Chapter Text
In every town, whether the people thrived or were so poor that their children starved, certain human activities could not be eradicated. Valjean had seen it from the perspective of a peasant and a mayor both. There were always women desperate enough to sell themselves, always men greedy enough to pay for what they wanted. Even the best of towns could not keep wicked men from seducing virgins nor feed the children of such women led astray.
When he could think of no way to protect them all, Valjean thought it most merciful not to judge their actions, born most often of need or despair.
And there were people of a different sort -- men, and, Valjean supposed, women -- who did not love as others loved. It was not vice as he understood it, though he knew the Bible named certain acts between men as sinful. Valjean could understand why such acts would be called abominations when men and young boys were coerced and forced by stronger men, which he knew all too well took place in prisons and in the bowels of ships.
But the inclination itself, the urge to love passionately as well as fraternally, did not seem to him to merit such condemnation. If this was because he suspected he might harbor such feelings, they never troubled him sufficiently to warrant confessing them. Not until Javert appeared in Montreuil.
Valjean had long known what took place in the abandoned buildings by the wharf. In the dark lit by no candles, where crumbling walls and cluttered alleys hid a wealth of secrets, men crept out to meet one another. Some of them might have been indulging their basest lusts, betraying their wives, moving from partner to partner before they could be discovered, but some, Valjean knew, sought comfort and companionship more than the satisfaction of their desires. As mayor, he had been content to ignore the wicked and the good alike. But Javert would refuse to believe that there could be one virtuous man among that lot.
From the moment of the Inspector's arrival, Valjean knew that he must protect himself. He risked enough whenever he chose to help a prostitute or give money to a young mother who had lost her husband. Gossip could be borne, but too much investigation into his actions could be dangerous. So when one afternoon he overheard a veiled warning from one young man to another that suggested Javert had discovered the men of the wharf, Valjean could not think of a way to help them. Where once he might have suggested that the police turn their attention to more pressing problems, he kept his tongue.
In the dark of night, he followed Javert to the buildings by the water, hoping that he could give some sort of warning, overturn rotting barrels or knock down rusting traps before Javert could make any arrests. For several hours, Javert only watched, disguising himself behind the rotting planks of an old boat. From his own hiding place on the highest floor of a building half-washed to sea in a winter storm, with the ground lit by moonlight, Valjean studied the Inspector as his eyes darted about. He could see Javert making note of men as they arrived, alone or rarely in pairs.
Valjean had never paid it much attention from the level of the wharf, but there was another building with most of its roof torn off, held in place by a single large wall that cut through its center. While some of the men greeted one another with handshakes or even the occasional embrace, the men who entered the shattered building did so stealthily, creeping along the wall to a particular spot and waiting. It did not take long for Valjean to realize that there was hole in the wall. He understood it at the same moment that he understood why men would wait on either side of the hole for someone to appear opposite.
Whether or not what those men did could be called an abomination, Valjean knew that the way he burned with the knowledge of it must be a sin. He had no right to take any pleasure from witnessing the secret desires of others. In watching the wall, he forgot to watch Javert, so he did not notice when the Inspector disappeared, slinking under cover of darkness back to the thriving town.
He wasn’t sure what he would do the next evening, nor whether there was anything he could do about the Inspector’s determination to rid the town of vice, even those that did no harm. Perhaps Javert would have moved on to another area of the town, to harass beggars or lazy mules. In his heart, though, he knew Javert would be back at the wharf, just as he knew he would take up his post there as well.
Javert was not hard to spot, not in the light of the half-moon when Valjean knew the man’s habits, though Javert did not wear the hat with silver braid that would have identified his role at once to anyone who saw it. Clearly Javert was trying not to lean forward too much from his concealed spot. It was difficult not to smile at the intensity in his posture, though Valjean knew their situations were precarious.
Should he continue this silent vigil, letting Javert compile whatever notes he wished, or should he create a distraction in another part of town, one that would compel his men to call for the Inspector? Even if he lured Javert away this night, he could not hope to distract the policeman forever. Around them, heedless of their hidden audiences, the men met, looked with longing at one another, and continued to slip, as unobtrusively as possible, into the half room at the end of the wharf.
Wrapped in indecision, Valjean did not realize that Javert was no longer crouching among the barrels at wharfside. Carefully he made his way down from his roof, keeping the collar of his coat high and his hat pulled low. His resemblance to the men skulking to meet each other did not escape him.
Where would he go if he was a too-suspicious police inspector with more courage than cunning? Fortunately Valjean knew the dock area, though his daylight explorations and duties had not revealed all the places where a man might hide in the night. He made his way between the narrow buildings, keeping a sure eye on his footing, for the planks beneath him were coated in noxious liquids of unknown origins. There was an opening in the buildings ahead, and just in time he saw a shadow flit across it. Javert had found his way to the alley in front of the fallen building.
His curiosity made him perhaps more incautious than he should have been, but he pressed closer, inching along the alley until he had Javert in sight. There was something rapt in his focus, the way he fisted the notes before sliding them into one of the pockets of his greatcoat. What had caught his attention? From this angle, Valjean couldn’t tell, and he did not dare move closer than Javert lay in wait, albeit unknowing of the trap he had waiting should Valjean be exposed here.
The shadow that was Javert flicked away and Valjean took a steadying breath, following. He was in this too deeply now not to know what the inspector planned to investigate tonight and in what way. When he poked his head out of the alley, however, Javert had disappeared again. This time, there was only one place he could have gone. The half-fallen building lay just ahead, the shadows deep upon the crooked doorway. No one else approached. The night was quiet. Perhaps the other men had finally gone home.
From outside, Valjean had no way to learn whether Javert intended to wait by the wall for a man to appear, offer himself, and suffer the horror and humiliation of arrest at Javert's hands. Perhaps the Inspector only intended to familiarize himself with the building so that he could plan a more elaborate trap to capture all who fraternized at the wharf, even those who did not indulge in the pleasures of the flesh but hoped to find friendship with others like themselves.
He took a step forward, knocking a stone loose with the side of his shoe, and froze at the sound it made. Javert did not appear, nor did anyone else. Moving on the tips of his toes, careful to test the uneven ground before pressing his weight down, Valjean crept toward the front of the shattered building where he knew Javert waited. The wood of the uneven doorframe made a splintering noise when he rested a hand against it to peer inside, but again there was no movement. What was left of the floorboards creaked when his foot pressed down on the wood, but only silence followed.
Should he call out, identify himself, pretend to be there in common cause with the Inspector? Perhaps then Valjean could find a reason to convince Javert that the men who came to the wharf did not threaten the peace of Montreuil. Yet Valjean could guess what Javert would think if he had seen the mayor of Montreuil creeping in under cover of darkness. He would think Monsieur Madeleine had a private reason for wanting to protect such men.
Valjean had reached the spot along the wall where the brick began to crumble away. In the pale light of the partially obscured moon through the nearly demolished roof, he could see Javert's leg in its high boot. Though the Inspector usually held himself quite still, even when buffeted by storms or enduring shouts, Valjean could see that Javert was moving restlessly now. One more step brought him opposite Javert, though the hole in the wall extended only to the level of his chest. He could not see Javert's face, nor Javert his own.
"You took your time coming inside. I thought perhaps you intended to run away," Javert muttered. With his voice hushed and the wall obscuring its tone, Valjean wondered if he would have known who stood there had he not watched the Inspector make his way toward the building.
"It is very late. I'm surprised to find anyone else by the wharf," he replied in a whisper. After so many years of practice to hide the accent of his youth, it was surprisingly easy to disguise the more cultured tones in which he now took such pains to speak, to mimic the local workers as if he too had been born near the sea. "What keeps you out so late?" It was a risk, for if Javert intended to arrest him, Valjean would need all the weight of Madeleine's authority to convince the Inspector that he was there in common cause, not to contribute to the vices of the wharf but to see that they represented no threat to the town.
"There are whispers about this place," Javert murmured in reply. "I thought I would see if there was any truth to them."
If Javert had not declared at once that he had come to arrest any wrongdoer he encountered, then perhaps he spoke fairly. "You only came to look?" Valjean whispered. "You have not come here before?"
There was a momentary hesitation. "I watched last night. I saw less clearly." It was an odd reply. If Javert had sent other policemen on the same mission, perhaps he believed that he spoke to another officer who had spotted him lurking by the wharf. But if that were so, it was odder still that Javert had not identified himself. Perhaps he wished to lure his unknown new acquaintance into his confidence, in the hope of learning the names of other men who frequented the wharf.
The silence stretched. It was possible that Javert wanted to make an arrest after all and was waiting for Valjean to make a suggestion that would warrant such a course of action. "I have never come here either," he said, keeping his voice low and his tone coarse. "I too heard tales about this place. But I do not believe the men who come here mean any harm."
He expected Javert to launch into a lecture about moral behavior and the need to root out wickedness, the same sort he had overheard Javert give to desperate women caught sleeping in the streets. Yet once more Javert was silent, and a strange idea entered Valjean's thoughts. He wondered whether Javert was curious about the wharf's secrets not only as an officer of the law, but because, like Valjean, he had felt the same impulses in himself. The idea stirred warmth in Valjean's belly. He had expected the Inspector to be the rigid, severe man from Toulon who would countenance no such weakness in anyone.
Perhaps something had happened to make Javert question his belief that all men were either righteous or irredeemable. "Now that you have come here, what will you do?" Valjean asked him, his boldness at once turning to shock at his recklessness. The fear flitted through his mind that such a display, after many years of going meekly unnoticed, might lead to another arrest, another enslavement.
There was a rustle from the other side of the partition, though Valjean could not fathom what was being shifted about. It did not sound like the scutter of rats or the footfalls of another visitor to this desolate place. He tried to imagine what tools of his trade Javert would have brought with him, whether the white scars around Valjean's wrists would welcome new brothers tonight.
Another silence fell, then the clean sounds of crossing the small space and halting, military-style, both feet aligned together. The boots, even after having been through the filth outside, still gleamed with a regulation polish. Valjean felt his breath hitch, fighting the urge to flee, to turn heel and run, whether Javert had recognized him or not. Then Javert was standing directly beside him with only the crumbling wall between them, close enough to feel each other’s breath if the wall had not bisected the room.
Before he could discern Javert’s intentions he heard another faint rustle, then a fine fat prick was thrust through the opening. “This is what I will do,” came the rough voice, so close. “What will you do?”
Valjean was rapt at the sight of the not quite soft but not fully erect cock. If he had come here to learn how deeply his impulses could rouse him, he had his answer, though he could not guess whether Javert meant it as an offer or a test. Nor was he startled so much that he didn’t decide instantly what he would do. Valjean was not the only one contemplating this transgression, for it reflected no better on the one receiving as the one giving, and he very much wanted to transgress with this prick.
“I will embrace you,” he said, sinking to his knees on the rotting floor. “Kiss you.” The words were scarce more than a wisp of air. As with so many of his accomplishments, it was sheer bravado. Like his other triumphs, he desired it ardently without quite knowing how to achieve it save by putting himself in heaven’s power. Perhaps he had no right to think of heaven in such a place, but he let himself believe that God would forgive this small bending.
Javert made a noise, almost a sob, half-muffled by the wall between them and perhaps by his own hand. The thick cock twitched as Valjean's breath blew across its head. It had been many years since he had seen another naked man, and he did not like to think of the men in Toulon, stripped of their clothes and their dignity. This man was not reduced to skin and bones, the hair on his body was thick and clean, the legs strong and steady. When Valjean put a hand upon one thigh, he could feel the muscle beneath quiver at his touch.
He leaned close and took a deep breath, learning how Javert smelled, discovering that, as he had long suspected of himself, such intimate proximity to another man aroused him. But it was the knowledge that this was Javert, so upright and stern, which made his own prick stir beneath his clothing. He lowered a hand to squeeze it while with the other hand he touched the balls that hung between Javert's thighs, drawing another moan from somewhere above. The thick cock twitched again, now quite erect, as Valjean lowered his mouth to kiss it.
He had little notion of how this was done, only what he had occasionally glimpsed in Toulon, when he had thought that the men in his own position must be desperate indeed for any sort of intimate contact to allow themselves to be used in such a manner. Since then he had discovered that giving charity could be as uplifting as receiving it, and had guessed that offering such pleasures must be similarly satisfying. But he had not guessed that it would feel so delightful in itself, that the taste of another man's prick and the feel of him shuddering would arouse such passion in his own body. He did not know whether to offer apologies or thanks to God for this discovery.
"More of this, please, I beg you," Javert groaned. He did not sound like a man seeking evidence of a crime but like a man who might easily be coaxed into committing a greater one. His hips rocked, pushing his cock further into Valjean's mouth, making Valjean choke and withdraw for a moment to catch his breath while Javert trembled beneath his hand. "I apologize -- I have never -- you are the first --"
"You are my first as well," Valjean whispered, wondering what he could do to make his own voice sound younger, more plausible. He slid his hand around the thick base of Javert's prick, stroking, kissing the tip as he wondered what had brought Javert to this. Was there a man in Montreuil who stirred him as no one had done before, someone he was thinking of even as Valjean took him into his mouth?
Perhaps that was just as well, though Valjean did not like to think of it. If Javert's mind was on another, perhaps he would not wish to know who was on the opposite side of the wall. He didn’t want to give himself away, though he worried less about arrest and more about affecting Javert’s pleasure in this encounter. If he wanted a fantasy of heat and desire, Valjean would strive to give it to him.
“Your mouth does not seem to know you lack experience,” grunted Javert, hips moving despite the scant space between his body and the wall.
“My mouth has never hungered for the taste of this before,” he replied, letting the words mingle with the wetness he had left upon Javert’s prick.
His mouth was filled with the flesh of it again, equal parts thrusting and swallowing, learning the shape of it with his mouth, this mouth that once spoken truly did hunger to be filled. There was no trick to the giving of pleasure, just to be careful and passionate and guard the sensitive parts, so like his own in form yet unlike them in detail. One of Javert’s hands touched the edge of the crumbling wall, fingers clenched tightly around it.
“Touch me.” It was not an order but Valjean obeyed, putting his own rougher fingers over Javert’s, sliding his lips away for a breath, admiring what he had done despite his lack of skills. His own cock was straining his trousers but he could not rub the bulge or risk toppling over ungracefully, and worse, risk discovery of his identity. A remarkable noise sounded from the other side of the wall, the sort an animal might make when searching for food or drink, desperate and needy and filled with orders and pleas that were wordless yet perfectly understandable.
“Yes...yes,” Valjean whispered before wrapping his mouth around Javert’s prick again. The sounds Javert was making, the moans and sobs, made Valjean's cock throb. How must it delight to have warm lips wrapped around that sensitive skin. How pleasurable it would be to feel a tongue licking away the salty drops that collected in the slit, to have one's prick compressed by a swallowing throat, how long would it take to...
Again Javert made a noise like none Valjean had ever heard. "I must warn you, no more -- oh, going to --"
Javert's hips bucked, but Valjean did not release the prick from his mouth even when bitter fluid came flooding out of it. He swallowed Javert's seed, not much liking the taste but very much liking the way Javert clutched at his fingers and cried out. His own prick ached for such release.
"Again I apologize." Javert's voice sounded breathless, ragged. "I did not expect that so soon." Valjean heard him swallow. "I know little of the customs of this place. Do you want...?"
Javert did not need to complete the question for Valjean to understand what he was asking. His prick desperately wanted to trade positions with the prick that had just withdrawn itself from Valjean's mouth. But he thought of the dangers. Even if Javert had no intention of arresting his partner in this furtive act, he was inquisitive and suspicious by nature. Valjean's shoes might be as recognizable as Javert's boots, his clothing might give him away. Agonized, he hesitated.
"Let me at least attempt it." There was greater confidence in Javert's voice. "Please. If I am to understand what drives men to this place, I must learn more of what you have just done for me."
"Give me a moment." Pressing his fingers against the wall, so cold after feeling the heat of Javert's skin, Valjean pushed himself to his feet. He removed his shoes, letting his trousers puddle around his ankles. There were no obvious scars on his legs, but his bare ankles, marked from years in chains, would give him away. Trembling all over, though not from the chill, he returned to the wall, to Javert. With a silent prayer that God would give him some sign if this was hateful in His eyes, he stepped close and thrust himself into the opening in the wall.
“This is quite fine,” Javert said, though his voice caught, nearly hesitating. A consequence of kneeling, perhaps, Valjean thought. Another tremor ran through him, perhaps of nervousness, mixed with undeniable arousal.
“I can take no credit for it,” Valjean said, the quiver reaching his voice as well despite his efforts to keep it hoarser and rougher than his usual speaking voice. “My form comes from God and the arousal from what we just did.”
There was a pause, and for a moment Valjean feared the mention of God had awakened the moral reformer in Javert. Once a man’s passions were satisfied, it was easier to look down on others who were still in the grip of theirs. “That excited you?” asked Javert, sounding genuinely curious.
“Very much,” Valjean said, though it came out as a moan, for something warm had enclosed the tip of his cock, just the tip, licking across the head. All the words he’d meant to say about his own eagerness for this sort of passion flew from his head, replaced by coarser, more exotic phrases, the sort Valjean rarely used, even alone. “That excites me more,” he added, needing no artifice to groan out the words.
Javert was not as tentative as Valjean had been, as though once he’d made up his mind he was as unstoppable as a gale. His lips slid down Valjean's cock further than Valjean would have guessed possible, drew back almost to the head, then did the same again. Valjean uttered a muffled profanity. He would not have guessed that the suction and the wet heat could possibly feel so good, either. He had always relieved the ache of his own arousal as brusquely as possible, feeling both shame and guilt at the need, though strangely he felt neither with Javert so willingly moving his mouth upon the straining flesh.
Would it delight him so much if it were a stranger on the opposite side of the wall? No, the thought of it repulsed him. It might not be for himself to judge how other men assuaged such urges with others, but Valjean had never craved a faceless encounter for the sole purpose of indulging his desires. What made his prick swell with such welcome need was the knowledge that the sternest man he had ever known knelt on the other side of the wall, filled with the same curiosity and perhaps the same longings.
It was difficult to remember the face of the guard who had so heartlessly patrolled the prison when the image that filled his mind was of the bashful reverence in the eyes of the policeman whom he had welcomed to Montreuil. Valjean's fingers fumbled through the narrow opening, barely able to reach to stroke Javert's cheek. He felt Javert's face twitch in surprise, though Javert did not falter in his attentions to Valjean's cock. "You give me great pleasure," he whispered. "I don't know how long I will last."
Javert hummed, a sound that vibrated through Valjean's loins, then swallowed around him as if in encouragement. Helplessly Valjean bucked his hips, unable to keep them still. He had never imagined such bliss, now he knew why men would commit such vice to experience it, though it still mystified him that any man could enjoy it with someone unknown to him. So much of the joy of this came from knowing who crouched on the other side of the wall, though it still seemed likely that Javert must be imagining someone else, some better man, not a former convict; perhaps someone Javert had known long ago, or perhaps a fantasy of a lover, someone too perfect to exist in this world. Someone like the man Valjean pretended to be, the upstanding, pious mayor of this town, not a man with a secret past.
Was it possible that Javert admired Madeleine in such a manner -- that he would do this for him knowingly, willingly? The idea of being known, even welcomed, was enough to send Valjean over the edge, though he wanted to keep thrusting forever. His body got its wish, spilling his essence into Javert’s mouth before he could do more than utter a warning of what was to come.
“Forgive me, Mon --” he began, but the slight shake from the head still enclosing his prick altered his sentiment. “I meant to at least...”
Javert’s cheek pressed against Valjean’s fingers. As in all things, Javert did not shy away, keeping his lips around the convulsing flesh until it began to soften. “Do not apologize, I beg you,” he said and the roughness of it sent a quiver through Valjean. There was the ghost of a caress against his fingertips again, then Javert was on his feet, his boots still close to the wall. Fumbling with his own clothing, Valjean righted his trousers, listening to the rasp of breath on the other side.
“Did you learn what you wished?” Valjean asked, needing no artifice to roughen his voice.
Javert cleared his throat. “I believe I will need more information.”
Valjean felt his throat grow dry, uncertain what Javert was implying. He was gripped by the desire to follow Javert again and to discourage any sort of research Javert cared to conduct with any other man. "What will you do?" he asked, just as he had asked Javert before they began.
"That depends upon what you will do." Javert's voice was quiet, resigned to whatever answer Valjean might offer him. "Will you do this again? With me?"
"Yes. I will." In this Valjean could no more lie to Javert than he could to God. He stepped close to the wall, pressing his hand near the spot from which it seemed Javert's voice emanated. If there had been some way to press his mouth to Javert's, to seal the promise with a kiss...
But that was ludicrous. While Valjean might be held in the perverse grip of this desire -- to make love with the man who had been his captor and tormenter, to wipe out the past and wash the slate clean -- Javert merely wished to understand his urges in a place where he could neither be seen nor judged for them. No doubt he was willing to meet Valjean again because, having shared one encounter already, sharing a second with the same man would avoid the risk of revealing himself to another stranger. Though Valjean's form might have pleased Javert, the policeman would be horrified to learn that it belonged to the same convict who had once stood chained beneath his gaze.
Something brushed Valjean's thigh. He looked down to discover that Javert had put his fingers back through the wall. He had something wrapped around them, which Valjean was astonished to discover was the rosary he had handed to Javert on the day Monsieur Madeleine had greeted the new police inspector. "Are you a God-fearing man?" Javert asked quietly.
"God has shown me the greatness of his love," replied Valjean, brushing his fingers over Javert's.
"Then I ask you to pray with me." Turning his hand, Javert linked his fingers with Valjean's. They prayed in near-silence, only the occasional hiss or hum letting Valjean know that Javert's lips moved at all. As Valjean asked God for forgiveness for his sins and let his heart fill with love, he wondered whether the other man might be seeking the strength to punish himself and all those like him. But after several long moments, Javert took a deep breath. "And I ask you to meet me here tomorrow, after all the others have gone."
Much later that night, as the moon’s light slanted in through his window, Valjean dropped to his knees and prayed the rosary, then gave voice to his own prayer, one full of longings that he had never known how to give voice to. Surely it was no sin to love as he had loved tonight. The human heart had a vast capacity for love, though inside Valjean’s breast it had been sleeping, comforted by acts of kindness and charity but lacking desire. Tonight he had dared to imagine what loving and making love might be like and he did not find himself disinclined as he always had before--when one of his workers had swayed her hips a little too obviously, or a friendly shopkeeper had leaned over her counter a bit too long.
He looked down at the rosary in his fingers and thought of the one Javert still carried. Did he carry it always, or just into the stews by the docks, in pursuit of his duty, where extra protection from God could never go amiss? Valjean set his own rosary by his solitary bed, draped around one of the silver candlesticks that looked, even to eyes used to their splendor, out of place in his humble room. Sometimes slumber had to be courted when anxious dreams plagued him, dreams or memories, but that night, sleep brought him peace.