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He betrays no emotion. He may as well be giving a report. He does not look Valjean in the eye as he speaks. He finishes, and sets the handcuffs on the table.
Valjean follows them with his eyes, silent.
“It must seem a strange request-” he begins, and his throat tightens. The full weight of what he is asking, who he is asking, settles on his chest, choking the words out of him.
Valjean rubs at his wrists absently. It’s a habit he always has when he is nervous, but it is rarely so apt. “I can't,” he says flatly. “The irons were not the worst part,” he murmurs under his breath; it is addressed to himself, but Javert hears the rebuke in his tone. He swallows.
“Of course. I should never have asked such a thing of you.”
Valjean at least looks at him, though his glance is wary and puzzled. “Javert, we are friends, aren’t we?”
The question takes him unaware. They have seen each other almost daily for months since the bridge, it is true. With his pride knocked out of him, his world in ruins, he allowed himself to be dragged off the bridge. After he returned to his post, he found himself turning up at Valjean's door. They had spoken earnestly and quarreled often and come to know each other. Understanding was won by inches. If Javert is honest with himself, the lion's share of the ground has been ceded by him. They pass whole days together. They wander together through the streets of Paris, sometimes, rehashing old arguments. Sometimes they don't even argue; they walk companionably, and tell stories about the sides of Paris the other has never seen. They share tea. He suspects Valjean enjoys the company. He suspects worse of himself. Altogether, it is unsettling to name the thing plainly.
"That is fair," he says, his mouth dry.
“Good," he smiles, conciliatory, "Let’s have no more talk of making me your jailer.”
He turns around and concerns himself with lighting the stove. Javert waits for him to notice it is already on.
“Here. Let me,” he says after a few moments, and guides Valjean to the table before he lights his arm on fire. Valjean is stiff under his touch. Javert is trembling himself, wondering how much damage has been done. Valjean has already had to forgive him more than any man should. He does not like existing in the red.
The teapot whistles. Valjean raises his head and gives a weary, grateful smile as Javert sets down two cups of tea between them.
Javert takes the seat opposite him and takes a sip. He hisses and rubs his lip.
Valjean's mouth quirks slightly. “You always drink it too fast.”
“I am not used to drinking hot drinks,” he mutters, “At the prefecture, I like to let my coffee cool for a few hours before I drink it.” Valjean makes a face, and he huffs. His embarrassment seems to be momentarily forgotten. They lapse into silence. He grasps about for something to say.
“I arrested a man today.”
“Indeed.” Valjean shows little surprise, and less welcome for the new line of conversation.
“He was running a small brothel in the back of his shop, and the woman he called his wife was the woman he was whoring.”
“That's awful.” Valjean crosses his arms, as if to say he does not think much of his choice of story. “And I suppose you took her in too?”
He bites his lip. “She was unregistered. By law I was required to,” he pauses. He bows his head. "She had no papers at all, and he had got three children on her. I did not see the benefit in making them wards of the state. And, I don't think it was a life she would have chose for herself. It didn't seem right to make her suffer for his sins.”
He looks up, his eyes wide and searching. “Javert. That was incredibly... human... of you.”
The sheer wonder he says it with seems excessive.
"I blame you, of course," he grumbles. It rankles him, how much he has changed. How many rules he has bent of late.
But he cannot dismiss the glow he feels at Valjean's reaction. It pleases him from his head to his toes. Basking in a convict's approval--the thought intrudes suddenly, and with it a host of unwelcome guests. He tightens the sleeve of his uniform around his wrist. No sin goes unseen and unpunished. He frowns.
Valjean's smile fades. "Javert," he asks, "Why did you ask me for that... that punishment, earlier?"
His heart knots in his chest. “Because I am an imbecile.” His fists clench in his lap. "I told you. Put it from your mind."
"I would like to understand." Valjean seems surprised by his own directness. He reddens and looks down, sipping his tea. "If you want to."
He sits back, and sucks the air between his teeth.
“Well, what can I say? Everything is complicated where it should not be. My duties are opposed to each other. You can guess what it is like." He knows this isn't an answer. He cannot even screw his courage up to face the answer in his own mind. But Valjean asked for the truth, and he owes him that much.
"I was not born a guard. I was whelped in a prison, you know. My mother was back in there as often as not, when I was young. She fought, so she wore the irons. I shared a cell with her, but I was never subjected to that. It seemed like the only humiliation I was spared.”
He shrugs. "That should give you enough to go from."
“You think you deserve this last humiliation.”
He swirls the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. “I think it will always be hanging over my head if I do not. I do not like being in that position." And it might quiet the voices, the guilty, uncertain parts of him, reminding him of his sins.
“Perhaps we should do it,” Valjean says, as if he is suggesting a walk to the Luxembourg.
Javert looks up swiftly. “I am not asking you.”
“I am the cause of your distress. You’ve said it yourself. Don't deny it,” a small smile slips out, “It is only fair I help lay this to rest.”
He rises, unsteady, and unbelieving. His heart is pounding. "I won't ask you to do anything you don't want to."
Valjean picks the cuffs up from the table, handling them as if they are strange to him. "I want to help you."
Their eyes meet and it is settled. “We should probably do this in private,” Valjean muses, “I am not sure I will be able to explain it to my housekeeper.”
He nods and squares his shoulders, his face curiously warm.
The walk upstairs is long, and his mind swings back and forth with each step. He should not have started this. He must see it through. Valjean leads--it is strange to be at his heels as a friend, not a pursuer.
He has been upstairs only once, the night the barricades fell. Valjean had given him his bed that night, and settled into the chair to keep watch. He had been too miserable to sleep, and Valjean too wary, and so they had lain awake listening to the other breathe.
He had not expected to ever set foot in Valjean’s room again. Certainly not like this.
Valjean’s room is spartan and cramped. Almost prison-like. Perhaps he is not alone in the insistent urge to punish himself. The thought strike him oddly, and he wonders if this is why Valjean so readily understood his need.
The man stands next to him, and catches his eye. “Are you sure--?”
“Yes. Let's get it over with.”
Valjean pauses, and draws the handcuffs out of his pocket. Javert holds his right hand out. The iron is cold, biting against bare skin, then it clicks closed around his wrist. The instinct to resist seizes him. All the times men resisted arrest, did they feel this, a sinking feeling as if the sky was being swallowed up, the world narrowing down to a dark cell?
He stiffens his back, and makes himself breathe until the moment passes. Valjean’s hand tightens questioningly around his wrist. He nods, brusque. What had he been forcing on men all these years, when he cannot bear it himself?
Valjean takes his other hand--his grip is warm and blessedly firm--and crosses his hands behind his back. The surge of shame and panic he feels ties knots in his stomach. The second cuff closes around him, and Valjean lets go, and he is alone, marooned in the middle of the room. He stands straight and still, the cold weight of them dragging on his hands. His mother's were heavier, as were those of the convicts in Toulon, but they are the heaviest thing he has ever worn.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry for--" He wants to fall to his knees, he wants to enumerate his faults, but he is frozen.
It’s not captivity he fears. He wore the rebels' ropes with honor. It is the meaning of the handcuffs, the weight of the authority vested in him, the faith the prefecture showed him. The weight of disgrace. He has put them on hundreds of men, and now he joins their ranks. He is afraid to pull against the iron, afraid to find exactly how much strength there is in it. He tries to remind himself that Valjean is here. He is not going to come to harm. He gathers his courage and tugs on his chains, and they bite his wrists. A rush of blood pounds his head. He does it again. A shiver of dread and ecstasy runs through him.
"I have already forgiven you," Valjean says, as if at a great distance. His voice is worried.
He knows his reaction is not reasonable. He is in no danger. He stands before no court, suffers no public disgrace. His mind is clear enough to see that. He closes his eyes. He tastes prison on his tongue, the steel baton against his hands, the stench of sweat and blood in his nostrils. How can Valjean offer him kindness, when this is what he tried to return him to?
“Javert?”
He trembles with fear and respect. He is suddenly kneeling before Valjean on a dusty office floor scattered with jet shavings. He had thought Valjean was someone else, but it is easy for hindsight to rewrite that fact. Easy to forget there was a time the criminal and the mayor were different people, and nothing threatened to break his neat world apart. He had been so willing to submit that day. The things he would have submitted to if Valjean had been a different manner of man. But he is who he is.
“Javert. Look at me.”
He opens his eyes. Valjean stands over him, looking worried. Their eyes meet.
“I will never understand you,” he blurts. "You are an enigma."
Valjean blinks, and then he smiles. “I am?” He puts all the emphasis on the first word.
"Hmph." He furrows his brow. "Well."
He tries to cross his arms, suddenly self-conscious, and is brought up fast with a clink of iron. For a moment, he had forgotten what they were about. A wave of dread steals over him, and he feels lightheaded.
“I could get the key,” Valjean says, frowning.
"No. I'm not--I would like some water."
He nods, and puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He finds himself being guided to the wall; he falls back against it gratefully and uses it for support. Valjean's hand disappears along with Valjean, and he sways gracelessly for a moment. Then a hand is on his chin, and a glass of water is lifted his lips. A trickle of water splashes down his chin as he drinks, and reflexively, Valjean uses the side of his thumb to wipe it away. The spark of warmth that jumps between them is pleasant, and he leans into it for a moment. Their eyes catch and they part, startled. Suddenly, the air in the room has shifted.
Valjean pulls away. "I should get the key,” he fumbles.
“Wait.”
Valjean looks back, flummoxed, and swallows.
“What are we waiting for?"
He doesn't know what to say. He does not want it to end, and why should that be? His heart supplies an answer readily, and it ought to bring terror, but it brings only clarity. He was born in ignominy in a cell. He has already fallen farther today than where he started. He finds himself trying to feel terror at his position, but it seems a small thing, to fall this next way. At any rate, Valjean has a knack for catching him.
He leans back and looks at him significantly. "I trust you to decide."
Valjean startles like a deer caught in a lantern beam. His eyes widen. He gazes back steadily. Slowly, Valjean's expression steadies.
He licks his lips, and searches his face; Javert tries very hard not to tremble under the scrutiny. "I did not mean--" he pauses, and says, "You trust me?" His eyes are darting across his face, fearful and hopeful. He seems to take resolve from what he finds there.
He shrugs, indicating his whole position. “Obviously."
He understands.
He pushes him against the wall. Their faces are close. He could move his head and catch his lips, but Valjean makes no move. So he does. For one beat, they are pressed against each other's lips, frozen, and he fears he is going to push him away, but his grip tightens, and they relaxes into each other. His lips tender and soft and yielding. Their lips move against each other, uncertainly, and he wonders if this is as new to Valjean as it is to him. Then Valjean’s tongue is parting his lips, and he forgets to ponder the matter further. Their tongues move clumsily against each other, each new touch strange and exciting. Valjean tangles both hands in his hair, and he feels a twinge of envy. He pulls futilely against his restraints. It makes no difference.
Valjean is flush against him, pinning him back against the wall. Javert’s shoulders ache, and the cuffs dig into the small of his back, and he doesn’t care at all. His leg has ended up between Valjean’s legs, and he has barely nudged it forward when Valjean gasps. Valjean’s eyes break away and look down at their hips pressed together. The look in his eyes is startled.
He pulls away. “I can’t.”
His heart plunges.
Valjean is shaking his head. “I don’t know how.”
He feels a surge of fondness and exasperation. “Is that all? Do you think I know what I’m doing?”
“You seemed to.”
He sighs and touches his lips with his. “Have you done that before?”
He frowns. “No.”
“Nor I. I don't care what you don't know.”
He leans his head back against the wall, thinking that Valjean blushing should not be this good.
Valjean catches his satisfaction, and a defiant smile spreads over his face.
He pulls his head forward, and kisses him, and then his hand is sliding down between them, and Javert gasps. He had imagined something like this, and yet he was wholly unprepared for the heat of his hand, its strength and roughness, the feel of him cupping him through his trousers.
It should not be this comfortable, this easy to surrender himself. But they are charging ahead, and outstripping the past. Valjean makes a game of holding him against the wall and teasing his lips apart, then pulling away. Every time, he tugs against his chains, and the way Valjean grins at his frustration is fast rewriting the associations being restrained like this has in his mind. The shadow of cells and disgrace seems very far away.
When he is not teasing him, Valjean pays careful attention to the front of his trousers, rubbing with just enough pressure to make him moan.
"Please," he pants at last, trying to sound abject. "Be merciful."
He crooks an eyebrow wryly, as if to say he knows when his pity is being played upon, but he will humor him this time. And then his second hand joins the first, and they are fumbling over the buttons of his trousers. Javert grunts, his desperation real this time, turning his face into his shoulder, his hips thrusting blindly. Valjean cups his cheek, and urges his face back to him. He opens his eyes, and watches, entranced, as Valjean works the front of his trousers open. His hand hovers for a moment's hesitation and then he reaches out and pulls up his shirt. He feels lewd and exposed, watching Valjean stare at his length. Then Valjean’s thumb is grazing his foreskin, and he cannot think at all.
The cool air on his exposed cock makes him shiver, and Valjean’s hand wraps around him like he has never felt anything finer. He can only think that is nothing like his own hand on himself. He is already panting into Valjean’s ear even before the strokes begin. He closes his eyes, and Valjean sets a steady rhythm, wringing gasps from him with each tug. The pace is slower than he would have set, but stronger, and he wonders if this is how Valjean brings himself off. He feels a shudders pass through him, and he lets his head fall back against the wall. Out of habit, he tugs against the handcuffs.
Something warm and wet touches the tip of his cock. He opens his eyes and looks down. Valjean has undone the buttons of his trousers, one-handed, and his cock, erect and dripping, hits the tip of his own again. He gazes at it, fascinated. Their cocks bump amicably against each other, and he cannot touch either of them, can only watch as Valjean wraps his hand around them both, stroking them both, together, and it is too much. He cranes his neck and catches his mouth in a kiss, and Valjean never breaks his rhythm. He imagines Valjean could hold this pace for hours. He would like to try to hold out that long, but Valjean is so good, and this is so new; with the ache in his wrists reminding him of his depravity, he surges toward the edge. He shudders helplessly against his hands as he finishes. Valjean lets his cock slip from his grasp. He takes himself fully in hand, and follows, his breathing ragged against his mouth as he comes. Javert is shivering from the exertion when they are both done.
His energy deserts him. He slumps back against the wall, letting Valjean slump against him. They are still for a minute, neither of them quite sure of their ability to stand. And then Valjean pushes off of the wall. He smiles at him, a little shy, as if he does not know what to do or say next. Javert understands the feeling. Still a little wobbly, Valjean takes him, and guides them to the bed. He collapses gratefully and closes his eyes, feeling the bed springs shift a second later as Valjean sits beside them. He shifts so that their sides are touching.
Valjean clears his throat. "Did... did being handcuffed help?"
He cannot help it. He laughs. He feels curiously free and unburdened, and immensely fond of the man next to him. "I think it did."
He thinks idly that it is odd that he is not ashamed. He has faced his shame, and it is all shadows and dust. Valjean leans over and takes the key off the table. He groans in relief when one cuff comes off, and then the next. Valjean massages his arms, rubbing circles from his fingertips to his shoulders. He is not sure that that is necessary, but he does not object. They ache a little, but the pleasure is worth the pain.
“Freedom is a wonderful feeling,” Javert murmurs. He lifts a hand, brushes his thumb over Valjean's jaw fondly, as if he has just noticed the shape of it.
A smile plays on Valjean’s lips as he sets the cuffs aside. “It is,” he agrees.