns him a shaky laugh. "I do not. I—" Javert rolls his hips again and he gasps. "Javert," he says, and his thighs tighten at Javert's hips. Then again: "Javert!" and he shudders violently and opens his mouth at Javert's throat, and he does not relax, after, tense over him. "What have I done?" he says, and buries his face in Javert's chest.
It is a hard thing not to laugh. Javert must admit he is relieved to know that he is not alone in being quite moved by Valjean. "There, there," he says. He pats Valjean's back. "It is fine. The Lord above will forgive you this trespass, I am sure."
Valjean chokes back a small noise. It is nearly half an hour before he summons the strength to lift his head from Javert's chest—and by then, Javert has drifted off to sleep, and so does not see that the blush has not abandoned his face even then. With a choked laugh, Valjean slips a franc into his palm. Perhaps it will amuse him in the morning.
*
For a week after their session on the couch, Valjean avoids Javert. Initially Javert thinks he is being paranoid—his hours, after all, do not always afford them time together, and they are both men who value their privacy. It is not until he meets Valjean in the morning—he just coming home from work, Valjean cooking breakfast—and only earns a small smile as a greeting even after kissing the back of Valjean's neck that he decides he is not imagining things.
This new turn of events stumps him.
He decides to let it run its course, though it is difficult now that he has had a taste of Valjean. After all, they both value their privacy. This recent development of—well, of whatever it is—is just as strange for Javert as it is for Valjean. It will be fine. It will solve itself.
Three days pass, and it does not solve itself. If anything, it becomes worse, because Valjean begins to attempt conversation and ruins it the moment after by smiling blandly and leaving the room; he brushes at Javert's arms and back as they pass through rooms but pretends he hasn't the moment Javert goes to reciprocate. It is all very irritating—he had been so quick as Madeleine to chastise and humiliate him; if Javert has done something wrong, why not simply berate him? The absurdity of living with a man and hardly sharing a word for almost two weeks is more than Javert can handle. He was not sure whether to be offended by the franc—he cannot help but be offended by this.
So it is on the fourth day that he gives in and corners Valjean in his study. Javert is tired from a shift that has lasted many hours longer than it should've, and he is angry, and he has been thinking about Valjean's lazy kisses all day.
Valjean is reading by the fire, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his shoes tucked under the chair and his stocking-clad feet crossed. As Javert enters the study, he looks up, startled, and starts to smile—but stops when he sees Javert's expression.
"Good evening, Monsieur," Javert says, wielding the title with no small measure of irritation. "May I please have a moment of your time?"
Valjean closes the book. "Javert—"
"I only find it strange," he says, advancing ruthlessly, very much the Inspector who haunts Paris, "that a man can go from living under your roof and knowing your mouth to being treated like an ill-mannered house guest. I came to inquire after this, Monsieur, and to inquire as to whether I should find other lodgings."
"Javert," he says again, sharp this time. "What are you talking about?"
"What indeed!" Javert slams his hands on the armrests. "What did I do, Valjean? Only tell me—don't be a doddering old fool about this and think you are doing me a service by ignoring me. I do not need to kiss you, but I should like your company, at the least!"
"You've done nothing—"
"Nothing! he says! Then what is it? What, is it that you could not help yourself that night? I don't care! Why should I?" Valjean's face flushes, turning a deep color in the flickering orange firelight, and Javert leans closer; Valjean sinks into the chair and squirms slightly. "Don't you understand? I have thrown everything away because of you, and would do it again, but I cannot bear to have you pretend I am not here."
Valjean gapes at him.
"Well?" Javert says. "What did I do? How can I rectify it? Or am I beyond you now, all for some sin I did not know I committed?"
"Javert," Valjean says for the third time, weakly, sunk now in the chair so low that Javert must bend in half to keep level with his face. "I do not know what to say." He touches Javert's arm, a chaste plea. "You have done no wrong by me."
"But?"
Valjean hesitates, and can no longer meet Javert's eyes. He tries to speak several times and falters. He takes a steadying breath. "I should not want what I do," he says, finally. "It is wrong. To talk and be together—that is fine. But to want—" He chokes on the words, the flush creeping up his ears. "To want—that—"
"You are a convicted thief who broke parole, escaped prison, bought a child, evaded the law for decades, and assisted a revolt," Javert says. "You are going to balk at wanting your prick touched?"
Valjean makes a tiny noise.
"Prick," Javert repeats, slightly mad. Valjean covers his face. "My God, you are insufferable. I am going to bed. Please think of some conversation to have in the morning."
As he strides out of the study, he wonders if perhaps he should have been gentler; he takes to his room and undresses quickly, palming at himself as he does, imagining the other ways that could have gone, with his mouth on Valjean's prick, with his tongue on Valjean's, with his hands slipping along Valjean's heated belly and teasing at his nipples. It occurs to him that he is depraved, and that perhaps Valjean is right, that this is a sin that should not be courted, that he should focus instead on tending his newborn soul. But why should he not have both? he thinks viciously—his feelings for Valjean are altogether tender, and cannot be wholly excised from his new moral horizon; and it is only human for him to want to bask in the light of Valjean's soul in one hand and to worship his body in the other.
He has blown out the candles and taken to his bed in earnest when there is a knock at his door. Surprised, he tucks himself away, aware that his hand is heady with the musk of his cock, and sits up in bed. "Come in."
The door creaks open. In the darkness, it is difficult to tell if Valjean is still blushing, but judging from the curve of his shoulders and the nervous way he plucks at his collar, it is, Javert supposes, very likely. Valjean hesitates in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. "May I...?"
"Yes," Javert says, not needing to hear the rest. His hardness is uncomfortable; sweat drips down his back. He is glad he did not remove his shirt, because he is of the distinct impression that any nudity would frighten Valjean away at this point, would startle him like an uneasy bird.
Valjean steps in and shuts the door. "Forgive me," he says. "I did not mean to upset you."
"Of course. I did not mean to snap." Javert starts to move toward the edge of the bed, but before he can, Valjean has crossed the room and set a knee on the edge; it traps him, there, paralyzes him with want and anticipation.
He can hear Valjean swallow. He wishes he had left at least one candle lit, so that he could better see how he looks, now, what flush has spread across his face, what thoughts cross his mind. Then, it does not matter, because Valjean bends down and traces his lips across Javert's cheek. That touch is enough to make Javert ache, but he is careful when he rests his hands on Valjean's shoulders, careful as he turns into Valjean's kiss.
They kiss slowly, without tongues. Valjean slides close and wraps his arms around Javert's neck.
Time trickles away, meaningless.
Then Valjean leans back, a touch breathless, and says, "Say it again."
Javert, who is very much removed from coherent thought, struggles to process this request. He cannot remember the last thing he said. "I forgive you?"
"No." Valjean rests his head in the crook of his neck. "Not that." He mouths at the exposed skin of his neck, and Javert is suddenly aware of how hard he still is; his cock twitches against his trousers and he tries not to groan. "What—" He swallows. "What you said in the study."
He would puzzle over this if Valjean did not keep kissing at his throat. As it is, he is not in any position to do much puzzling at all. "Ah." He pauses. "You are insufferable?"
Valjean groans. The sound goes straight from his neck to his cock. "No, no. Oh, God. Forget I've said anything." Before Javert can protest this, Valjean resumes kissing him, loose and hungry.
They wind up lying next to each other, Javert half-tangled in the sheets, and they kiss, and kiss—and then it hits Javert. He breaks the kiss—Valjean chasing fruitlessly after him—and says, "Prick?"
Valjean groans softly.
"That is it, isn't it?" he says. "Prick." Valjean shudders and nuzzles at his throat, hiding his face—but Javert can feel the heat radiating off him, knows that he is not alone, and Valjean has never been able to deceive Javert. Valjean's mouth works lower, sucking and kissing along the collar of his shirt until he has reached the first button, and he fumbles with the buttons—with each new swath of skin he resumes kissing, tasting at Javert's chest. This is an unexpected development. "Would you like me to touch your prick?"
Valjean whimpers.
"Cock," he tries, and Valjean takes that moment to lick his nipple, so that it comes out a half-laugh, half-gasp. Javert slides his hand down Valjean's back—he cannot quite reach his ass, because Valjean has slithered even further down, has begun kissing the soft skin of his belly and nuzzling there. "I—I am not sure what you want me to say."
"Anything," Valjean murmurs, his breath hot on his stomach.
"Anything," he repeats. His hips buck forward and he clenches his teeth. "If you do not suck my cock in the next ten minutes," he says, "I will not forgive you. Does that suffice?"
Valjean hesitates, his hands hovering over the thin fabric of Javert's trousers, his lips light at the crook of his hip. "I don't know how," he says.
"I wouldn't know the difference." He wishes Valjean would look at him, but the man keeps nuzzling and kissing tentatively at his stomach and burying his face against the soft skin there, and he does not look up, not even when he finally slips open Javert's trousers and begins to dip his kisses lower. "Valjean—Valjean, oh, God, look at me, Valjean. Look at me, please." Valjean kisses the inside of his thigh, and the curls of his hair brush along the hard length of Javert's cock; he glances up, the whites of his eyes visible in the dark room, catching moonlight. Javert strokes the hair away from his forehead. "Suck my cock," he says, and Valjean's eyes flutter shut, and his lips fall apart soundlessly. He buries his face in Javert's thigh and groans. "Valjean," he repeats, because he does not know what else to say, and is afraid of the things he would like to say.
Valjean begins to trail kisses along his thighs, along his hips, nuzzles against the soft hair between his legs—but every time he nears Javert's prick, he hesitates and falls away, shyly demurring fresh kisses at the sensitive, pale skin of his thighs. "I want to," he murmurs, so softly Javert almost doesn't hear it. "But I...it's..."
With a frustrated huff of breath, Javert grabs Valjean by the shoulders and yanks him up the bed. He presses him onto his back and, without fanfare or fuss, divests him of his shirt and trousers; he can hear Valjean's shoulder pop as he yanks off his shirt and presses a kiss to it in apology, but Valjean does not complain, squirming underneath him and trying to help. When he realizes what Javert means to do—when Javert begins to trail a much more straight-forward line down Valjean's stomach—he makes a strangled whining sound in his throat and covers himself.
Javert pauses and peers up at Valjean; he has covered his eyes with one hand while keeping the other firmly over his erection. He shifts uncomfortably. "I would like to put my mouth on that," Javert says. "If you don't mind."
Valjean nods, but does not move his hand.
"We don't have to," Javert says.
He nods again.
"...would you like your trousers back?"
Valjean bites his lip. He does not answer for several moments, and then it is a strangled: "No."
"Then," Javert says, trying not to laugh, "may I please have access to your cock before you bring yourself off?"
"Don't look at it," Valjean says.
"It's going into my mouth, Valjean."
"But—"
Javert sighs and gently pries his hand away—but he does not let himself linger over his cock though he should like to. Instead, he glances down long enough to ensure he does not prod himself in the eye, and bends down, shuts his eyes, and sucks gently at the very tip. The noise Valjean makes startles them both. If he had any doubts as to whether or not Valjean wanted this, they are shattered when Valjean grips him by the hair with both hands so hard that it hurts, a sharp pain that makes him gasp. "Easy," he growls, and Valjean's grip relaxes; he pets Javert's hair and face in apology, and Javert takes the opportunity to resume his work, bending down over his cock and taking the head of it in his mouth—he didn't anticipate having to stretch his mouth so wide to take it, and the weight of it is pleasant, the taste less so. He sucks tentatively and slips his tongue against the curve of his foreskin, and Valjean bucks his hips—Javert gags as his mouth is fucked and he holds Valjean down by the hips; by the time he has collected himself again and begun to pull off Valjean's cock, the man is spending, his cock twitching against the roof of his mouth. Javert swallows instinctively, and, surprised at the arousal that rushes through him at the act, continues, swallowing and sucking until Valjean has finished.
He extracts Valjean's hands from his hair and sits up. Valjean, tension cut, rolls onto his side and covers his head with a pillow.
"Valjean," he says. Valjean curls in on himself; his neck is dark with blush. He lies down next to Valjean, insinuating himself against him, and wraps an arm around him—so that Valjean cannot ignore what has happened here, so that he cannot turn away. He kisses the back of his neck, gently, and tugs the pillow out of Valjean's grip. "Go to sleep," he says.
Valjean kisses his knuckles.
They drift to sleep.
*
"I have been selfish."
Javert looks up from his paper. "Pardon?" He is halfway through thinking, Not now, Valjean, because it is much too early in the morning, but as he looks up, he is graced with the sight of Valjean, determined and very pink about the ears.
Some of the determination drains from him at Javert's steady gaze, but he recovers and repeats, "I have been selfish. I am sorry."
Javert snorts and returns to his paper. "Yes, you are very selfish. I do not know how I bear it, but one does what one must."
"I am being serious, Javert." He sticks his hand between Javert and the paper and pushes it down. "Please—this is difficult enough without you mocking me."
At this, Javert focuses; his drowsiness dissipates. He straightens in his chair and leans forward. "All right," he says, "but you will have to be more specific, because I do not understand where this is coming from."
"Yes, I know." Valjean ducks his head and toys with his cravat. "I am referring to—that is, I have been selfish in—with—" His face waxes from pink to a deep red. Javert considers bestowing mercy on him, but he supposes that there must come a time for Valjean to discuss what they do. For the most part, they are chaste with their affection, free with kisses and gentle touches, but Javert has also been familiarizing himself with Valjean's body, learning how he likes his cock sucked, learning how to grind against him to completion no matter the odd surface they've picked, learning when to wield his teeth rather than his lips. One would think that Valjean would have overcome his shyness at this point. It's been nearly a month since he first took Valjean's cock in his mouth.
It is too early in the morning for mercy, Javert decides. He folds his hands on the table and waits.
"With sex," Valjean finishes, pained. He takes a moment to scrub at his face, then runs his hands through his hair; when he drops his hands again, his hair sticks out the way it often does when Javert has just finished with him. "I have not treated you equally."
"That is news to me," Javert says. Then, because this is far too amusing and Valjean has brought this on himself, he asks, "How so?"
Valjean covers his face with his hands. "Javert..."
"I truly don't understand."
"You—you give me—things—at your expense."
"Things," Javert repeats, smiling.
"Yes. And because it is difficult for me to—reciprocate—you often are left having to take care of yourself. That is unfair."
"Terribly so. Alas. Suffering produces perseverance, I suppose."
Valjean has perhaps decided to ignore Javert, because he plows on, still speaking into his hands, his voice muffled. "I would like to rectify that. If I can."
Javert pats his back. "I will think of something. But I will be late if I stay any longer."
He slides a franc across the table as he takes his leave, and is rewarded by the strangled sound of Valjean's laughter as he shuts the door behind him.
*
It is with some irritation and some chagrin that Javert spends most of his day thinking about all the ways he might allow Valjean to soothe his conscience. Surely the man does not truly believe he has been selfish. Has Javert not made it clear that he enjoys what he does? Does it matter if Javert has to sometimes take himself in hand or go without? "That idiot!" he blurts out while working at his desk. His fellow police are so used to him that no one turns to look or listen, but he catches himself all the same. Even if it were about giving and taking orgasms equally, he would refuse that on the basis that Valjean has given him something more valuable than a temporary pleasure. If anything, Javert is the leech, taking Valjean's mercy and kindness and giving him shame and discomfort in return.
He lapses into brooding and does not speak for many hours.
By the time he has finished his shift, night has settled over Paris; the lanterns cast an eerie glow. Though it is quicker to take a route by the Seine home, he avoids it—not because he fears lapsing and falling from grace, but because he is already surly enough as it is and is sure that Valjean will be eager to begin making his amends when he comes home.
The windows are dark. Odd. Javert tries the door and finds it locked—but Valjean shuns the locked door, insisting that anyone desperate enough to come through his door unwanted must be in dire straits.
Immediately he is struck to the core by fear, and then the anger follows, making his whole body taut and vibrant. He tightens his hand on his cane and slides away from the door, slipping into the shadows of the garden. Something must have happened. Has Valjean been found? Does the man have enemies? The Thénardiers, he thinks. Of course. He sneaks around to the nearest window and peers in—the kitchen is undisturbed, clean as ever, though the breadbox is open and emptied. What he can see of the dining room is also untouched. He makes his way around the house, checking every window for signs of a break-in, but there is nothing out of order. The curtains have been drawn over Valjean's bedroom, but there is the weak flickering of candlelight against it. So: The Thénardiers and the Patron-Minette gang have taken him to his room and somehow managed to subdue him there.
Javert is very calm as he makes his way back to his window. He is in the habit of leaving it unlatched, and checks it now; that, at least, has been left unlocked, and he opens it silently and slips inside. He pauses a moment, listening. There are no sounds—but as he lingers in his room, he notices a strange mix of smells: Roast and some sort of perfume. He does not know what to make of that. With an irritated shake of his head, he pads out of his room, keeping one eye on the end of the hallway as he creeps towards Valjean's room. Again he pauses, listening at the door. Nothing. The candlelight flickers steadily under the door.
Javert squares his shoulders, making himself as imposing as possible—and he grasps the doorknob so that it makes a clattering sound and opens the door.
There is no one in the room but Valjean, who is curled up on his bed with his pillow over his head.
Not quite convinced that he is not being duped, Javert wordlessly checks the dark corners of the room, then his wardrobe, and then leaves the room and checks the rest of the house, room by room, checking every nook. But no—they are completely alone. He returns to Valjean's room and stands in the doorway, baffled, temples still pounding with adrenaline. A sharp metal taste is in the back of his throat. "Valjean?" he ventures. "Are you ill?"
Valjean moans sadly.
"It must have come on fast, for it to have put you to bed this quickly," he says. He shuts the door behind him and approaches the bed.
"Cosette," Valjean says.
Javert freezes. Oh, God help him, what could have happened to Cosette to throw Valjean into such misery? She cannot be—she cannot be dead, surely, not so young—"What happened?" he asks, abandoning his cane and hat and sitting on the edge of the bed next to Valjean.
"Cosette," he says, and curls in on himself a little more tightly. "She..."
Javert rests a hand on his arm, hoping it is a comfort.
"She walked in," he moans.
"...pardon?"
"I had not expected—and so I was...and she—" Valjean groans. "She saw everything."
"What?"
"Everything, Javert. My flower saw—things—horrible things."
It is only the gravity with which Valjean says this that keeps Javert from laughing. He covers his mouth, very quietly, and thanks God for the way Valjean's face remains buried because it keeps him from seeing how Javert's shoulders shake. "Oh," he manages to say.
"She stayed for dinner," he adds, anguished.
Javert bites his lip. It was surely very traumatizing for the both of them. "I am sure it was not that bad," he says. There, that was very composed—Valjean surely cannot tell he is trying not to burst into laughter, and certainly not with a pillow clamped so tightly over his ear.
Valjean does not answer for a moment. Then: "Everything, Javert!"
Javert excuses himself, and does not even bother to take his hat and cane as he steps out into the garden. He manages to contain his laughter until he has reached the far gate—and then he cannot, and laughs, and laughs, until he is gasping for breath against the iron bars.
He is sure it will be a setback—and he could not care less.
*
It is two weeks before Valjean allows for anything more daring than a few chaste kisses. Even these make him jumpy, and result in him fixing his sleeves and collar and checking to make sure no one has burst in through the front door. This fanfare makes Javert horribly curious to know what state, exactly, Cosette saw her father in, but he does not press the matter—Valjean still occasionally has fits of embarrassment, covering his face and going immobile wherever he happens to be sitting or standing. Indeed, twice he even stops mid-stride.
One morning, a letter comes in the post from M. Pontmercy, addressed to Messieurs Javert & Fauchelevent—and so Javert sees no harm in keeping it from Valjean long enough for him to read it in private. The note itself is very simple, and scrawled in a hesitant way. All it says is: Please keep the front door locked from now on. Javert, laughing to himself, burns the note—it is rather unnecessary, as Valjean has taken it upon himself to carefully lock the door whenever it shuts, even—perhaps especially—when they are both home. He is tempted to visit the newly-weds and inform them of such, but that would be uncouth of him and would not help matters at all.
At least the note is illuminating in one way: He now has some idea of what state Cosette found him in, and perhaps what Valjean said when the door opened.
When his work is trying or his bed lonely, he only need imagine the various ways Valjean may have attempted a sultry Inspector Javert, you have found me! to improve his mood.
*
Valjean has been invited to dinner with Cosette and Marius.
Normally he does not need to be invited, strictly speaking, because of Cosette's—well, unfortunate—habit of dropping by the house and leaving with Valjean on her arm, the both of them sickeningly happy together. In the past few weeks, however, she has been noticeably absent from their doorstep, and though Valjean has been allowing for bolder kisses behind locked doors, his mood is deteriorating to the point that Javert cannot be happy for it.
The invitation is just a small slip of rough paper, and Javert reads it over Valjean's shoulder. They have also invited him, if he should like—and the moment he reads that, he shudders violently. "No," he says. "I have to work—I will—cannot."
Valjean hesitates. "I would like for you to come," he says, slowly. "I do wish you and Cosette talked more—"
"At all," Javert mutters under his breath. He backs away from the chair and shakes his head. "I will not ask for time off, Valjean. You go. Perhaps another time—perhaps. In a month or two." It is not that Javert dislikes Cosette—she is a kind enough girl and takes after her father in agreeable ways without being quite so foolish. No, it is not that, but Javert is uneasy around her all the same. And Marius, the revolutionary who was supposed to be dead, is even worse—Javert has come to peace with letting Valjean be free, but he had never dreamed that Marius might continue to live and be a fresh thorn in his side. It is quite unfortunate that he has, for to put Marius in jail would break Cosette's heart—which does not matter much to Javert, except that breaking Cosette's heart is tantamount to breaking Valjean's. There is also the uncomfortable fact that Javert feels personally responsible for robbing Cosette of her mother.
So Marius, the dolt that he is, continues to be alive and happily married, and the two of them make a pretty pair when they come knocking at Valjean's door. Javert finds his excuses to avoid them when they arrive, and it has not escaped Valjean's notice.
Valjean's brow crinkles. "It would be easier if you were there," he says.
"I am sorry, Valjean," he says, and it is not entirely true, but close enough. "You'll be fine. In fact—it will probably be the better without my heckling. You know how I can get when I am agitated." He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. "When is it again?"
Valjean regards him shrewdly. "I thought you had to work."
"I do—I work all week—stop that! I won't go."
"Very well," he says with an amused shake of his head, "but what am I going to tell Cosette?"
"Tell her to be glad I see very little of her dear dead husband," he grumbles. "Otherwise I might be tempted to introduce him to my handcuffs."
Valjean covers his mouth and does not reply—but it is very telling, and a tad unsettling, to see the faint blush that seeps across his face. He finally manages to say, "I will give them your regards."
*
The dinner is that Saturday, and Javert spends all day and most of the night at work. Part of him half-expects Valjean to appear, red-faced and exclaiming in agony, but his day is long and there are no breaks in the monotony of paperwork and patrol. By the time he comes home, exhausted, it is more Sunday morning than Saturday night, and he treads carefully lest he wake Valjean. He washes his hands and face, strips, and collapses into bed without eating; he falls into a dead sleep.
He wakes just as suddenly as he went to sleep, and wakes with a little start of surprise. The sun is glaring hotly through his curtains; he turns away from it with an irritated grunt, and rolls right into a pool of spit on his pillow. He grumbles and shoves his pillow off the bed, then draws his blankets up around his ears—or tries to, because something is weighing down his blankets. He squints at the intruder. It is Jean Valjean, of course, sitting on the edge of his bed and seeming quite serene.
"Good morning," he says.
Javert curses at him. Valjean does not even flinch.
"I've been thinking."
Javert yanks the covers over his face. "Not now," he grouses.
Valjean plucks his pillow off the floor, bats dust off it, and sets it on top of Javert's head. "When you're ready," he says, "I would like to talk to you. And, afterwards—if you want—" He cuts himself off and swallows thickly. "Well, don't worry about that right now."
Curiosity piqued, Javert moves the pillow just in time to see Valjean's pink face before he stands.
"Valjean," he says, just as Valjean has reached the door. "How long were you sitting there?"
He shrugs in a way that would be very casual if he did not keep his back turned to Javert. "Just a little while. I did not want to wake you." And he ducks out of the room before Javert can challenge that claim.
*
Valjean wants to talk. He wants to talk. That thought has been plaguing Javert since that increasingly frustrating man said it, and it has become the only thing he can think about—he wondered as he cleaned, as he shaved, as he dressed, as he sat down to take his breakfast—and it has been several hours now since Javert woke up, and Valjean has his nose in a book and is reading, not quite ignoring Javert but also not—well—talking. Which seems very peculiar for a man who professed to want to talk. There is also the peculiar promise of And afterwards, if you want, and the flush that followed—but evidently Valjean wants to talk, but not yet, so Javert pretends to read for a while, makes a few notes in his journal about some of his work last night, and then, frustrated by Valjean's continued reticence, strides up to him, plants his hands on his hips, and clears his throat.
Valjean lowers his book and peers up at him attentively.
"I am going for a walk," Javert announces. "Unless, that is, you would like me to stay for some reason."
"I would not want to keep you from getting fresh air," he says, perhaps a touch pointedly. Why he should be pointed about that is beyond Javert.
"Well! Excellent! Then I will go for a walk. Alone. And you may continue to read that book."
Valjean smiles at him blandly and does not reply.
"I am sure it is a very good book," Javert continues. "I wonder, do any of the characters watch their good friends sleep?"
"None so far," Valjean says, much too mild. "If you'd like to talk," he says, "and you are very sure you won't need to rush off and get some fresh air afterwards—"
"I don't even know what you want to talk about! How could I know if I am going to want to take a walk afterwards if you are going to be so vague about the whole matter? This is all very mysterious, Valjean, and I am very tired with your brand of mysteries! What then! Talk!" Javert folds his arms across his chest and sits a touch too heavily on the couch, feeling and behaving rather like a petulant child. If he were very pressed about the matter, he might—that is might—admit that he is very nervous about this mysterious 'talk,' and would admit quite readily that he thinks it is exceptionally annoying that Valjean would even bother to discuss a discussion without actually having the thing.
Valjean's smile has gone from bland to amused, which is not an improvement at all on the situation. "Forgive me," he says. "I only..." But whatever he means to say, Javert will never know, because he sighs and shuts the book. "This is strange for me, as well," he says, not quite looking at Javert. "I am not sure how to approach this."
"You were the one who wanted to talk. Surely you have some idea of what you want to say."
Valjean swallows and turns his head away, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Yes...yes, but I thought I would have a bit more time to think it over."
Javert's insides twist. Nothing good could come of anything that makes Valjean hesitate to look at him. Even in Montreuil he looked at him. Even in Toulon. But then, that is not quite right—Valjean has been quicker to shy away from his gentle touches than any threat of violence. "Out with it," he says, finally.
Valjean is still not looking at him. "Cosette," he says, and stops. "When Cosette—"
"She has asked you to end it with me, is that it?"
This finally is enough to make Valjean turn to stare at him; the alarm in his face is enough to ease away some of Javert's worries. "What? What on earth made you—? No. No, it is not that. Javert, I am trying to explain how I've come to—" He ducks his head. "How I've realized that I...well, I am used to Cosette, and how I came to love her in a burst of light. I have never loved anyone other than her."
It is possible that this is worse than anything Javert could have imagined. He has not bothered to examine his feelings for Valjean in any capacity except to acknowledge that he is—fond—of the man, and that he would defend him if necessary and would not wish to be away from him—and is that not enough? Surely these things don't need to be dragged out and talked over; surely he does not need to have his heart turned to a specimen, pinned horribly where everyone can see it. His face has grown very hot. He is no longer sure if Valjean is looking at him. There is a stray thread sticking out at the hem of his shirt, and he fiddles with it, irritable, wondering when it came loose and how he has never noticed it before. "That's enough, Valjean," he mutters.
But Valjean does not seem to have heard him. "This is all very strange to me, Javert. I am terrified of losing you, that there is something in you that God has not touched and that will bring you to ruin. I pray for you."
Javert's insides have abandoned him entirely. The room is much too hot. He wishes Valjean had thought to open a window. "If you tell me all this has been an act of pity or some attempt to save me, Valjean, I—"
"No," he says, very softly. He lowers his head. "I pray for you, but I pray too for forgiveness. When Cosette saw me like—well—I thought, 'this must end. This is God showing me how depraved I've become.' I have gone to confession. I have prayed and begged for deliverance from—" He falters and scrubs a hand across his face. "I have tried so hard to do right by God."
Javert shudders. His face is burning; he wants to hide, he wants to leave the room, the house, wants to run. He wants to kiss Valjean and have this done.
"But what I feel for you—what I want from you—is not wrong. Javert, I think I am—"
"That's enough," he says, louder. "I understand." He wipes at his mouth, then his cheeks; he passes a hand over his eyes a moment. Damn—but he has never been smaller than in this moment, nor so vulnerable. "Does it all need to be said? You are—intolerable. Have I mentioned that? I am very glad I did not go to dinner, if that's the kind of talk you all had. To think I almost regretted it."
Valjean touches his hand, and then he is very close, leaning into him; his mouth brushes at Javert's cheek, a chaste thing that makes Javert's stomach lurch. His fingers twist for a moment against Javert's palm, and then a cold, metal weight is in his palm, and Valjean has leaned away. Finally, Javert is brave enough to look at him—and Valjean is already on his feet and turning his back to him. His ears are red. "Cosette has invited you to dinner next Wednesday," he says. "Unfortunately, I do not think you can avoid this one. She was very—adamant."
Javert turns the franc over in his palm, wishing that he could be surprised at how quickly it heats in his grasp—but his face is still too warm; sweat has begun to collect under his collar. His heart is racing. Perhaps, he thinks, this is payback for the casual way he tormented Valjean with kisses; he should like to sink down into the couch and disappear.
Valjean clears his throat. "I am going to my bedroom," he says, slowly but clearly. "I am going to read for a while. If—if you still mean to take a walk, please make sure to lock the door behind you."
Without a word, Javert follows him into his bedroom; he does not let Valjean make it to his bed and instead shoves him into the door and begins to kiss him roughly—and there is a moment as they kiss that he is afraid he might drown, that he will be taken apart, that he will break—but then Valjean is kissing him back, and his hands are on Javert's shoulders, and the air is burning between them and there is no room for pain between the crush of their bodies.
It's been ages since they last kissed like this, and Javert does not hold back, knowing his kisses are clumsy like this, knowing they will both come away with bruised lips tomorrow. Valjean pushes him back, suddenly, gasping for air, his face flushed and red. There, he thinks, they're even, now—and he slips the franc back into Valjean's pocket, taking care to brush against his cock as he does. Valjean gasps and jerks his hips forward. "Javert—"
"That's enough talking for one day," Javert says, and covers his mouth with a hand. He kisses along his neck, using one hand to work at the buttons of his jacket, his vest—God, why does he have so many layers? It is entirely unfair, he thinks, and yanks his shirt out from his trousers so he can finally, finally work his hand under Valjean's shirt, palming at his stomach and up to his chest, to his hard nipples. Valjean fumbles a moment with Javert's trousers, and then jerks his hands back with a small sound in his throat. "Go ahead, Valjean," he says. "Weren't you the one who said you were selfish?"
But Valjean sets his hands on Javert's hips and yanks him flush against him, so their hips meet—Javert nearly knocks his head into the door and has to take his hand away from Valjean to brace himself against it, but it doesn't matter, now, not when Valjean is panting the way he is. Javert's hand is trapped between them and his wrist will be sore later; he slides his hand down and cups Valjean's cock through his trousers. Valjean shudders and turns his face into Javert's shoulder.
"I want to—to be selfless, here," he says. "Show me how."
Javert groans. "Pick me up," he says, grabbing Valjean's shoulders with both of his hands.
Valjean does not question this, though once Javert has said it he realizes it sounds peculiar, perhaps—and then he does not realize anything but how badly he has wanted this for years, because Valjean has cupped his ass and picked him up—and damn, Javert wishes he had not pushed Valjean into the doorway because he cannot wrap his legs around Valjean like this. Perhaps Valjean is thinking the same thing, however, because he braces one arm under Javert's thighs and the other against the small of his back and stumbles away from the door, carrying him to the bed, and though he is still panting it is not from effort, no—he's carrying Javert as if he weighs nothing, as if it's child's play for him to pick Javert up.
He tries to set Javert down on the edge of the bed, but Javert will not let go—he grinds his hips against Valjean in unsteady thrusts, and his legs are tight about his waist, and they end up both collapsing on the bed in a painful pile of limbs. The sound Valjean makes is halfway between a laugh and a moan. "I don't know," he says, breathless, "what to do—"
"For God's sake, Valjean, how hard can it be?" he asks, thrusting up against him. "Just get your damn trousers off."
"But—oh, please don't look at it," he says, burying his face in Javert's shoulder. Despite this, he makes hasty work of his trousers, and fumbles with Javert's with as much gusto, if less finesse—it's possible that Javert is not making this any easier on him by squirming and thrusting and trying to rub himself against Valjean's hand at every turn. "I want to make you—" he chokes a moment, and then finishes with, "happy—"
Javert pauses a moment, his cock flush against Valjean's, sweat on the back of his knees, his trousers bunched around his thighs. He is sure that he looks utterly depraved—and he is amazed that he does not look utterly content. He grabs Valjean by the hair and forces him to look at Javert, though he still blushes down to his neck, though he bites his lip and tries to avoid meeting his gaze. "I am," he says. He tries, then, to kiss him slowly, to show him his tender heart with tender lips, but then Valjean is rutting against him and he is too desperate to taste him and kiss him and scrape his teeth along his lips to see if Valjean will moan—and too aroused when he tries not to.
The bed creaks with the force of Valjean's thrusts—and then Javert is rolling them over, and situates between Valjean's knees. He wants to watch Valjean come apart like this, wants to wring the spend out of him and make him whimper and beg.
But Valjean is coming, already, his cock twitching. He clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle his moans, and by the time Javert has wrested it away it has passed, and he is quiet; he reaches for Javert's cock, his slick palm sliding across the head of it. Just to know that Valjean would try to bring him off like that, to know that he wants to touch him just as badly as Javert wants to touch Valjean, is enough to bring him off. Valjean wrenches his eyes shut but does not pull away as Javert spends over his hand—and then, not quite meeting Javert's eye, brings his hand up to his mouth and kisses away a drop of spend from it.
Javert groans. "I am a terrible influence, aren't I?"
Valjean nods—and then pulls him into a long, long kiss.
*
Later, when the faint breeze through the window has cooled their sweat and Javert is too dazed to do more than nestle against Valjean, Valjean asks, "Have you ever...?"
And Javert is too wrung-out to even consider side-stepping the question. He shrugs and says, perhaps with a touch of helplessness, "Only you."
*
All said, Javert is glad. The world is still a mystery with no clear solutions; he still cannot untangle all the strange new webs of truth that once threatened to kill him. He still broods and sulks at times, and balks in the face of God, frightened by him. He would prefer if he did not have to attend weekly dinners with Valjean's daughter and son-in-law, but he's learned that Cosette can turn her words back at him and does so even when her husband and father begin to squirm uncomfortably—which makes it tolerable. (If Valjean asks him to be gentler with Marius, well, he can try, but he does not make any promises.)
They argue, less now than they did at the beginning, sometimes about justice, sometimes about where Javert leaves his hat or Valjean's irritating habit of having his clothes cleaned without asking, first. They kiss often, and sometimes Valjean is even the one who initiates it.
If on that night in June someone had told Javert that he could be happy, he would have spit in their face. He still cannot quite believe it, though he is, though he wakes in the early morning and takes in a breath and thinks of Valjean—though if he sneaks down the hall quietly enough, he can press slow kisses to Valjean's face until he wakes and smiles, unguarded, before turning away, cheeks pink.
So when Valjean asks him what he wants, one night, with several glasses of wine loosening his inhibitions, Javert does not quite know what to say. At the moment, he wants to pull Valjean closer and kiss him. He also wants to ask him about the merits of giving alms, but doesn't want to start an argument, not when Valjean is calm and relaxed like this. He wants to convince Valjean to take to his bed before either of them fall asleep on the couch.
"Javert," Valjean says, when he has not responded quickly enough. "Javert, what do you want?"
"I don't know." Javert rubs at his forehead and leans back into the couch. It seems an unfair sort of question to ask this late at night.
Valjean shifts a moment, somewhat indecisively, and then rests a hand on the crook of Javert's neck, slides it to the back of his head, and kisses just under his eye. His lips are slightly sticky, and when he leans back, he is flushed but does not hesitate to look into Javert's face. "I mean to say," he says, "what would you like?"
Oh. Oh. That is easy, too easy; he wants a hundred things, Valjean's mouth on his prick, wants him on his hands and knees, wants him over a table, wants him on the couch, wants his touch, wants to trace each of his scars with his tongue, wants to bend him to his will to see how far he could go until breaking—and other things, too, wants to be on his knees and prostrate, to beg for M. le Maire to—well. He turns into Valjean's hand and then pulls him into a languid kiss, taking his time. He leans back. "Ask me again in the morning," he says. "When you mean it."
"I mean it," Valjean protests.
But the promise is too sweet at this hour and too tempting, and Javert does not budge on this—and it is easy enough to distract Valjean.
*
It is with some surprise that Javert wakes up in Valjean's bed. They have shared their beds with no little generosity, but usually they drift back to their own rooms by morning—and this is especially true when they have taken to Valjean's bed, as Javert is easily irritated by the way Valjean yanks at the blankets during the night. That is, in fact, his first indication that he is in Valjean's bed—all of him except his chest and left arm is exposed to the cold air, and his chest and arm are only covered by dint of how tightly he ended up clutching his half of the blankets in the night.
He lets go, to see what will happen—and Valjean shifts in his sleep, rolls over, and takes the rest of them with him. Javert stifles a laugh.
Then, he remembers last night, and the promise of Valjean's lips under his eye. He does not doubt that Valjean meant what he said, but he is not so sure that Valjean will actually allow for it—but it is worth a try, surely. A shiver of anticipation passes through Javert. Last night they had done nothing more daring than tease at each other with warm palms; Javert is still fully dressed, though his clothes are decidedly more rumpled than they were last night. He tries to remember if Valjean undressed at all. The lump of blankets only reveals the top of Valjean's head, a shock of white against the muted pastels of the quilt. Javert sits up, pats his pockets, and sighs in disappointment—of course he does not have his cuffs on him—but he does not linger over that, and instead leans over Valjean and brushes the hair from his eyes.
"Wake up," he says.
To his surprise, Valjean snaps awake as if he'd been waiting for the command. He blinks at Javert a moment, then relaxes, his eyes half-lidded again. He mumbles something that Javert assumes is an attempt at "Good morning.”
Javert kisses the corner of his mouth. "Wake up," he repeats.
"I am," Valjean says, enunciating the words too carefully. "I am very much awake."
With a little satisfied noise that is not quite a growl, Javert turns Valjean onto his back and begins the Herculean task of extricating him from the mass of blankets. Valjean's arms seem to have been trapped, and so he only lies there and blinks at him blearily for a moment—and then, with a tired smile, he pushes Javert back and unfolds himself from the blankets, pushing them to Javert's side of the bed—now that he does not need them, of course. Javert bites his tongue.
"Good morning," Valjean says, clearly this time. He is down to his shirtsleeves and trousers and just as mussed as Javert. He is smiling. It is rather wonderful. "What are you doing?"
Javert answers this with a kiss and straddles him. What would you like?—what a question to pose to him! With a grunt of surprise, Valjean grips Javert's arms—but he does not break the kiss, and for a while they remain like that, until Javert has almost forgotten why he woke Valjean in the first place. It's not until Valjean shifts under him—and Javert notices how hard he is—that he remembers what he meant to do.
He leans away, amused by Valjean's disappointed frown. "I believe you said I had reason to complain," he says. "Is that right?" Before Valjean can reply, he continues. "And that, as a result, I had my choice of what to do with you."
"I might not put it in such generous terms," Valjean says, wary, "but yes. Do you have something in mind?"
"Well, now that I have you at my mercy—yes. One or two things." Valjean flushes, his face dark in the low light of dawn, and for a moment Javert can only look at him, amazed that he's still affected like this, that he is—what, afraid? This man who has faced two decades in Toulon, who has run and fought and struggled, hears a suggestive voice and flushes like that, and looks at Javert like that, and his hands tighten nervously against Javert's shirt.
He is an idiot, Javert thinks, naive in spite of everything, kind though the world has been cruel to him. And he gives himself to Javert like this, trusts him though he has every reason to fear him, and Javert could mean to do anything with him right now, could arrest him and drag him from his bed—but no, Valjean perhaps at worst thinks he will do something extraordinarily bold. Javert bends down and kisses him, slow at first, and then more and more thoroughly, kissing him as if he's taking him, until Valjean is panting into his mouth, needy.
Javert takes him by the wrists as he kisses him and guides them to the headboard. Finally, for this, he breaks the kiss, but not before nipping at Valjean's bottom lip. He is rewarded with a small sound, not quite of pain, and then he leans up and grinds his hips against Valjean's—grateful to feel the length of Valjean's cock against his, grateful still that despite Valjean's hesitation he is not alone, that he wants this though he thinks he shouldn't.
"Hold onto this," he says, pressing Valjean's fingers against the headboard, "and don't let go."
Valjean complies, curving his fingers against it. The movement is merely a precaution, now, but Javert is already anticipating his tense grip, his white knuckles. He kisses Valjean's wrist and then begins to kiss his way down his arm, back to his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, his neck. He rests his lips over Valjean's neck, drinking in each shaky breath, pleased with himself. Taking his time, Javert begins to stroke Valjean's body, caressing each warm contour, passing his hands lightly over his nipples, down his stomach, back up his sides, along his thighs and flank.
Valjean shudders and bites his lip. "This isn't fair," Valjean says. "I want to touch you."
"That is too bad," Javert says. He ducks his head so Valjean cannot see the beginning of his smile. He begins to work at Valjean's trousers; it is easy enough to slip them open, and he slides them down Valjean's tense thighs. Valjean makes a soft noise of surprise and tries to close his legs—but he gives when Javert spreads his palms against them and opens his legs. He turns his face into his arm, but that does not hide the blush that has spread down his neck. "Relax, Valjean. Just relax." Javert bends down and presses a slow kiss to the curve of Valjean's neck.
Valjean groans.
Pulling off Valjean's trousers is more awkward than he expected, though Valjean lifts his hips helpfully and tries to kick them off his foot when they get caught; he doesn't like that he has to leave the solid warmth of Valjean. Once they're off, however, he sits back and enjoys his prize: The sight of Valjean, lit by the rising sun, flushed, his cock erect and resting expectantly against his hip. It is strange to see him naked like this, though he is still in his shirtsleeves; Javert is not sure that he's ever seen his bare ankles. He leans down and kisses his ankle; he gently curves his palm against the raised scars there. When he glances up, he notices that Valjean is watching him—flushed, hungry, something feral in his face.
Without another word, Javert slides up his body, kissing along his calf, the inside of his knee, his thigh—his prick. Valjean jerks in surprise when he does, and when Javert looks up, his mouth is open, his head leaned back against the pillow. His hands are tight against the headboard—if Javert had thought to take off his shirtsleeves, first, he would perhaps be graced by the sight of the muscles in his arm tensing, his tendons taut. Javert pushes his shirtsleeves up, exposing his stomach and chest, and licks at his nipple, knowing it will make him shiver. He spreads his thighs so Javert can settle comfortably between his legs. When Javert begins to grind against him, he bucks up in return—this is something he knows how to do, something he can give.
Javert reaches for Valjean's bedside table and fumbles with the drawer—there must be something in there which can serve his purpose. When his initial fumbling doesn't provide anything useful, he abandons his haphazard thrusting against Valjean and leans toward the open drawer. There are papers, a Bible, an old rosary, a comb—but no lotion, no oil, nothing that Javert might use. He grumbles under his breath and tries the drawer under that, but that's even less useful. He glances at Valjean. "Don't you have anything—no, of course not. Fine. I'll be right back."
"Wait—do I have to keep holding—?"
"Yes. Stay right there."
Still grumbling under his breath, Javert stalks into the kitchen and hunts through the cupboards. Damn. He knows there's something serviceable in here; he saw Valjean using olive oil just the other day—and there! He seizes the small bottle gratefully and hurries back; as he does, he decides to strip, hastily shucking his clothes one-handed as he goes down the hallway.
Triumphant and naked, Javert stops in the doorway, aware of how ridiculous he must look, hands on hips, bottle of oil clenched in his hand—but Valjean seems torn between being impressed and embarrassed. He glances between Javert's legs and then away, his blush spreading down his chest. "What is that for?" he asks.
"You," Javert says. Valjean squirms, lifting one thigh to cover himself—but when Javert takes to the bed, he pushes his leg back down and kisses his cock, making a lewd noise in his throat as he does. "Or, rather, it is for me." He sits up and uncorks the bottle—when he goes to pour some on his hand, he is careful to pour it over Valjean, so the excess that drips lands on him rather than the bed. Valjean arches with a soft gasp as it drips on his stomach. With a small smile, Javert spreads it over his hand and then slides the excess drops across Valjean's belly, down to his cock—he strokes his cock once, languid, rolling the hot skin against his hand and watching himself do it, knowing that Valjean is looking.
Then, very casually, as if nothing is odd at all about it, Javert strokes to the very base of Valjean's cock—palms between his legs, past his balls; he presses his fingers against the sensitive skin just behind them and Valjean gasps and bucks. Valjean lets go of the headboard and clutches at Javert's wrist, blushing deeply, then hastily slides his hands to cover himself. For a moment, Javert allows it, watching Valjean's face, and then he presses a finger against Valjean's entrance—pushes in—and says, in a tone that does not brook argument, "Hands on the headboard, Valjean."
Valjean obeys, shaking slightly—and once he's gripped the headboard, Javert calmly pulls his finger back out. He drips more oil onto his hand and begins to gently massage it against and into Valjean, until he is slick and panting, his cock hard against his stomach, precome smearing wetly against his bare skin. His knuckles are white against the headboard.
Once Valjean is slick with oil, Javert pours one last dollop in his palm and slicks himself—and with that perfunctory duty done, he sets the oil on the bedside table and takes Valjean under his knees and lifts his legs.
"Relax," he says. "Here, just relax."
"Javert, I've never—"
"Yes, I know you've never done this, for heaven's sake, Valjean, I know. The only reason I should ever care is if you don't want to start now." He rests Valjean's legs on his shoulders and leans forward, slowly—but Valjean does not complain about the strain, his body curving fluidly against Javert, and he groans. Javert reaches between them to press the head of his cock against Valjean—and now that he has him like this, he finds that he is trembling slightly, perhaps from anticipation, from the strangeness of it all, of seeing Valjean coming apart like this, at his mercy when his mercy has no more gravity than the hurried coupling of lovers.
So he pauses a moment, the head of his cock pressed against Valjean, wondering what has brought them to this, why he deserves this—and the moment is broken when Valjean looks up into his face and says, breathless, "Please, Javert."
The first thrust is slow, agonizing—he is not sure he will fit, that he will not hurt Valjean—but though he is tight, he is supple, and his thighs spread on Javert's shoulders, open and willing. With a low moan, Javert settles into Valjean.
There, he stops, breathless and unsure of himself, of what he wants—Valjean crosses his ankles behind his head and turns his face into his arm, trying and failing to hide the deepening flush in his face. Javert turns his head to kiss Valjean's thigh, and then he begins to thrust, slow and careful, oil-slick and tense himself though he told Valjean to relax—but as he begins to thrust, he forgets himself, forgets the hesitation, forgets everything but the way Valjean moves under him, how he bites his lip to keep from moaning, how he clutches at the headboard as if it can save him from his sins.
Javert begins to fuck him in earnest, with quick, rough thrusts that he expects Valjean to protest to—but no, he tightens his legs against Javert, he whimpers under his breath, he tries to hide his face in shame, but he does not protest, even when Javert scolds him and tells him to put his hands back on the headboard. As he fucks him, he knows he can't last long though he wants to, though he balks at the thought of coming before Valjean—and, knowing this, he begins to fuck him with long, quick strokes, pounding him into the bed.
It isn't long before Valjean spends with a wretched shout over his chest and face, the sound shaking through him and into Javert, and he doesn't stop, moaning unabashedly as his cock twitches against his stomach, as he comes, and comes, his body going tense and taut around Javert—and Javert gives in, lets himself follow Valjean, coming with a sigh of relief. He carefully lays Valjean back down and begins to kiss him; when Valjean doesn't let go of the headboard, he pries his hands away from it. Valjean's hands tangle in his hair.
As the sun fills the room with bright light, they kiss, calm and slow, gathering their senses back. Soon, they will return to themselves; they will share breakfast as if nothing new has transpired between them, and Javert will go to work and Valjean will pray—but perhaps, he thinks, they did not abandon themselves, here, that the secrets that they keep under their skin are not removed from who they are when the sun kisses their faces.
There are many things he does not understand, still, about himself, about Valjean, about the world—but Javert will not turn away this happiness that bends new paths through him.