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The day had been long, endless almost, it seemed, a grey emptiness of dull hours passing. Had it been so before? He could not remember. Surely not. Yet now, the minutiae of petty crime that marched before his eyes, tiny tin soldiers of poverty and ignorance set on a relentless track like some childhood toy wound up long ago, did not fill him with the pride of duty well done. He set aside his ledger and his thoughts, swept up his hat and indulged himself in early leaving. None met his eyes as he left, and once outside, pummelled by the cold thin air, refreshed by the breaths of it that he took, he felt lighter in spirit. Valjean would be at home, and there was a warmth in the thought that he did not seek to examine, did not wish to dissect or to probe, only to enjoy. Perhaps in the hours before they dined, or before Cosette and Marius came to enact their dutiful loving rituals, they could spare time for the slow, careful exchange of thoughts, that Javert had come, despite himself at first, to enjoy.
He did not expect, when he quietly let himself in to the house - and ah what a relief that was in itself to have no need to announce his presence, to feel always at home, when before even at his own hearth he had seemed an intruder into a life not merely alien but barred to him, to find Valjean at his ablutions. His lover was a private man, and one whose solicitude of those around him, made it all the harder to question the quirks of. He was not given to display even in the moments that they shared together - he concealed his strength, his gentleness, beneath starched proper clothing first, and then the heavy coverlets they shared at night, and Javert had wondered only vaguely why that was - for himself, he had forgotten for so long that there was such a thing as a body in itself that was more than a tool, that he seldom thought about how others regarded their own.
Now, caught in the doorway between the world and Valjean, he hesitated, words dying on his mouth, at the sight of his lover like some venerable statue, head bowed as he cleansed himself. The strength of his body was displayed in the braced arm, the bent knee, the water that beaded on his skin, caught by the dying light of day and transmuted like the product of some alchemical reaction, into the sharp sheen of silver on his skin. Caught thus, he turned, and displayed across his proud flesh, the traced lines of a harsh whip, that faded as they were, were an old map of remembered cruelty, an endurance, not a failure. Married now, to the sudden, burning desire in the pit of Javert's belly, was the learnt grief of past blindness, as Valjean stumbled out "I thought," and then stopped, an ancient shame darkening his eyes, the slow sudden crumble of his body’s straightness when observed by another, dissolving into embarrassment. Javert, still not given to imagining many things, the slow mechanism of years ground too long to disobey, still could not help picturing how this must appear.
"Forgive me, but...My God," Javert said, a vocalised prayer more than an exclamation, a heedless string of words that admitted none of the preciseness he prided himself on. He steadied his steps, as he could not his words, watched with a careful kind of amazement as Valjean revived, rerobed himself in strength that he drew from within. "You are," and again the words faltered, and he could only revert to the language of need and permission. "May I?" He offered it now, the asking, prayed for the taking. Relinquished to Valjean the path of this encounter, steadied himself for dismissal if needs be.
"Yes," was the reply, "you may," and for a moment Javert paused still, hand on the door, until permission granted, he managed to cross the room faster than he had thought possible, discarded the hat he still held absently, freed his hands to touch Valjean at last, to caress the flesh extant, to grasp within them the quicksilver quantity of this man who could not be bounded but who gave himself in this moment. The clean smooth flesh under them, excited his ardour to new heights, the sweet taste of Valjean on his mouth filling his senses, snatched first from his lips, then the strong line of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. This then was greed, he thought, to be presented with a surfeit and seek to consume every morsel. There was no restraint in his caress, but then there was no hesitation in how Valjean rose to meet it, an equaled passion shared between them.
Javert became aware of the words he mumbled into the sinew of Valjean's arm, the graceful corded muscle of his throat, as his hands passed over his lover's body, the muttered confession of the need he had for Valjean, of how much he had wanted this - to see Valjean naked, to tear away that final barrier between them. He had not even known until the moment the words were spoken, the truth in them, and now that they were free he had no wish to retract them, even as they laid him bare, clothed as he was; stripped him in spirit to match Valjean's body. He felt the yield of Valjean's body, the last of the tension leaving him and rejoiced, a pleasure heightened by the words Valjean vouchsafed to him - an acceptance.
He considered stripping himself, offering the pitiful matching of his own hardworn body to the sight of Valjean, but discarded the idea almost immediately, his need too great at that moment; to touch, not to be touched, to show Valjean that the trust he had placed in Javert was not misplaced, that the gift of this knowledge and this permission would not be wasted. When he sank to his knees, there was the hard twinge of newly-made pain, suffocated in the wish to show Valjean what he intended, what he wanted to give. He pinned Valjean's thighs to the wall with his grip, and opened his mouth.
They had done this between them before, a slow careful sharing, a discovery of the pleasure that could be given like this, but always in the dark. Javert wondered if he had betrayed Valjean thus, if he had by word or sign ever intimated that in the dark this belonged and should stay, had not shown by action how much he enjoyed this, all of their intercourse, in bed and without. Now, in the cool light of day that delineated that loved face above him, he could show the truth. Valjean's prick was heavy, first in his hands, a warm weight that set his mouth to watering, then heavy on his tongue, the taste matched by the sweet sound of Valjean drawing in air as though he were like to burst. He could not take enough like this, was constrained in his eagerness, and yet could not cease to urge Valjean on, to take him in and show him like this, how he was loved, how he was desired, words and thoughts so alien to Javert, that he wondered now, how he had learnt to use them, to match them to the slow subtleness of what he felt for Valjean, blossomed after long months of exposure to the other man, and the kind surety of his nature.
Valjean's gentle fingers in his hair merely inflamed his own need, and he scolded his indigent body for its hunger, for how tending to Valjean could stoke his passion. He couldn't go deep enough, not like this, and with a muffled grunt, he lifted his head up, let Valjean slip from his lips, the better to see the dazed distracted look in Valjean's eyes, the sight of his lover driven to the edge, and after a second to savour the sight, driven by the need for closeness, the need to keep Valjean on that precipice of enjoyment, to keep him offbalance so that he would not subsume his need once again, insist on Javert not kneeling to him, the principle of fairness so ingrained in him to the bone that he could scarcely bear the thought of being brought to completion first, he conceived of an idea that made his face flush - an impossibility he would have said before today.
With hands as firm as he could make them, he turned Valjean to the wall, hands on him always, to remind him that he was not alone and that for as long as Javert could ensure it, he would never know loneliness again and spread him a little, allowed him to move a little, and then kissed him. Went to his knees to give Valjean what he would never ask for, would never even suggest, so careful as he was of Javert, so insistent that he retain the worth of his soul and the right of it and not condemn himself wholesale. In this line, he would never consider Javert knew, the prospect of taking this, of allowing himself pleasure with no thought. This though, was what Javert had to give, his secret exaltation of Valjean, and ah, still he needed to change, for he did not feel this in church, nor at the altar, but only kneeling here like this, the body of the best man he knew before him.
Each press of his tongue, each subtle kiss against the most secret, most hidden part of Valjean inflamed Javert, a revelation for a revelation, the baring of Valjean in this way, a mirroring of the secret parts of Javert that had been torn open, had received the light of the word upon them, been exposed to the day and brought in the end a wholesale gladness, that Javert sought to return in the only way he might - the proving to Valjean of the worthiness of every part of him - not merely his soul and his mind, but his body also. In Javert's trousers, his own prick was iron-hard and flushed, a heaviness that he sought to ignore, as Valjean moved under his tongue, and Javert stopped to command, "stay still."
Valjean let loose at last those doubts that Javert knew festered, said - "God, Javert, I can't believe you are, that you would..." a rawness to those words that Javert could not abide, could not allow Valjean to think that this was some sacrifice, some gift, when it was no such thing and never could be. He mumbled reassurances, never knew what he said in that moment, but sank back down and in, his knees forgotten as he lost himself again, a tongue that had never been clever or smooth, proving now it's utility. His hands clutched at the solidness of Valjean, made their way at last to the thickness of his prick, between his body and the wall, stroked at it blindly, determined to give what he could, to bring Valjean to the point where doubt was lost, swallowed in the darkness and replaced only by joy.
When Valjean came, Javert felt it, not merely in the slickness of the come on his hand, or in the slow cry Valjean voice, but in the tremble of his body, the clenching of his muscles, and he cried out himself then, though it was swallowed in Valjean's flesh, allowed himself to continue for a few moment's longer, delighting in the pliability, the openness now of Valjean underneath him. He felt the sweet clutch of Valjean's hand on his own, and said all that could be mustered in that moment - "thank you." For allowing him perhaps, for accepting pleasure.
He was not surprised to hear it echoed from Valjean, nor dismayed, was merely pleased. He knelt there, and allowed the warmth of Valjean's touch to substitute in for the sun.