Chapter Text
"You never learn your lesson, do you?"
Valjean does not rise to the bait. His back burns with lashes, and he is hungry, and tired, and would like to sleep. His latest escape attempt has landed him in solitary, which is a double-edged sword—moreso because Javert is on duty. Valjean does not doubt that the man requested it.
"I should think that you would have learned it long ago. Still, perhaps it's silly to think a criminal can learn anything—though we do hope that your type might learn to fear the lash. Tell me, 24601, how does your back feel?"
Don't look at him, Valjean thinks. It is a rare thing for Javert to handle the lash, for he is young and the other guards complain that his arm is too weak to leave a sufficient mark. Not so today. One of the wounds has not fully closed, yet, and the back of his shirt is sticky with blood. Javert may not have the bloodlust that other guards do, but when he punishes, he does so when justified, and does so cruelly. For whatever reason, Valjean especially seems to inspire this in him—perhaps it's because he has never been beaten out of himself, or perhaps it's because Valjean does not always lower his gaze when he finds Javert watching him.
"Answer me when I ask you a question, 24601."
"It hurts, sir," he says. "I'm bleeding."
"Bleeding?" Javert pauses. "Let me see."
Valjean grits his teeth and pushes off the straw. A bit of light shines through the barred window of the door, though most of it is blocked by Javert. He stands in the humble circle of light and turns so Javert can see the bloodied shirt.
Javert clears his throat. "I'm coming in. Do not move."
The keys screech on the other side of the door, and then Javert enters. Valjean remains still, obeying his command, but he bristles as Javert steps close. The guard is inscrutable on bad days, when his only inclination is to scowl and snap—his good days are worse, and today is a very good day. Though it seems unlikely, Valjean wonders if he will reopen the wounds just for the pleasure of it.
Javert rolls the shirt up; Valjean, determined to not make a sound, grits his teeth against the chafing of the fabric. Then he reaches the open wound and Valjean groans in pain.
Javert sucks in a sharp breath. The noise would be sympathetic coming from anyone else. "I see. You'll..." His swallow is audible. "You'll need the infirmary. What a waste of resources," he grumbles. "How careless. Come with me." Javert drops the shirt and rolls his cudgel along Valjean's neck, guiding him around like a horse.
But Valjean has had enough. His anger is a bitter one, one that has had many long years to cultivate inside him. Hope, when crushed, becomes the tinder for that anger, and the humiliating punishment at the hand of this guard is black oil. And now this man insists on taking Valjean to the infirmary? He dares to touch Valjean like this?
With a snarl, Valjean whirls around and shoves Javert with all his strength—he slams into the wall and Valjean follows, cornering him. The cudgel rolls uselessly on the floor. Valjean is cuffed, but he is strong, much stronger than this willow of a boy, and his anger lends him strength. They struggle—Javert turns his head to the side, about to scream—and Valjean bites his mouth, vicious, hoping to draw blood.
Javert moans.
The struggle has changed. Valjean's pulse is heavy between his legs, and he wants nothing more than to crush Javert, to bite him and take him. He thinks he might—with one of Javert's hands captive and his full weight keeping Javert cornered, he has the upper hand.
Then Javert scratches his back.
Valjean roars with pain and falls back, but Javert follows him, grabs his cudgel from the ground and lands a blow on Valjean's shoulder, and then Valjean is on his back and the pain is exploding through him in waves and Javert is on top of him—Valjean's cock is half-hard and Javert grinds against it, the cudgel at Valjean's throat. Valjean stills, panting, back arched so the worst of the pain ebbs away. Javert moves his cuffed hands so they're over his head and smirks down at him, a horrible sight.
"You see?" he gasps. "You just never learn, 24601." Pleasure passes over his face and he shudders, bends low, and does not speak again. His hips rut into Valjean's, desperate and quick, more animal than human.
It's difficult to breathe, but through the discomfort and the pain, Valjean has time to watch Javert. It surprises him to find that the man, though in the better position, appears more anguished than Valjean feels, and his agony seems to grow sharper by the second—he looks almost like he might—
—a tear slips from the corner of his eye. His lip trembles.
Valjean, stunned, does not know what to do or say. He becomes very still, his hips unresponsive to Javert's thrusts, his chest hardly moving with breath. He doesn't want to feel pity for this man—not with the memory of the whip at the forefront of his mind, the pain fresh with each rock of Javert's hips—but he can't find it in him to feel ill will toward him in this moment. Another tear drips from his face and lands in Valjean's beard.
As abruptly as this began, it ends. Javert stumbles off of him, trousers still straining with his erection. He lets out a strangled noise and covers his face with both hands. "Don't look at me," he chokes. "Do you—do you hear me, 24601?"
Valjean shuts his eyes.
Javert's breathing is labored for several more minutes, and then, finally, blessedly, he quiets. Valjean listens to him stand, his boots scratching at the straw-covered floor.
When he speaks, it is in the irascible voice that Valjean knows. "Get up," he snaps. "That wound needs to be dressed. So help me, 24601, if you struggle, you will wish you hadn't."
Valjean does not look at Javert as he stands, nor when Javert takes his cuffs and forcibly leads him out of the cell. Whatever phantom possessed Javert has left. It is only when they've reached the doors of the infirmary that Valjean dares to look into his face. The expression is stony and unreadable, the eyes dry.
The glance is meaningless—he learns nothing.